THE BOSS'S FORBIDDEN TWINS

ELENA

The whiskey scorches a trail down my throat and I chase the burn like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.

I don’t drink whiskey. I barely drink, period. But here I am, three glasses deep on a velvet stool in a hotel bar that charges more for parking than I make in a day, and I’m already eyeing the bottle for a fourth.

My phone lights up again. Another update from the hospital.

Surgery went fine. Abuela’s in recovery. Rest now, mija.

The fist that’s been squeezing my ribs all week loosens, just a little. Relief should feel better than this. Instead it’s like I’ve been braced for impact so long I forgot how to stand up straight.

“Celebrating or drowning sorrows?”

The voice slides in from my left, low and warm with a bite underneath, like he already knows which one it is.

I don’t look over. “Guess.”

“Champagne’s for celebrating. This swill is for drowning. You deserve better swill.”

I snort before I can stop myself and finally turn.

Jesus.

He’s stupidly beautiful in that careless, expensive way—dark hair falling like he gave up on a comb hours ago, a jaw that could cut glass, and eyes so blue they look fake under the amber bar lights. The kind of man who walks into a room and the air changes. His suit probably costs more than my car. Maybe both my cars if I had two.

I should look away.

I don’t.

“I’m drinking what I can afford,” I say, raising my glass like evidence.

One brow lifts. “That glass is forty bucks here, sweetheart.”

“Special occasion.”

“Which kind?”

“Still deciding.” He catches the bartender’s eye, murmurs something I don’t catch. Two new glasses appear—real crystal this time, filled with something that glows like liquid sunlight.

“You didn’t have to…”

“Didn’t ask. Just try it.” He nudges one toward me. “If you’re gonna do something stupid tonight, at least do it with the good stuff.”

I should snap at him. Should tell him to keep his money and his attitude. Instead a laugh slips out—short, rusty, the first real one in weeks.

“Big assumption I’m doing something stupid.”

Those storm-blue eyes lock on mine. “Pretty girl in a killer dress, alone on a Tuesday, drinking whiskey she clearly hates and checking her phone every ten seconds like it’s gonna bite her. Yeah. I’m assuming.”

My fingers freeze halfway to the phone I was absolutely about to check again.

He notices. Of course he does.

“Work?” he asks, softer.

“Family. It’s… handled now.” “But you’re still sitting here.”

“But I’m still sitting here,” I echo, and take a sip of the new whiskey. It goes down like a secret—smooth, warm, dangerous. “Fine. You win.

This is better.”

“Usually am.”

“Cocky.”

“Honest.”

He leans back just enough to study me, like I’m a riddle he’s already halfway through solving. “You don’t fit here.”

“Excuse me?”

“This place. These people.” He tips his chin at the marble, the chandeliers, the woman dripping diamonds laughing too loud in the corner. “They’re all playing a part. You’re not. You’re just… uncomfortable in your own skin tonight.”

I hate that he’s right.

“And you?” I fire back.

“You look right at home.”

A shadow crosses his face. “That’s the problem.”

I wait. He doesn’t offer more.

“Thought we were making bad choices,” he says instead, “not swapping life stories.”

“Is that what we’re doing? Bad choices?” The air goes thick. His gaze drops to my mouth and drags back up, slow.

“Depends,” he says. “What’s your name?”

I hesitate. Names make things real. Real is messy.

“Does it matter?” His smile is small and crooked and does things to my pulse. “Not tonight it doesn’t.”

“Then you don’t get mine either, Stranger.”

“Fair.” He lifts his glass. “To no names.”

“To bad choices,” I counter.

Crystal clinks. The whiskey burns less and less.

We talk about everything that doesn’t matter—books we’ve read, cities we’ve loved, the weird loneliness of hotel bars at midnight. He quotes Neruda without sounding like a douche, which shouldn’t be possible. I admit I’ve been to Prague on a whim, which makes him grin like I just confessed a crime.

His knee brushes mine under the bar. Neither of us shifts away.

At some point the glasses stop counting. The room tilts gently, warmly. When he leans in and asks, voice rough, “Wanna get out of here?” I don’t say no.

“Where?”

“Got a room upstairs.”

Every sane part of me screams to finish the drink, say thanks, go home to my quiet apartment and my quiet life.

Instead I hear myself say, “This the bad-choice portion of the evening?”

“This is where we stop talking about it and start doing it.” My heart’s banging so hard I’m surprised he can’t hear it.

I look at him—really look—and see something raw under all that polish. Need. Exhaustion. The same hollow look I see in my own mirror lately.

“One rule,” I say.

“Shoot.” “No names. No numbers. Tomorrow we’re ghosts.”

Something flickers over his face—too fast to name. Then he nods. “Deal.”

He offers his hand. I take it. His palm is warm, rougher than I expected. Not just a guy who pushes paper around.

The elevator is all mirrors and gold trim. He keeps my hand, thumb tracing slow circles over my wrist until my knees want to fold. I watch us in the reflection—him tall and dark and wrecked, me smaller but not fragile, eyes too bright, lips already swollen from wanting.

“You can still back out,” he says quietly.

I turn, press him against the wall instead. “Kiss me.”

The doors slide open on his floor.

He does.

It’s not gentle. It’s weeks of fear and grief and holding it together exploding between us. He tastes like whiskey and terrible ideas. One hand fists in my hair, the other braces beside my head like he’s holding himself back from taking more than I’ve offered.

When we pull apart we’re both shaking.

“Room,” I whisper. “Now.”

The door shuts behind us with a soft, final click.

Tomorrow doesn’t exist.

Tonight I’m just a girl who said yes.

Tomorrow I’ll be Elena Martinez again—good granddaughter, responsible, careful, alone.

But tonight?

Tonight I burn.

ELENA

Sunlight knifes through the curtains and I jolt awake with my pulse already sprinting.

For half a second I have no idea where I am. Then the sheets register—stupidly soft, expensive, the kind of cotton that costs more than my phone bill—and the heat of the body next to me slams the rest of it home. Oh hell. I slept with him.

The stranger.

The actual definition of a one-night stand. I have literally never done this. I’m the person who buys the same brand of toothpaste for eight years because switching feels risky. I own a label maker.

My idea of living dangerously is eating sushi on a Tuesday. My dress is a crumpled heap by the dresser. My bra is dangling off a sconce like it’s trying to escape.

There are two empty champagne flutes on the nightstand that I do not remember drinking, and a faint purple bruise on my thigh that is 100 percent from when he lifted me onto the desk and— Nope.

Brain, we are not doing the highlight reel r