Twisted Vows

The first thing Ava Monroe registered was the splitting ache behind her eyes, pounding in rhythm with her heartbeat. The second thing—far more alarming—was the unfamiliar scent of cologne clinging to the sheets wrapped around her body. Clean, masculine, expensive. This wasn't her apartment. She blinked slowly, her lashes heavy with sleep. The ceiling was higher than hers. The curtains were silk, floor-to-ceiling, allowing soft Las Vegas sunlight to filter in, painting the room in gold. The furnishings were minimal but luxurious—modern, angular furniture in tones of slate and champagne. Definitely not her apartment. And then—an arm. A solid, warm, undeniably male arm curled possessively around her bare waist. Her breath caught. She turned her head cautiously and almost screamed. Kian Thorne. Even asleep, he looked like a man who should come with a warning label. He lay on his back, the covers halfway down his torso, revealing a chiseled chest that looked like it had been forged in marble and lit in a Calvin Klein campaign. His skin was a sun-kissed bronze that hinted at yacht vacations and private islands. Jet-black hair tousled over his forehead like a devil-may-care crown. Sharp cheekbones, a sculpted jaw lined faintly with stubble, and a faint scar slicing through his left eyebrow—a flaw so perfect it made him even more irresistible. His lips were full and slightly parted, the kind of mouth that always seemed one breath away from a smirk. Ava's brain short-circuited. What the hell had she done? She pulled away quickly, and the motion stirred him. Kian’s eyes fluttered open. Piercing gray. The kind that looked silver in the light, calculating in the dark. They locked on hers with a flicker of lazy recognition. "Morning, wife," he said, voice low and rough from sleep. Ava stared at him like he'd just declared himself King of Mars. “What the actual hell are you talking about?” Kian stretched, muscles flexing in ways she had no business noticing, and reached lazily for his phone. He held it out to her. "You might want to check the headlines before you freak out.” She snatched the phone, her fingers trembling. The screen showed a tabloid article already going viral. "BREAKING: Billionaire Playboy Kian Thorne Ties the Knot in Wild Vegas Wedding—But Who's the Bride?" There were photos. Blurry, candid, scandalous. Ava and Kian, stumbling out of a club. Laughing under neon lights. Her hands cupping his jaw as she kissed him fiercely. And finally, the clincher—her in a silky champagne slip dress, him in a tuxedo jacket hanging open, standing before a tacky Vegas chapel, a bouquet in her hands, lips sealed in a passionate kiss. Ava’s stomach dropped. “No,” she whispered. “No no no—this is a prank. A joke. We were drunk.” “We were,” he agreed, sitting up with infuriating calm. “But the marriage certificate in the drawer says we were also legally drunk. Big difference.” Ava bolted off the bed, dragging the white hotel sheet with her, almost tripping over her own feet. She found a full-length mirror by the wardrobe and caught sight of herself. Her auburn hair was wild, falling past her shoulders in tangled waves. Her eyes—large, almond-shaped and whiskey brown—were lined with smudged makeup, mascara fanning like shadows. Her high cheekbones were flushed, lips swollen from kissing. She looked like the very definition of sin after sunrise. But none of that distracted her from the sparkling diamond on her left hand. She stared at it in horror. "I'm married," she whispered. “I’m married to you.” Kian stood and began to button up his white dress shirt. The movement only highlighted how tall he was—at least six-foot-three, all lean muscle and dangerous charm. His tattoos peeked out beneath the rolled sleeves of his shirt: a serpent on his forearm, Latin script along his ribs. "You sound disappointed," he said dryly. She turned on him, gripping the edge of the dresser. “Disappointed? I barely know you! Last I checked, I hated your arrogant face.” "Really?" he said, walking toward her. “Because last night, your mouth had very different opinions.” Her face flamed. “You are impossible.” “Maybe. But I’m also your husband. For now.” She blinked. “For now?” He leaned casually against the wardrobe, watching her like a cat toying with its prey. “I can’t divorce for 90 days. Clause in my company’s agreement. If I do, I forfeit my CEO position and over forty percent of Thorne Industries.” “Let me guess,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “You were engaged to some heiress, and you needed to make a statement.” His expression darkened. “Something like that.” Ava crossed her arms. “So what now? You expect me to just play dress-up wife while you save face in front of your shareholders?” “Exactly,” he said without hesitation. “Three months. We do a few public appearances. You smile for the press. No actual strings attached. Then we get an amicable divorce and go our separate ways.” “And if I say no?” Kian’s eyes turned to ice. “Then you can explain to the press why you lured a billionaire into a drunken marriage and tanked a hundred-million-dollar merger with your cold feet.” Her mouth dropped open. “You wouldn’t dare.” “Try me,” he said coolly. “You might not care about Thorne Industries, but you’ll care once your name’s being dragged through every gossip site for the next year.” Ava’s hands balled into fists. Kian Thorne. Arrogant, manipulative, magnetic bastard. The kind of man you wanted to slap and kiss at the same time. He was everything she’d sworn off. Everything she didn’t trust. But right now, she was trapped in a very real, very public mess. And the only way out… might be straight through the fire. “Three months,” she said through clenched teeth. “No real marriage. No s*x. No secrets.” Kian smirked, tilting his head. “Darling, I think we’re a little late for the no-s*x part.” She grabbed a pillow and hurled it at him. He caught it effortlessly, laughter dancing in those sharp silver eyes. “I’ll have my lawyer send over the terms,” he said. “You’ll be compensated, of course.” “I don’t want your money,” she spat. He chuckled. “Then you’re even more dangerous.” She glared at him. “Don’t get too comfortable. In three months, I’ll be gone. And I’ll forget this ever happened.” Kian moved closer, until he was inches from her, the tension between them snapping like electric wire. “Oh, sweetheart,” he said, voice like velvet and sin. “You’ll forget everything—except how I made you feel.” He walked out, leaving her seething, breathless, and wrapped in silence. Ava looked down at the ring again. She didn’t believe in fate. She didn’t believe in love at first sight. And she definitely didn’t believe in Kian Thorne. But she did believe in one thing: Revenge. End of Chapter 1