The Substitute Bride of the CEO

​​Suite 5203 – The Grand Imperial Hotel​​

The first thing Evelyn Carter noticed when consciousness crept back was the warmth of sunlight pressing against her eyelids. No matter how thick the velvet drapes were drawn, morning always found its way in—golden fingers of light stretching across the disheveled sheets of the king-sized bed.

She stirred, her limbs heavy with a delicious, unfamiliar ache.

The silk duvet had slipped down to her waist, exposing pale skin marred by faint red marks—some delicate as rose petals, others sharper, darker. Evidence of a night that had been anything but gentle.

Evelyn blinked slowly, her lashes fluttering as she took in the empty space beside her.

Adrian must have left early.

A shy smile curved her lips as fragments of the previous night resurfaced—champagne-fogged yet impossibly vivid. The heat of skin against skin. The weight of a man pinning her down. The way he had taken her, rough and relentless, nothing like the tender lover she had imagined.

Her fingertips traced a faint bruise on her collarbone.

So this is what passion feels like.

She had waited so long for this—for him. Adrian Whitmore had been her protector since university, the only man who ever made her feel safe. But something had always been missing between them—a spark, a hunger.

Until last night.

Adrian was always so controlled, so polished. But the man who had claimed her in this bed had been something else entirely—wild, possessive, almost feral.

Her cheeks burned at the memory.

"Men turn into beasts behind closed doors," her best friend Lana had once joked. Now Evelyn understood.

Wincing, she sat up, her muscles protesting. Between her thighs, a dull ache pulsed—a reminder of how many times he had taken her. How little he had held back.

He couldn’t get enough of me.

The thought sent a thrill through her.

Adrian must have slipped out at dawn to spare her the awkwardness of morning-after small talk. That was just like him—always thoughtful, always considerate.

Evelyn gathered her scattered dress from the floor, the silk crumpled beyond repair. She padded barefoot to the bathroom, her reflection in the gilded mirror giving her pause.

Who even is this woman?

Her usual innocence was gone, replaced by something… else. Her lips were slightly swollen, her eyes darker, her skin glowing as if lit from within.

She turned on the faucet, filling the marble tub with steaming water and lavender-scented bubbles. As she sank into the heat, her body relaxed, but her mind raced, replaying every moment.

The way he had pinned her wrists above her head.

The way he had whispered "Mine" against her throat.

The way he had—

Stop. Breathe.

She submerged herself briefly, as if the water could wash away the intensity of the memories. But they clung to her, branding her deeper than the marks on her skin.

By the time she dressed—borrowing the plush hotel robe since her clothes were unsalvageable—her heart was light, giddy with certainty.

Things have changed. He’s mine now.

Adrian had accepted her. They were lovers.

She was the happiest woman in the world.

Then her phone rang.

The sharp trill shattered her blissful haze. She had turned it off last night—Adrian hated distractions—but it had automatically switched back on at 8 AM.

She glanced at the screen.

Adrian.

Her pulse leaped. She answered, her voice soft with lingering shyness. "Adrian? I—"

"You disappointed me, Evelyn."

His voice was ice.

All the warmth, all the joy, drained from her body in an instant.

Disappointed?

Her mind scrambled for meaning. Had she been too inexperienced? Too clumsy? Adrian had been with other women before—had she failed to measure up?

Her stomach twisted.

But no—that wasn’t possible. He had wanted her. Again and again.

"Adrian," she whispered, forcing her voice steady. "What are you talking about?"

"You were the one who suggested we finally take things further. You promised to meet me at the hotel. I waited all night, Evelyn. Do you have any idea how humiliating that is?"

The world tilted.

He waited all night.

Then who—

Who was in my bed?

​​The Aftermath​​

Evelyn’s knees buckled. She caught herself on the edge of the bed, her fingers digging into the mattress.

This isn’t happening.

"Adrian," she choked out, "I was here. In Suite 5203. Last night—"

"5203?" A harsh laugh. "I was in 5210. You gave me the wrong room number. Or was that deliberate?"

Her blood ran cold.

No. No. No.

She had been tipsy, yes, but not that disoriented. She had double-checked the text Adrian sent. 5203.

Hadn’t she?

Her hands trembled as she scrolled through her messages.

There it was—clear as day.

Meet me in 5203 at 10 PM. Don’t be late.

But Adrian was right: his reservation had been for 5210.

Which meant…

The man last night wasn’t Adrian.

Oh God.

She lunged for the wastebasket, vomiting violently.

​​The Revelation​​

Two hours later, Evelyn sat stiffly in a taxi, her entire body numb.

The hotel manager had been apologetic but firm: Suite 5203 had been booked under a corporate account—Blackwood Holdings.

Alexander Blackwood.

The Devil of Wall Street.

A man so ruthless, even Adrian spoke his name with caution.

And she had…

She squeezed her eyes shut.

The taxi pulled up to her apartment. She barely made it inside before collapsing against the door, silent tears streaming down her face.

Her phone buzzed. An unknown number.

Her stomach lurched as she opened the text.

You left something behind.

Attached was a photo of a pearl earring on a nightstand.

Hers.

Before she could react, another message appeared.

I’ll be in touch, little butterfly.

Her blood turned to ice.

Because there, on her shoulder in the mirror, was the tattoo she had gotten at eighteen—a delicate butterfly, wings outstretched.

He knew.

Somehow, he knew.

And this wasn’t over.

Evelyn Carter stood paralyzed in the opulent hallway of the Grand Imperial Hotel, her fingers clenched so tightly around her phone that the edges bit into her palm. The call had ended minutes ago, yet Adrian Whitmore's voice continued reverberating through her skull with devastating clarity - each syllable a hammer blow shattering the fragile illusion she'd nurtured for years.

"Thank you for liking me all these years," he'd said, the words dripping with condescension, as though her decade of unwavering devotion was nothing more than a passing childhood fancy he was generously acknowledging before discarding. The glacial detachment in his tone had turned her blood to ice, freezing her from the inside out, crystallizing the horrifying realization that the man she loved existed only in her imagination.

A sudden gust from the elevator shaft whipped past, slicing through the thin fabric of her dress. She barely registered the physical chill - the true cold had already settled