Entangled with the Hot Stranger

Paparazzi

Fressia’s POV

“Go to sleep. It’s late. I’ll be keeping watch. Don’t worry about the door, will deal with it in a bit.”

Those were his last words to me before leaving my room.

For the first few minutes after he left, I found it hard to sleep. I mean, how could I? I was literally attacked only moments ago.

Thankfully, the adrenaline crash made me exhausted, and before I knew it, I was already fast asleep.

When I woke up, the first thing I noticed was the smell of dark roast coffee and fresh pastries.

I bolted upright, panic instantly spiking in my chest. The ruined front door had been temporarily reinforced with thick wooden planks and heavy-duty screws.

On the coffee table sat a steaming cup of coffee from the bakery three blocks away, a croissant, and a folded piece of thick, expensive cardstock.

I picked up the note, and recognized Iker’s handwriting immediately.

‘I had a mess to clean up. Eat your breakfast. Lock your windows.’

I stared at the paper for a few seconds, a bizarre mix of terror and butterflies swirling in my stomach.

He broke into my apartment, fought off a hit squad, bought me breakfast, and left me instructions like a paranoid, overbearing spouse. It was giving psychotic husband energy.

And heaven help me, I didn't hate it.

The sound of the gallery’s back door violently swinging open downstairs snapped me out of my thoughts.

"Fressia!"

Jordan came sprinting up the stairs two steps at a time, looking completely unhinged. He burst into my living room, his eyes darting to the reinforced door, then to me, then to the coffee.

"I just saw the wood on the door," Jordan gasped, clutching his chest. "I’m sorry for ditching you last night. But… what the fick happened yesterday? You got attacked? Again? By the mafia?!"

"We don't know they're mafia, Jordie," I said, taking a sip of the coffee. It was perfectly made. Exactly how I liked it. Which was strange, because I had never told Inker my coffee order.

"Oh, please!" Jordan threw his hands in the air. "They wore black suits and had guns, Fress! Your fake boyfriend comes with downloadable trauma! You need to call the police, cancel the wedding, and move to Switzerland!"

"I am not canceling the wedding," I said stubbornly, setting the mug down. "Derek texted me last night. He told me not to 'embarrass myself' by showing up."

Jordan paused, his dramatic panic instantly replaced by indignation. "He said what?"

"He pities me, Jordan. He thinks I’m broken." I grabbed my phone from the counter. "I'm going to that wedding. And I'm bringing the downloadable trauma with me."

My hands shook slightly as I dialed the number on the black business card. I put the phone to my ear.

It didn't even ring once.

"Are you okay?"

Inker’s voice came through the speaker in quick rasps. The urgency in his tone hit me right in the chest, stealing my breath for a second.

"I'm... I'm fine," I managed to say. "Thanks for the coffee."

"Did you lock the windows?"

"Yes, Inker. I'm not a toddler." I rolled my eyes, though a small smile betrayed me. "Listen, if we are actually going to do this wedding thing on Saturday, we need to get our story straight. People are going to ask questions."

"Alright then. Ten minutes," Inker replied smoothly. "The Oak Room Café on 5th. Wear something warm, it’s cold out."

He hung up before I could argue.

The Oak Room was the kind of café where a bottle of sparkling water cost twenty dollars and the patrons were mostly hedge fund managers and minor celebrities.

When I walked in, I spotted Inker immediately.

He was sitting in a corner booth, wearing a dark cashmere sweater that hugged his broad shoulders perfectly.

As I sat down across from him, I noticed the barista practically sweating as he brought over two coffees, bowing slightly before rushing away. I also noticed a man in a gray suit sitting two tables away, reading a newspaper but scanning the room with cold eyes. Weird.

"So," I started, trying to ignore how stupidly handsome he looked in the morning light. "If we've been dating for a few months, I need to know the basics. What do you do for a living?"

Inker leaned back, swirling his espresso. "I manage international assets."

"Vague and boring. Perfect," I muttered, pulling out a notepad. "How did we meet?"

"I walked into your gallery to buy a painting, and I couldn't take my eyes off the artist."

He said it so smoothly, and with such intensity, that my stomach did a violent flip. I cleared my throat, looking down at my notepad to hide the flush creeping up my neck.

"Fine. Good. Now the details," I said. "Favorite color?"

"Black."

"Favorite food?"

"Bistecca alla Fiorentina. Rare."

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the marble table, invading my space entirely. His cologne washed over me like an unwelcome wave.

"My turn," he murmured, his eyes locking onto mine. "What's your favorite flower?"

"Peonies," I breathed, suddenly finding it very hard to think clearly.

"How do you take your tea?"

"Honey, no milk."

"What pet name do I call you when we're alone?"

My pen stopped moving. I looked up at him. His eyes were dark, fixated on my mouth. I swallowed, lowering my eyes.

"You're taking this way too seriously," I laughed nervously, trying to break the heavy tension. "It's just a fake date to make an ex jealous."

Inker didn't smile. He held my gaze, his expression dead serious.

"I don't like losing, Fressia,” he said, his tone making my skin prickle with heat.

Before I could respond, the café door chimed, and a man in a dark cloak walked in.

"We should go," Inker suddenly said, his demeanor shifting in a fraction of a second. The relaxed, flirtatious energy vanished. He was suddenly on high alert, his eyes tracking something outside the window.

"What's wrong?" I asked, grabbing my purse.

"Nothing. Stay close to me."

He stood up, throwing a hundred-dollar bill onto the table for two coffees, and placed his hand firmly on the small of my back. The heat of his touch burned through my coat.

We walked out the glass doors of the café, stepping onto the busy New York pavement.

Suddenly, chaos erupted.

It happened so fast I barely had time to blink. A swarm of people holding cameras rushed out from behind a parked van. There were at least ten of them, shouting over each other, camera flashes exploding in our faces like strobe lights.

"Mr. Thiago! Over here!"

"Is it true about the inheritance?!"

"Are the rumors about your uncle accurate?!"

Paparazzi.

Panic seized my chest. I threw my hands up to shield my eyes from the blinding flashes, completely overwhelmed by the shouting and the sudden claustrophobia.

"Inker!" I gasped, stumbling backward.

Immediately, Inker’s arm wrapped around my waist like an iron band. He yanked me flush against his hard chest, turning his back to the cameras to shield me entirely from the lenses.

"Don't look at them. Keep your face hidden," he ordered smoothly against my ear.

The man in the gray suit from the café suddenly appeared, shoving the photographers back with terrifying, brutal force.

As the flashes continued to explode around us, Inker looked down at me. His jaw was clenched, but his eyes were surprisingly soft when they met mine.

Then, right in front of the flashing cameras, he lowered his head and pressed his lips firmly against my forehead.

I understood that it was strategic. He did so to hide my face from the lenses. But as his warm lips lingered against my skin, my eyes fluttered shut, and my heart completely betrayed me. The contact wrecked me. In the middle of the chaotic, screaming crowd, I felt strangely… safe.

He rushed me into a black SUV that pulled up to the curb, slamming the door shut on the chaos.

Hours later, the adrenaline had faded, leaving me alone in my quiet, dark apartment.

I was sitting cross-legged on my bed, staring at my laptop screen.

The events of the afternoon kept replaying in my mind. The paparazzi. The bodyguards. The undeniable power he yielded.

And the name they had shouted.

I opened Google. My fingers trembled slightly as I typed in the words the photographer had screamed.

Inker Thiago inheritance.

I hit enter.

A million results populated instantly. I clicked on the first article, published by a global financial times outlet two years ago.

My breath caught in my throat.

There was a high-resolution photo of Inker. He was wearing a tuxedo, standing beside a European Prime Minister and a notoriously ruthless tech billionaire. He looked colder in the photo. Untouchable.

I read the headline slowly, the blood completely draining from my face.

Youngest Heir of the Thiago Global Empire Missing After Internal Family Conflict. Billions in Underground Assets Unaccounted For.

I stared at the screen, my hands going completely numb.

I hadn't just asked a handsome stranger to be my fake boyfriend for a country club wedding; I had invited the fugitive heir of a global criminal empire.