Wrong Room: Sleeping With My Fiancé’s Uncle

Wrong Room: Sleeping With My Fiancé’s Uncle.

NOVEL STATUS: ON GOING

PUBLISHED CHAPTERS: 120+ CHAPTERS

Wrong Room: Sleeping With My Fiancé’s Uncle – Sneak Peek

The heavy mahogany door of the Plaza Hotel’s presidential suite stood before Isidora.

She gripped the universal keycard so tightly that its sharp plastic edges bit into her palm. The pain was grounding.

She swiped the card. The green light blinked, followed by a soft click.

Isidora pushed the door open. The air inside hit her like a physical blow — thick with the smell of expensive champagne and cheap lust.

She stepped onto the Persian rug. Her eyes immediately locked onto a custom Armani suit jacket discarded on the floor. It belonged to Kevin.

A black lace bra hung from the edge of the crystal chandelier in the hallway. It was Chantelle’s — her former good friend.

Isidora’s stomach violently contracted. Acid burned the back of her throat. This was the man she was supposed to marry in a few months.

From the half-open bedroom door, the unmistakable sounds of skin against skin and heavy, uninhibited moans echoed through the quiet suite.

She didn’t cry. Instead, a freezing calm washed through her veins.

с𝘩i𝘯еѕ𝘦 n𝘰𝗏𝖾𝗅𝘀 𝘵𝘳аո𝗌l𝘢𝘵е𝘥 𝘰n 𝗴𝗮𝗹ո𝘰𝘷𝖾𝗹𝘴.со𝗆

Isidora pulled her phone from her pocket. She opened the camera, switched to video mode, and made sure the flash was off.

She walked toward the bedroom and kicked the door wide open with her heel.

The screen of her phone illuminated the tangled limbs on the king-sized bed. Kevin was on top, his face buried in the blonde model’s neck.

The sudden light made him freeze. He snapped his head around, his eyes wide with sheer panic.

“What the hell!” Kevin roared, grabbing a pillow and hurling it at the door. “You creepy, ugly freak! Get out!”

Isidora didn’t flinch. She simply tilted her head and let the pillow strike the doorframe.

Her thumb pressed the red stop button. The video was saved.

She studied Kevin’s pale, sweaty face. There was no jealousy in her chest — only the cold satisfaction of a hunter claiming a kill.

Chantelle let out a piercing scream and yanked the silk sheets up to cover herself.

Isidora turned her back on them both. She walked out of the suite, her heels clicking against the hardwood floor in a steady, ruthless rhythm.

By the time she reached the elevator, her lungs felt like they were collapsing. She slammed her hand against the button for the rooftop bar.

She needed alcohol. She needed it to burn away the filth she had just witnessed.

The elevator doors opened directly into the dim purple ambiance of the rooftop bar. The heavy bass of a jazz band vibrated against her ribcage, but it couldn’t drown out the churning in her stomach. She forced the nausea down, her face still masked behind thick, uneven foundation and painted-on freckles, her eyes hidden behind hideous thick-rimmed black glasses. She was a walking, breathing joke — and tonight, she would lean into it.

She made her way to the most isolated corner of the bar, ignoring the sideways glances her strange appearance attracted.

“Dry martini,” she told the bartender. “Make it your strongest.”

When the glass arrived, she didn’t sip it. She threw her head back and swallowed the burning liquid in one go.

The alcohol hit her bloodstream like a match dropped into gasoline. Her head spun.

Then the barstool beside her scraped back. A tall, broad shadow settled into it.

Before she even looked at him, a scent invaded her lungs — crisp cedarwood laced with something darker, something deeply male. It completely overpowered the cheap cologne drifting from every other man in the room.

“Whiskey. Neat,” he ordered.

His voice was a low, gravelly rumble — the voice of a man who hadn’t slept in a week.

Isidora turned her head. The lighting was poor, but she could make out a razor-sharp jawline and a black dress shirt with the top two buttons undone.

Cedrick gripped his glass, his knuckles white. His chronic insomnia had been shredding his nerves for days.

Then a scent drifted across the space between them.

It was faint. Iris. A very specific, custom blend of iris that struck his brain like a heavy dose of tranquilizers. The constant, relentless buzzing in his skull went quiet.

Cedrick turned sharply toward the woman sitting beside him.

His dark, bottomless eyes locked onto her — the hideous thick-rimmed glasses, the cakey uneven foundation, the tightly pulled, severe bun. Her appearance was a jarring contradiction to the ethereal, calming fragrance she wore. But in that moment, as the crushing pressure in his skull finally receded, he found he didn’t care. Not at all. All that mattered was the source of that scent.

Isidora felt the heat of his stare. It was predatory. It made the hair on her arms stand on end — and, more confusingly, it made something else stir beneath her skin. No one had ever looked at her this way while she wore her disguise.

– Continue in A Wrong Room: Sleeping With My Fiancé’s Uncle chapter 1 –