A Wife For Him Hearts Under Contract

I Would Go Second

Irene was still replaying the humiliating moment on the plane in her mind when the car rolled to a smooth stop in front of an opulent five-star resort. The towering building loomed before them, bathed in golden lights, its grand entrance adorned with luxury cars and uniformed doormen assisting well-dressed guests.

She barely had time to adjust to the sight before Mr. Blackwood stepped out, straightening his cuffs as if this were just another mundane stop on his schedule.

Irene hesitated. She didn’t belong in places like this. The marble floors, the crystal chandeliers visible from the entrance, the air of exclusivity—it all screamed money. And not the casual kind. The kind that whispered in private jets and dined on meals worth more than her monthly rent.

Swallowing hard, she gathered her courage and stepped out of the car. The moment she did, she felt entirely out of place. Even in the sleek black dress, which now felt like a poor attempt at blending in, she stuck out.

She was still grappling with her unease when she noticed Mr. Blackwood already striding ahead. His long legs made it hard to keep up, forcing her into an awkward half-jog just to match his pace.

Inside, the lobby was even more breathtaking. High ceilings, a marble fountain at the center, and a scent that was a mix of expensive cologne and fresh flowers. Staff moved with effortless grace, assisting guests, while a few well-dressed individuals lounged on plush chairs, sipping champagne as if they had nowhere better to be.

Irene felt every pair of eyes that lingered on her.

This is fine. Just act normal, she told herself.

But then came the real problem.

Mr. Blackwood approached the reception desk, where a sharply dressed concierge greeted him with a professional smile.

"Good evening, Mr. Blackwood. Welcome back to Royal Crest Resort. Your suite is ready for you."

Irene sighed in relief. Good. That meant she could get her own room and—

"And the additional room for my assistant?" Mr. Blackwood’s voice was as smooth and authoritative as ever.

The concierge’s polite smile faltered. She hesitated, flicking her gaze toward the screen in front of her before carefully clearing her throat.

"Sir, there seems to have been a mix-up…"

A long pause.

Irene suddenly felt a chill crawl up her spine.

The woman continued hesitantly, "Only one room was reserved under your name. We’re currently fully booked due to the business conference. Unfortunately, there are no other available rooms at the moment."

Silence.

Irene blinked.

Wait… what?

Her head snapped toward Mr. Blackwood, expecting some kind of reaction. But instead of frustration, annoyance, or even mild displeasure, he simply turned his head slightly—and looked at her.

And just like that, Irene’s stomach dropped.

Why was he looking at her? Did she book the room? She just started this job today!

Her fingers fidgeted at her sides, her shoes scuffing lightly against the pristine marble floor as she dragged them. She knew she looked guilty even though she hadn’t done anything.

Should she say something she asked in her inner mind?

But before she could even open her mouth—

"We’ll take the room," Mr. Blackwood said smoothly.

Irene's brain screeched to a halt.

What?

We?

The receptionist nodded immediately. "Understood, sir. Your luggage has already been sent up. Here are your key cards." She handed them over with the same polite efficiency, though Irene didn’t miss the quick glance she shot in her direction.

Irene felt her soul leave her body.

She… she was going to be sharing a room with Mr. Blackwood?

Her boss?

Her very cold, very intimidating, very impossibly attractive boss?

Nope. Nope. Nope.

Irene barely registered her own feet moving as she followed him toward the elevator. Her mind was spinning in every direction, her inner voice screaming at her to say something.

But what was she supposed to say? "Excuse me, Mr. Blackwood, but I'd rather sleep outside than risk dying of embarrassment in a shared room with you"?

By the time she thought of a semi-coherent protest, the elevator doors slid open, and she was stepping inside.

The ride up was painfully silent.

And the worst part?

She could feel him standing beside her, tall, composed, and completely unaffected, as if this situation wasn’t weird at all.

She, on the other hand, was very much affected.

Her mind raced through every possible scenario of how this could go wrong. What if she snored? What if she rolled off the bed in her sleep? What if—

Ding.

The elevator doors opened, and before she could overthink it any further, they were walking down the luxurious hallway toward their room.

Mr. Blackwood slid the key card in, pushed open the door, and stepped inside without hesitation.

Irene, however, lingered at the doorway.

As if, by some miracle, she’d wake up from this fever dream.

"Are you coming in or planning to sleep in the hallway?"

His voice jolted her back to reality.

Heat flared in her cheeks. Clenching her jaw, she forced her feet to move inside, and the door clicked shut behind her.

The suite was breathtaking—large, elegant, and equipped with a spacious living area, a grand bedroom… and, most importantly, one bed.

Irene felt all the blood drain from her face.

No. Nope. Not happening.

But before she could work up the courage to voice her concerns, Mr. Blackwood casually removed his suit jacket, revealing the crisp vest underneath.

Then, in a move that felt way too intimate for her sanity, he loosened his tie and unbuttoned the first few buttons of his shirt.

Irene immediately looked away.

Her throat went dry.

"You should freshen up," he said, his voice calm as he walked toward the bathroom. "Unless you want to go second?"

Her head snapped up.

Freshen up?

Oh. Shower.

The image of him under a steaming shower flashed in her brain, and she nearly choked on air.

"I—I’ll go second!" she blurted, the words tumbling out faster than she intended.

He arched a brow at her obvious discomfort but said nothing.

And just like that, he disappeared into the bathroom, the sound of running water following soon after.

Irene exhaled sharply, pressing a hand to her burning face.

What was happening? How did this become her life?

Her gaze flickered around the suite until it landed on a luxurious white robe hanging near the closet.

It looked so soft.

So comfortable.

Without thinking, she stepped closer, fingers brushing against the material. It was even softer than she imagined.

Before she knew it, she was undressing.

Her top, her skirt, her undergarments—all removed in quick, desperate movements. She just wanted to slip into something more comfortable before figuring out how to survive this night.

But just as she reached for the robe—

The bathroom door swung open.

Irene froze.

Time stopped.

Mr. Blackwood stood in the doorway.

Freshly showered.

A white towel loosely wrapped around his waist.

And Irene?

Stark naked.

Her heart stopped.

They stared at each other.

Neither moved. Neither spoke.

And then—without a single word—he turned around, walked back into the bathroom, and shut the door.

What the hell just happened she asked while dragging her hair?

Irene wanted to scream but no sound escaped her mouth.