The CEO's Hidden Vow

Did you realize you messed up yet? Let's get back together, my ex texted me on the exact day of my billion-dollar wedding.

I stared at the screen, my mind flatlining. My eyes locked onto the contact name at the top of the chat: August 12. Six-pack. Great style. Terrible alcohol tolerance.

A question mark popped up when I didn't reply fast enough.

"I'm getting married today."

After a second of hesitation, I decided to just rip the Band-Aid off.

"How far along?" He replied in a heartbeat.

"Already changed into the reception dress," I texted back honestly.

A large, distinctly veined hand clamped down on the back of my chair from behind. A deep, rich male voice brushed right against the shell of my ear, his warm breath fanning over the nape of my neck. "Time to make our rounds, Mrs. Sterling."

An aggressive, icy cedar scent instantly wrapped around me.

It was my billionaire arranged-marriage husband, Tristan.

"Okay." I forced a stiff smile, tilting my head up at him. The very second his voice hit my ears, my thumb had already slammed the lock button on my screen.

But my pulse hammered against my ribs. I had no idea how long he had been standing behind me, or exactly how much he had seen. Tristan and I were a business transaction. A billion-dollar marriage of convenience with zero feelings involved.

Still, no man on earth would tolerate his new bride texting another guy saved as "August 12. Six-pack. Great style. Terrible alcohol tolerance" on the day of their wedding.

Chapter 1

The wedding reception finally ended, and Tristan and I returned to our downtown penthouse. The second we walked through the door, I kicked off my Jimmy Choo bridal heels, dragged my aching feet across the floor, and collapsed face-first onto the sofa.

"Getting married is basically just clinking glasses, smiling until your facial muscles go numb, and draining an entire year's worth of my social battery in one night." I rubbed my stiff cheeks, my voice muffled against the cushions. "I am never doing this again. It's exhausting."

I was so caught up in my own complaining that a low chuckle pulled me sharply back to reality. For a second, I didn't know whether to be shocked that Tristanthe notorious ice kingwas actually laughing, or terrified that I had slipped up and acted way too comfortable around him. I turned my head slightly to peek at him. He had just finished picking up my discarded heels from where I'd kicked them and was neatly placing them into the shoe cabinet.

He casually loosened his tie and shrugged off his custom-tailored suit jacket, revealing a perfectly fitted black vest underneath. He had rolled his sleeves up to his forearms. As he bent over and reached out, the thin white fabric of his dress shirt stretched taut over his thick pecs and the heavy, defined lines of his arms. I swallowed hard.

God, his body is insane.

Tristan and I didn't have love, but there was a crush involved. My one-sided, utterly pathetic crush on him. We had gone to the same elite prep school; he was one year above me. He was flawlessdrop-dead gorgeous, and his old-money pedigree went without saying.

His social grace was impeccable, as long as you didn't actually want to get close to him. He played the perfect gentleman on the surface, but a man groomed from birth to take over a billionaire empire operated solely on weighing pros and cons, on risk and reward. The moment you tried to dig deeper, you hit a solid wall of ice. Even when he smiled warmly at you, it was always rooted in stark calculation and cold rationality.

Our families ran in the same ultra-wealthy circles, so from the moment I stepped onto campus as a freshman, he looked out for me. Study materials, extracurriculars, Ivy League applicationshe guided me through every exhausting detail. Whenever I whined about AP Calculus being too hard, he would just forward me all his meticulously organized notes. Naturally, my stupid sixteen-year-old self fell for it.

I drowned in his polite attentiveness. It was a moth-to-a-flame scenario, doomed from the start. The confession letter I had agonizingly gathered the courage to write sank without a trace. Not even a polite rejection.

Soon after, he packed up and left for Stanford. The rumor mill said he was close to a girl from the regular academic track at our school. She was brilliant, scoring a full ride to attend Stanford with him. During the summer before my junior year, I even saw him walking down the street with a girl clinging to his arm.

I was sitting in the back of my chauffeur-driven car as they flashed past my window in a blur. By the time I rolled down the window and whipped my head around, I could only see their retreating backs.

Back then, I didn't have the title, the right, or the courage to ask him about it. Now that we were married, I had the title, the right, and the couragebut I no longer had the desire. Tristan had ruined every other man for me during my teenage years. Everyone who came after him was just white noise.

I ended up going to college in the UK. I didn't apply to a single university in the States. A subconscious retreat. It felt like obsessing over Tristan had burned out every romantic nerve ending in my body.

I shrank into a hard little shell and locked the door. As for the parade of boyfriends that followed, my policy was strictly casual: no chasing, no deep commitments, no taking responsibility. None of them could measure up to Tristan anyway, so the second one of them annoyed me, I tossed him and swiped to the next. I rarely even bothered to memorize their names.

"I'm done. The bathroom's yours." Tristan's deep voice snapped me out of my flashback.

Maybe it was just the steam clinging to him, or the way his damp, messy hair fell casually over his forehead, but for a second, the way he was looking at me seemed incredibly soft. It had to be my imagination.

Chapter 2

Knowing tonight was the first night of our billion-dollar contract marriage, I practically hyperventilated in the bathroom trying to mentally prep myself. The rushing water couldn't drown out the frantic hammering of my heart against my ribs. Faking sleep next to a man built like Tristan was going to be the ultimate test of my willpower.

By the time Tristan actually knocked on the door, probably assuming I had drowned in the tub, reality hit me.

There was no escaping this.

I gritted my teeth, threw on my silk pajamas, bolted to the bed, and dove under the covers, pulling the duvet right up over my head.

The next moment, the blankets were ruthlessly peeled back.

"What are you doing? Your hair is soaking wet," he stated, his voice a low rumble.

Before I could process his words, he grabbed his own plush towel and started firmly but gently drying my hair. While I was still frozen in shock, the hum of a hair dryer buzzed right by my ear. His long fingers combed gently through my tangled strands, impossibly meticulous. My hair fell past my waist and was an absolute nightmare to dry, but he didn't show a single ounce of impatience.

The heat from the dryeror maybe just his sheer proximitymade the tips of my ears burn. The air in the bedroom suddenly felt dangerously thin. My pulse went feral. His signature, icy cedar scent swallowed me whole from behind, radiating with his intense body heat.

It made me feel stupidly, inexplicably safe. We were literally using the exact same body wash, and he was keeping a respectable distance between us, yet his presence felt all-consuming.

I definitely didn't plan on waking up plastered against Tristan's chest the next morning. I distinctly remembered clinging to the absolute edge of my side of the mattress before falling asleep. I was a notoriously still sleeper. Yet, the moment my eyelashes fluttered open, my vision was filled with his sharp jawline.

My heart physically stuttered.

Deciding survival was my best option, I tried to stealthily slide out of his grip before he woke up and realized I had essentially used him as a human body pillow. I shifted an inch.

Instantly, the heavy, muscular arm draped across my waist clamped down tighter, hauling me flush against his hard torso.

I stopped breathing. I stared up at his facehis eyes were shut. His breathing was perfectly even. I tried to wiggle away again.

The arm flexed, locking me in place like a damn vice.

After three more failed escape attempts, I gave up, squeezed my eyes shut, and committed to playing dead. Then, ironically, I ended up actually falling right back asleep.

When I woke up the second time, the bed was empty. Tristan was already at the office. Normally, the day after a wedding was reserved for jetting off on a tropical honeymoon, or at least staying in bed all day. But we weren't exactly your standard newlyweds.

He had just taken over his family's empire, and he was ruthlessly busy. Honeymoon romance? Yeah, right.

I sat up and noticed a sleek black titanium card resting on the nightstand, pinning down a crisp sticky note.

"Got this card under your name. There's a little pocket money on it. Let me know if you run short. Tristan."

The handwriting was aggressive and sharp, perfectly matching his ruthless corporate persona. Out of sheer curiosity, I booted up the banking app to check the balance. Apparently, in Tristan's billionaire universe, an eight-figure balance translated to "a little pocket money."

I immediately slipped the black card into my wallet. It was under my name anyway. I wasn't about to say no to free money; I wasn't stupid.

Later that afternoon, my phone buzzed with a text from him: "Flying out for a week-long business trip."

I stared at the screen, glanced around the massive, terrifyingly empty penthouse, and made an executive decision. I texted the housekeeper to take the week off, grabbed my Birkin, and drove straight back to my own penthouse apartment.

The second I unlocked my front door, two little furballs bolted over, their tails hooked like question marks as they aggressively rubbed against my ankles. One was an orange tabby. The other was also an orange tabby. Because obviously, orange cats ruled the world.

They purred like lawnmowers and immediately flopped onto their backs, exposing their fluffy bellies. I mean, who could resist that?

After heavily scratching both of their chins until my hands cramped, I popped open two premium wet food cans. "Eat up, boys," I announced, dumping the food into their ceramic bowls. "Mommy just secured the ultimate bag today. Unlimited tuna for life."

They practically buried their faces in the bowls, chewing as if they actually understood me.

After a quick shower, I wandered into my art studio, settled in front of my drafting tablet, and let my stylus glide aimlessly across the screen. I was completely zoned out until a loud meow snapped me back to reality. I blinked down at the glowing screen. Without even realizing it, my hand had sketched out a rough line art of last nightTristan standing behind me, gently holding the hair dryer.

I didn't have the emotional bandwidth to color it in. Instead, I just took a screenshot and posted it to my art Instagram account with zero caption.

[ "Omg! First time seeing you post a rough sketch! Can't wait for the final version!" ]

[ "This is ridiculously sweet. My single depression is hitting an all-time high right now!" ]

[ "Red alert! This is making me want to text my toxic ex. Stop being so cute!" ]

[ "Following for the finished piece!" ]

Chapter 3

Likes and comments flooded my screen. Most of them were aggressively demanding the colored version or setting up camp to wait for the final piece. I pulled the tablet off the stand, shoved it into the corner, and tossed a heavy dust cover over it.

I had zero clue how to exist in the same space as Tristan. My teenage infatuation had been met with absolute silence. Not even a brutal rejection. Just nothing.

Liking Tristan used to be my deepest secret. I never had the guts to say it to his face, and sending a text felt ridiculously cheap. So, I went with the most painfully old-school, agonizingly sincere method possible. I bled every ounce of my courage and naive devotion onto physical paper.

Radio silence.

The truth was, I didn't know the first thing about showing love. To the outside world, I was the spoiled, untouchable princess. Born with a silver spoon, surrounded by sycophants, gliding through life on easy mode. It was all a massive bluff.

I was the literal byproduct of a sterile corporate merger between two people who despised each other. A father who treated our mansion like a hotel, and a mother whose eyes slid right past me. I remembered waking up from a two-day fever as a kid, staring at an empty bedside chair. I hated being alone in massive houses.

The silence physically pressed down on my chest until my lungs burned.

The absolute second I turned eighteen, my parents finalized their divorce. My father couldn't wait to move his mistress and illegitimate kids into the family mansion, while my mother took her astronomical alimony and jetted off to Europe to hunt for young male models. In that house, I became the ultimate invisible eyesore. But I couldn't care less.

I immediately packed my bags, moved into the penthouse under my own name, and adopted two stray cats. Living off my trust fund, I embraced a free life with zero parental interference.

Just when I thought I had permanently severed ties with that toxic bloodline, the family corporation hit a massive cash flow crisis. Suddenly, they needed me for a billion-dollar merger. I wasn't even the only daughter. But while my half-sister got to freely chase true love, I was handed a spreadsheet and told, "We funded your lifestyle all these years; time to pay up."

When I saw Tristan's name on the marriage contract, my stomach tied itself into a complicated, suffocating knot.

He acted like my humiliating high school confession never existed. He treated me exactly the same as he did back then, just with a much more ruthless, polished corporate edge.

After three days of uninterrupted peace in my own sanctuary, my phone buzzed on the fourth night. Tristan's name flashed on the screen.

"Where are you?" His usually smooth voice was rough, scraping against the speaker. There was an almost imperceptible edge of grievance in his tone.

I immediately wrote it off as an auditory hallucination. The man didn't do grievance.

"I'm at home. Why?" I scooped another portion of kibble into the cats' bowls and topped off their water. My voice was completely flat. Zero panic. Technically, I was in my home.

"I'm back. The place is empty." He let out a harsh cough. His nose was clearly stuffed, stripping away his usual intimidating billionaire aura and leaving him sounding suspiciously like a grumpy, abandoned puppy.

"I'm at my apartment. I'll head back now." I bit the inside of my cheek, mourning the premature death of my vacation.

He let out another heavy, ragged breath into the receiver, laying the sick act on incredibly thick. If I didn't know any better, I'd think the ruthless CEO was actively trying to milk a minor head cold for maximum sympathy.

I drove back to our shared downtown penthouse, spent five solid minutes in the hallway building up my mental armor, and punched in the door code.

Pitch black.

Did he pass out in the bedroom already? I blindly swiped at the wall panel until my fingers grazed the switch. Click. Searing white light flooded every corner of the massive living room.

My breath hitched.

Tristan was slumped dead-center on the sprawling custom sofa. The back of his hand was draped heavily over his eyes, shielding them from the light. His other arm dangled lifelessly off the edge of the cushions. He looked entirely drained.

"You alive?" I asked, my voice guarded as I tentatively stepped closer and leaned over him.

"I think I have a fever." Hearing my voice, he slowly dropped his hand. His dark eyes locked onto mine.

The edges of his sclera were flushed red, and his gaze was completely unguarded, almost glassy. Combined with the raspy, congested gravel of his voice, the billionaire suddenly seemed dangerously close to whining.

Chapter 4

Seeing me frozen, he grabbed my wrist and pressed my palm flat against his forehead. He was burning up.

"Do you want me to drive you to the ER?" I swallowed down the weird flutter in my chest and kept my voice perfectly level.

"No. Just need some meds and sleep."

I pivoted to raid the medicine cabinet, but his voice stopped me dead in my tracks.

"No rush. I need to shower first." Rustling sounds followed as he pushed himself off the leather cushions.

I stepped back to give him space, but his legs suddenly buckled. He lunged forward, his heavy hand clamping down on my forearm to steady himself. Caught off guard, the sheer momentum dragged me crashing straight into his solid chest.

"Sorry," he grunted, his breath hot against my hair. "Dizzy."

"It's fine. I've got you." Wrapped entirely in his cedar-scented aura, my face flushed dangerously hot.

I practically dragged him to the master bathroom. Once I made sure he wasn't going to collapse and crack his skull on the marble floor, I ducked out to grab him some clean clothes.

The second I stepped back into the bathroom, he ripped open his damp dress shirt. A perfectly sculpted eight-pack and the deep, sharp V of his Adonis belt crashed into my line of sight. He didn't flinch or look away. Instead, through the thickening steam, those dark, bottomless eyes locked onto mine with a dangerous, half-concealed smirk.

I dropped his clothes on the counter like they were actively on fire and bolted out the door, my heart hammering so hard it threatened to rip straight through my throat.

A low, dark chuckle echoed off the bathroom tiles right before I slammed the door shut.

I timed his shower, popped a couple of Advil out of the blister pack, and poured a glass of ice water. "Pills are on the nightstand. Take them and crash," I announced.

He stepped out of the bathroom, a cloud of steam trailing him. "Okay," he rasped, the word muffled.

By the time I finished my own shower and walked into the bedroom, he was propped up against the headboard, his eyes heavy with fever. A navy blue velvet box rested in his palm.

Seeing me, he forced his eyes open and held the small box out. "From the trip."

"Thanks." I took it, completely thrown off guard. The hinge popped open to reveal a pair of exquisite diamond drop earrings. Shaped exactly like jasmine flowers.

I leaned against my side of the bed, scrolling through my tablet to clear out work emails and reply to comments on my art account. Tristan had already slid under the duvet to sleep, so I dimmed the room down to a single warm, amber wall sconce.

He shifted his weight, dragging himself to the absolute edge of the mattress. "Staying away. Don't want to get you sick."

Hearing that deadpan, ruthless CEO tone delivered through a stuffy, almost pouty voice was dangerously cute. I bit back a smile, hummed an acknowledgment, and kept tapping away at my screen. A few minutes later, the slow, rhythmic cadence of his breathing filled the quiet room. He was out.

Out of nowhere, the mattress dipped. Tristan rolled over, his heavy arm hooking aggressively around my waist. He buried his face straight into my side, his feverish heat seeping right through my silk pajamas.

My spine snapped ramrod straight. I froze, not daring to breathe. Slowly, I tilted my head down.

The amber light washed over his sleeping face, smoothing out his usually sharp, intimidating jawline. My locked muscles instinctively began to loosen. Something tight and heavily guarded in the dead center of my chest melted slightly.

He let out a low sigh, as if dreaming, and yanked me even closer. His messy, dark hair rubbed against my ribs like a giant, clingy cat. Was he seriously this cute when he slept? I desperately wanted to pet him.

Giving in, my fingers cautiously brushed through his thick, messy hair. The texture was incredibly soft, nothing like the rigid styling he wore to the boardroom. Bathed in the warm glow, completely trapped in his icy cedar scent, I stopped fighting it.

A strange, terrifying sensation clawed up my throat. My pulse picked up speed. It felt like dropping an ice cube into hot syrupslowly dissolving, completely surrendering.

Against every shred of my better judgment, I felt inexplicably happy.

I was totally screwed. No matter how much I tried to bury the past and move on, my body still rejected the idea of not loving him. Tristan was a permanent brand on my soul.

I set my tablet on the nightstand, gently peeled his heavy arm off my waist, and slid down under the covers to sleep.

Three seconds later, Tristan blindly threw his arm over my shoulder, hauling me flush against his side again. He was radiating insane heat from the fever, basically a human furnace. I carefully pried his fingers off my shoulder.

Chapter 5

He was like a dangerous beast retracting its claws, aggressively wrapping my entire arm flush against his broad, burning chest. His large, distinctly veined hand slid possessively down my wrist, forcefully wedging his fingers between mine to lock our hands together. It was as if he was terrified I would escape, ruthlessly trapping me inside his territory.

Was he actually asleep? I couldn't help but doubt it. But the slow, even cadence of his breathing and the relaxed lines of his face proved he was out cold. Whatever. I gave up on the idea of prying my arm free, accepted my fate, and squeezed my eyes shut.

Whenever Tristan went to the office, I would retreat to my own penthouse to hang out with my two fluffy cats.

My phone buzzed. Tristan's name flashed on the screen.

"There's a corporate gala tonight. You're coming with me. I'll pick you up from the house after work."

"Sure," I replied automatically, way too busy aggressively scratching the large orange tabby's chin. The cat squeezed its eyes shut in pure bliss.

"Meow." The smaller tabby sitting next to us let out a pathetic, jealous whine.

I reached over and rubbed its forehead.

"Are you at your apartment?" Tristan's deep voice suddenly cut through the line. The man was way too sharp.

"Yeah." I had been so absorbed in petting the cats that I totally forgot I was still on the phone with him. Why did I suddenly feel the suffocating guilt of a cheating wife getting caught red-handed?

By the time Tristan arrived at our shared penthouse, I was fully prepped. I had slipped into a simple, form-fitting white satin strapless gown, twisted my hair up into a clean updo, and kept my makeup light. Everything was deliberately styled to match the diamond jasmine drop earrings he had given me.

Tristan walked in, shrugged off his black business suit, and immediately changed into a fresh black tailored suit. Honestly, I couldn't spot a single difference between the two. But then I noticed the sleek jasmine-shaped brooch pinned to his lapel.

My fingers instinctively brushed against my own earring. Was it a matching set, or just a ridiculous coincidence?

The intricately designed jasmine brooch suited him perfectly, adding a subtle touch of old-money elegance to his ruthless aura.

We pulled up to the venue. Tristan stepped out first, smoothly extending a hand to help me out of the car. I naturally hooked my arm through his.

Suddenly, my brain flashed back to that summer before junior yearthe blurry image of him and that girl flashing past my car window. A sharp ache pierced my chest, and I zoned out for a split second.

"What's wrong?" He caught my momentary slip immediately. He tilted his head, his dark eyes searching my face.

"Nothing. Let's go in." I swallowed down the bitter taste in my mouth and forced a flawless smile.

I hated these plastic social events, but I couldn't deny they were the absolute lifeblood of the corporate world. I stuck close to Tristan's side, mentally checking out for most of the night. Whenever someone directed a question at me, I just flashed a polite, robotic response.

Mid-daydream, a heavy hand suddenly clamped tight around my waist. I looked up at Tristan, startled.

His eyes were narrowed, locking onto someone across the room. The raw hostility and dark defensiveness radiating from his rigid posture were impossible to miss.

I followed his gaze. A young man in a tailored suit was walking toward us. He looked vaguely familiar.

The guy stared right at me with a lazy, half-concealed smirk, clearly recognizing me. "Rosalie. Long time no see." His voice dripped with arrogant playfulness, his eyes heavy with teasing familiarity.

"Huh?" I drew a complete blank. My brain frantically started flipping through a mental catalog of billionaire heirs. I had been out of the socialite scene for way too long. My brain was practically overheating trying to place his face, but nothing clicked.

"Looks like Mr. Vance has crossed paths with my wife." Tristan smoothly stepped in, clearly sensing the guy's aggressive vibe.

"Oh, we've done a lot more than just cross paths. Right, little Rosalie?" The overly intimate nickname was a blatant, naked provocation.

Chapter 6

Tristan's hand tightened around my waist, yanking me flush against his side. I could feel the glacial pressure radiating from him, but the guy across from us ignored the death glare, flashing a disgustingly sunny grin.

The air instantly thickened with the dangerous, territorial energy of two alpha males staking their claim.

I stared at his arrogant face, and it finally clickedwasn't this the exact same ex who texted me on my wedding day, the one saved in my phone as "August 12. Six-pack. Great style. Terrible alcohol tolerance"?!

My only memory of Phoenix was him dressed like a walking designer billboard, a rich fuccboy with literally every hair color except black. He was fun, though. Now, he had his hair slicked back and was shoved into a tailored suit, playing dress-up as a serious adult. No wonder I drew a blank.

Before I could even pat myself on the back for remembering him, the nightmare of my current reality crashed over me. I was trapped in a lethal standoff between a petty ex and my billionaire husband.

"Hubby, this is an old classmate from my university days in the UK," I said smoothly. I just can't remember his damn name. I wisely kept that second half locked in my head.

The word "Hubby" worked like absolute magic. The rigid, murderous tension locked in Tristan's shoulders instantly dissolved. The crushing grip on my waist loosened slightly, but he deliberately dragged me even closer until I was practically glued to his chest.

"I look forward to a potential collaboration, Mr. Vance," Tristan said with a flawless corporate smile. But his voice was pure ice. It didn't sound like a business pitch; it sounded like a ruthless eviction notice.

Catching the lethal hint, Phoenix dropped the smirk, gave a lazy wave, and walked off.

Tristan had a few drinks at the gala, so his chauffeur brought the Maybach around. On the ride back to the penthouse, we sat in the spacious backseat, keeping a painfully polite distance between us.

From the second the doors clicked shut, Tristan stared out the tinted window in dead silence. The tension in the car was thick enough to choke on. The suffocating pressure even bled into the front seat, making the driver navigate the city streets with terrified, hyper-focused caution.

I had zero clue what to say. We practically had zero shared interests anyway. Giving up, I pulled out my phone and focused on clearing my unread messages.

Suddenly, my hands were empty. Tristan snatched the phone right out of my grip. Before I could even process the shock, he slumped sideways and dropped his head straight into my lap in one fluid motion.

Terrified he was going to slide off the slick leather seats, my left hand shot out on pure reflex, securely bracing his broad shoulder.

He grabbed my right hand and pressed my palm flat against his warm cheek. "I don't mind my wife's exes," he murmured, looking up at me. "But could you delete them all for me, Rosalie?"

Maybe it was the alcohol, but his dark eyes were dangerously hazy. The flickering streetlights outside washed over his face. The usual calculating, icy barrier in his eyes was completely shattered. His typically flat, ruthless voice was slurred, dripping with an intoxicating, almost pathetic vulnerability.

It was a lethal trap.

Before my brain could even decode his words, my chin bobbed in an automatic nod. The man's face was an absolute weapon of mass destruction.

A second later, the actual meaning of his words clicked. I quickly clarified, "They're already deleted. I didn't keep a single one." My mouth was moving ten miles ahead of my rational brain.

Hearing that, a genuine, shockingly soft smile broke across his lips. The alcohol made him look dangerously adorable. He nuzzled his face deeply into my palm, gripping my hand tightly as he closed his eyes in pure satisfaction.

It took another full minute for the realization to hit me.

The vulnerable act, the soft voiceit was a textbook corporate negotiation tactic. He set the bait, and I walked right into it. Billionaires were utterly terrifying.

The Maybach glided to a smooth stop in front of our building.

"Wake up. We're home."

Chapter 7