The Stranger in Her Bed

Chapter 1: The Stranger in Her Bed

A soft breeze brushed against Isla's skin. There was a faint scent of something—clean, expensive, like cologne that didn't come from a drugstore. Her head felt heavy, the kind of heavy that came from sleeping too long or too hard. She shifted slightly under the covers, and that's when she realized it.

She wasn't alone.

The warmth beside her was unmistakable. Her entire body froze.

Her eyes snapped open.

The room wasn't hers. It was bigger—sleek and modern with soft gray walls and white curtains swaying gently in the breeze. Sunlight spilled through the oversized windows, washing everything in a soft, golden glow. It was the kind of place you'd see in a magazine.

But none of that mattered. Because there was a man in bed with her.

She turned her head slowly—too slowly. And there he was.

Dark hair. Sharp jaw. Strong shoulders. The kind of handsome that made people stare longer than they should. Calm, too—like nothing could shake him. His chest rose and fell with steady, even breaths. Completely at ease.

She was not at ease.

Panic fluttered in her stomach as she sat up too fast. A wave of dizziness hit her, and she pressed her palm to her forehead, trying to push through the fog. Think, Isla. Think.

But nothing came. Her mind was disturbingly blank.

She glanced down at herself. She was wearing a silky white nightgown. It felt new—too smooth, too perfect—but she didn't remember putting it on. Her fingers trembled slightly as she clutched the fabric, searching for any clue, any shred of memory.

Still nothing.

She needed to get out of there.

Sliding quietly out of bed, her gaze caught on something on the nightstand. Her stomach twisted.

A marriage certificate.

Her name—Isla Bennett.

His name—Damien Calloway.

She blinked hard, hoping she was imagining it. She wasn't. The date was stamped in bold letters. Yesterday.

What the hell was going on?

A low groan made her freeze. She glanced toward the bed just as the man stretched, muscles flexing beneath the sheets. He moved like someone who was used to being in control. Someone who rarely woke up disoriented.

She wished she could say the same.

Then, his voice—deep and smooth—broke the silence.

"You're awake."

She turned slowly, her heart thudding in her chest. His dark eyes met hers, sharp and unreadable. He was fully awake now, watching her like he was trying to figure something out.

She swallowed hard. "Who are you?"

His lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Damien Calloway," he said, as though the name should mean something to her. "Your husband."

The words hit her like a punch to the gut.

No. That wasn't possible.

Her grip on the marriage certificate tightened, her knuckles going white. "I—I don't remember marrying you."

His expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes. Something cold.

"Good," he said quietly. "Because I don't remember marrying you either."

She stared at him, blood pounding in her ears. "What?"

Damien didn't forget things. Not important things. Not ever.

And yet, there he was—standing in his bedroom, staring at a woman who was legally his wife, with no memory of how it happened.

Isla's wide hazel eyes were locked on his, searching for answers he didn't have. Her brown hair was tousled, a little messy—but in the way that looked unintentional. She didn't seem like the reckless type. But then again, neither was he.

Yet there they were.

"How did this happen?" Her voice was shaky, barely above a whisper.

He didn't answer right away. Instead, he walked to the dresser, pulled open a drawer, and grabbed an envelope. It had been sitting on his bedside table when he woke up—no sender, no return address.

He held it out to her. "This was left for us."

Her fingers trembled as she took it and slid out a folded piece of paper. He watched her eyes move across the page, her face paling with every word.

Congratulations on your marriage.

The truth will come soon.

Until then, trust no one.

When she looked back at him, her expression was tight. "Someone did this to us."

"Looks like it," he said, his jaw clenched.

Her breathing quickened. "I don't get drunk. I don't do… impulsive things like this."

"Neither do I."

Silence stretched between them. For a moment, he wondered if she was about to bolt. He wouldn't blame her. But instead, she lifted her chin and asked the one question he couldn't shake.

"If neither of us remembers… how do we know we didn't choose this?"

He narrowed his eyes. "Do you feel like you chose this?"

Her mouth opened—then closed again. She didn't have an answer. Neither did he.

The car pulled up to Isla's apartment building, and she stepped out quickly, barely acknowledging the driver. Her fingers fumbled for her keys as she rushed inside.

The moment she shut the door behind her, she pressed her back against it, trying to catch her breath.

Home.

It should have felt safe. Familiar. But it didn't.

Because nothing about her life was normal anymore.

She moved toward the kitchen, needing water, needing something real to ground her. But as she set the glass on the counter, she noticed something odd.

A small white envelope.

Sitting in the middle of her kitchen table.

Her pulse spiked. She didn't remember leaving it there.

Swallowing hard, she reached for it, her hands shaking slightly. She tore it open and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

Her stomach dropped as she read the words inside.

Don't trust him. He's more dangerous than you think.

The note slipped from her fingers. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears.

This wasn't just some mistake.

This was a warning.

And she had no idea who to believe.

She stared at the note, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

Who had left this here?

Her apartment had been locked when she came in. She always double-checked. No one else had a key—at least, no one who should.

She grabbed her phone and hovered over Damien's number, the one she'd found in her call log that morning. Should she ask him? Confront him?

But the note said not to trust him.

Instead, she shoved the paper into her pocket and forced herself to breathe. She needed to think. She needed a plan. Because one thing was certain—whoever had done this?

They were watching her.

The second the door closed behind Isla, Damien let out a slow breath.

He hated not having answers.

He didn't believe in coincidences. Someone had done this for a reason. And he was going to find out why.

Grabbing his phone, he dialed a number. It rang twice before a voice answered.

"Boss?"

"Find everything you can on Isla Bennett," he said. "I want to know who she is. Where she's from. "Her job, her family, her past, everything. And why someone wanted us m

arried."

A pause. Then, "Understood."

He hung up and glanced back at the bed. The silk sheets were rumpled where she had slept.

This wasn't over.

Not by a long shot.