The Fake Mrs. Stanton

Chapter 3

ROMAN

The moment her lips touched mine, something inside me snapped taut like a tripwire.

For one dangerous second, I let it happen.

I f*****g let it.

The soft press of her mouth, the faint taste of whiskey and salt from her tears, the way her small hands twisted into my shirt like I was the only solid thing left in her world. Heat surged through me so violently I nearly dragged her closer.

Then reality crashed back in.

I pulled away instantly, my hands gripping her shoulders to hold her at arm’s length. My fingers dug in harder than they should have. Her mouth was still parted, cheeks flushed red. She looked wrecked but still absolutely beautiful.

“No.” My voice came out rougher than I intended. “Isla, you’re drunk and heartbroken.”

“Sorry.” That was all she said, sucking her bottom lip into her mouth in a way that messed with my head.

I exhaled deeply, keeping my gaze and voice stern. “This never happened, It can never happen again.”

She blinked up at me, swaying slightly on her feet. Her eyes were green and dazed but beautiful in a way only Beaushould find it. Confusion and hurt flickered across her face, but I didn’t soften.

I couldn’t.

If I did, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stop myself a second time.

I kept my grip steady until I was certain she wouldn’t collapse, then steered her down the hallway toward her room. My jaw was clenched so tight it ached. Every step was a battle I refused to lose.

Her scent clung to my shirt—vanilla shampoo, whiskey, and that faint trace of something sweeter that was purely her. It wrapped around my senses like a drug. I wanted to push her against the nearest wall, pin her wrists above her head, and finally take what I’d been denying myself for years.

Taste her properly and make her forget every ounce of pain Beauhad caused. My own f*****g son.

Instead, I sat her gently on the edge of the bed. I removed her shoes, pulled the covers over her small body, and tucked them around her like she was something fragile I might break.

“Sleep,” I ordered quietly, the command slipping out before I could soften it. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

She mumbled something incoherent, already drifting. I stood there for a long moment, staring down at her curly red hair spilled across the pillow, the freckles scattered across her pale cheeks, the way her fingers still clutched the edge of the blanket.

Then I turned off the light and forced myself to leave, closing the door with a soft click that sounded far too final.

Alone in my own room, the restraint I’d maintained for years began to fracture.

I paced like a caged animal, my bare feet on the floor. The kiss replayed on an endless loop in my head.

Isla, my best friend’s child and my son’s fiancée.

The thoughts should have sickened me. They did, but not enough to stop the hunger.

I sat on the edge of the bed and dragged a hand down my face, my fingers scraping over stubble. I had buried this for years. Convinced myself the pull I felt toward her was nothing more than nostalgia twisted into something darker.

That watching Isla grow from an awkward teenager into this sharp, emotionally starved woman was harmless. That the way she sometimes looked at me existed only in my head.

That kiss had torn the lie wide open.

My c**k was rock hard and aching, straining against my pants with humiliating urgency. Disgust curled low in my gut, thick and bitter, even as I gave in.

I stripped off my shirt with sharp, angry movements and lay back against the sheets. My hand wrapped around my d**k.

Just release, I told myself. Just clearing my head so I can think straight tomorrow.

It wasn’t.

In my mind, she was on her knees in front of me, wrists bound tightly behind her back with my leather belt.

Those wide eyes looked up at me, tear-streaked and shining with need. I pictured threading my fingers through her wild red curls, guiding her mouth exactly where I wanted it while I told her in a low, steady voice exactly how good girls behaved for me.

Then the image shifted. She was spread out on my bed at the estate, completely naked, freckled skin marked with my handprints and the faint red lines of rope.

Her curly hair spilled across the sheets. I imagined her wrists and ankles tied to the four posts, body arched and trembling as I stood over her, telling her how long I’d waited to ruin her properly.

“Mr. Stanton…” she moaned in my fantasy, in that soft, sultry tone, exactly the way I’d always imagined it would sound.

I came hard, pleasure-laced shame burning through the pleasure, spilling over my fist while my jaw stayed locked tight so I wouldn’t make a sound.

Afterward, I lay there staring at the ceiling, chest heaving, heart pounding with self-loathing.

Something was very wrong with me. This obsession had to end. She was f*****g off-limits.

I didn’t sleep.

The next morning, my phone tore through the silence before dawn, sharp and relentless. I answered on the second ring, already swinging my legs out of bed.

My secretary’s voice was clipped and urgent. “We have a problem, sir.”

Good, just what I needed to start my day.

“What is it?” I asked, my voice rising slightly.

“Sir, photos of you from last night are circulating. You helping a young woman into your car outside the bar. The original poster blurred out the lady’s face, but you’ve been identified and It’s gaining traction fast.”

Fuck.

It had to have been Isla.

I was moving before she finished speaking, pulling on a fresh shirt and slacks with the same speed I’d once used to gear up for missions. “Kill it. Get our team on damage control immediately. I want those photos scrubbed and the story buried before anyone identifies her. Release a statement if you have to. There is nothing between us. Make that crystal clear.”

I ended the call and stood in the kitchen, gripping the counter hard enough that my knuckles whitened. Isla could not be dragged into this circus.

She’d already been through enough without my scandals painting a target on her back.

I made breakfast, eggs scrambled the way I remembered she liked them from previous visits, toast, strong black coffee.

Something to occupy my hands while my mind kept drifting back to the feel of her mouth on mine and the way I’d come apart to the fantasy of her tied down and begging last night.

She finally emerged from the hallway looking rumpled and clearly hungover in last night’s clothes.

She hovered in the doorway, her arms wrapped around herself, eyes darting everywhere but at me. “Mr. Stanton… about last night.” Her voice was small, embarrassed. “I’m so sorry. I was drunk and hurt and I never should have—” She swallowed hard, her cheeks flushing. “It won’t happen again. I promise.”

I wanted to tell her she had nothing to apologize for. That the fault was mine for letting the moment linger even a second longer than it should have. Instead, I simply nodded, keeping my expression carefully neutral.

Before I could find the right words, her phone started buzzing on the counter. Once. Twice. Then a rapid flurry of notifications. Her face drained of color as she stared at the screen, eyes widening in panic. “What the hell?” she whispered. “There are photos of us from outside the bar last night.”

I exhaled slowly, trying to keep my voice even. “I’m handling it. My team is already working to take them down. I’m sorry you got pulled into this mess.”

We sat at the kitchen counter, picking at the breakfast neither of us really wanted. The eggs had gone cold. The silence between us was heavy. We discussed options—statements, denials, media strategy—but every path felt like quicksand.

No matter which way we turned, the story was already spinning out of control.

The longer the quiet stretched, the more I felt the weight of last night pressing down on both of us.

Then Isla spoke, her voice quiet but surprisingly steady. “What if we didn’t fight the rumors?”

I froze, my fork halfway to my mouth. “Excuse me?”

She lifted her gaze and met my eyes directly, carrying a flicker of emotion in them. Her fingers twisted together on the counter.

“Instead of denying everything…what if we just let people believe them?”