Kidnapping The Wrong Billionaire

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I am, admittedly, a little obsessed with my older sister.

To help her secure the man shed been secretly pining over for years, I did something monumentally stupid. I kidnapped the citys most untouchable bachelor, dragged him to a secluded suite, and force-fed him a cocktail spiked with a very expensive, very illegal "compliance serum." The plan was simple: present him to my sister, Paige, gift-wrapped and pliable.

Just as I was congratulating myself on a job well done, my brainfried by adrenalinedecided to dissociate. I could practically see the Twitter thread of my life scrolling before my eyes.

[@User1: LMAO, is this girl for real? Her sister likes Ronan, the Tech Bro, not Roman, the Venture Capital Shark!]

[@User2: I mean, to be fair, they sound exactly the same in a loud club. Rookie mistake.]

[@User3: RIP Harper. She kidnapped the wrong billionaire. Once those meds kick in, shes not gonna be the captor anymore; shes gonna be the prey.]

A split second later, a hand like a branding iron clamped around my waist.

The mans voice was gravel and smoke, low and terrifyingly dangerous. "You light the fuse and then try to run? Get back here."

I had bought the serum from a shady contact in the darkest corner of the internet to ensure Paiges success. It was marketed as "The Closer"guaranteed to lower inhibitions and heighten desire. It was potent enough to make a monk blush.

And because Im an idiot who worries too much, Id panicked and given Roman a double dose.

I had imagined Paige praising my initiative. Instead, I was staring at my phone, sweat trickling down my spine.

Thirty seconds ago, when I hallucinated those comments, I thought it was just my anxiety manifesting.

[@GossipGirl: Checkmate. Harper just delivered herself on a silver platter.]

[@DramaQueen: Who spikes the drink pays the price. I love this trope.]

[@SisStan: Lay off her! She did it for Paige! It was just a one-letter difference!]

A one-letter difference?

My head was spinning. I refused to believe it. How could I mess this up? Wasn't the guy Paige wouldn't shut up about Theguy?

With trembling fingers, I texted Paige: [Sis, quick question. What is your crush's full name again?]

Her reply came instantly: [Ronan. Ronan O'Connor. Why?]

Ronan.

Ronan?!

My world imploded.

The man currently burning a hole through the mattress behind me wasn't Ronan. He was Roman. Roman Scott.

[@Observer: See? Told you she grabbed the wrong one.]

[@ChaosLover: This is gonna be good. The drug is hitting. Harper can't run now.]

My heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

If I had the wrong guy, the only logical solution was to cut him loose and pretend this never happened. Gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss my way out of a felony.

Did I have an antidote in my bag?

I was rummaging through my thoughts when a wall of heat pressed against my back. Before I could scream, I was yanked backward, landing hard on a pair of thighs that felt like solid granite.

I froze, terrified.

He, however, was not frozen.

Romans hands were scorching hot. One slid under the hem of my shirt, his rough fingertips tracing patterns on my skin that sent a violent shiver through my entire nervous system.

"W-what are you doing?" My voice was a squeak. "Don't move!"

Roman tilted his head. His eyes were bloodshot, dark pools of intent. "I'm not moving without purpose. And right now, my purpose is you."

The audacity!

I scrambled, pushing off his chest and leaping for the door. I made it two steps before he caught me.

The jerk grabbed the oversized silk bow at the back of my dress.

I tugged forward. "Let go! Seriously, let go!"

Instead of releasing me, Roman pulled harder.

Desperate times called for desperate measures. I yanked the release knot on the sash. The silk ribbon came undone, and the decorative back panel of the dress tore away.

Freed, I threw the fabric at his face. "Keep it!"

I bolted.

But I had severely underestimated Roman Scotts athleticism.

I didnt make it to the hallway. Suddenly, the floor wasn't under my feet anymore. The world tilted, and I was scooped up, thrown over a shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

I kicked and thrashed, but against his grip, I might as well have been fighting a statue.

In seconds, I was tossed back onto the massive, plush mattress.

Roman loomed over me, bracing his arms on either side of my head. His breath was hot on my face. "Where do you think you're going?"

My brain scrambled for an excuse. He looked lucid enough to talk, which was terrifying. Maybe the drugs were duds?

"I... I left my straightener on!" I blurted out. "I have to go home before I burn my apartment down."

Roman let out a dark, humorless chuckle. He crowded into my space, cutting off my escape. "The apartment can wait. I have a situation here, and I need your assistance."

I shrank back into the pillows. "What situation?"

His gaze dropped to my lips, dark and hungry. Slowly, deliberately, he began to undo the top button of his dress shirt.

Panic sirens blared in my head.

I tried to scramble away again, but he pinned me with effortless strength.

The drugs weren't duds. This man just had an iron will. He looked composed on the surface, but underneath, the double dose was incinerating him.

"I have the antidote!" I wailed, tears pricking my eyes. "It's in my purse. Let me get it. Just hold on..."

Roman didn't stop. His long fingers worked the buttons with maddening precision.

He pressed a finger to his lips. "Shh."

The look in his eyescalm, controlled, yet utterly unhingedterrified me more than if he had been screaming.

I went silent, paralyzed.

He seemed pleased by my obedience. He leaned down, brushing a kiss against my forehead, patronizingly sweet. "Good girl."

"I..."

"Sit still," he interrupted, his voice rasping, stripped of all polish. "Sit still, then you can plead your case."

He let go of my arms.

I slumped, sliding inevitably into his embrace. He buried his face in the crook of my neck, letting out a ragged sigh that vibrated through my chest. "It hurts," he murmured against my skin. "Since you caused this, you're going to help me manage it."

Manage it?

Im a kidnapper, not a crisis counselor!

I didn't agree to this. But Roman Scott was a man used to command, and he didn't leave room for negotiation.

His arm was a steel band around my waist, locking me against him.

A strange, electric tension crackled down my spine. I was scared, overwhelmed, and suddenly crying.

Roman pulled back slightly, kissing away a tear. "Don't cry. It'll be over soon."

Liar.

Men are all liars.

It wasn't going to be okay.

I regretted everything.

I should have double-checked the name. I should have asked Paige for a photo. How could I be this incompetent?

The tears flowed faster, snot and misery soaking into his custom Italian shirt.

[@SavageCommentary: Harper is crying, but why is this kinda funny?]

[@TropeHunter: Classic 'Himbo' move, but make it female. She dug the grave, now she has to lie in it.]

[@Justice4Roman: Girl dosed him with enough aphrodisiac to kill a horse. She IS the antidote now.]

My imaginary Twitter feed was ruthless.

I had the antidote pill! Why wouldn't he just take the pill? Why did I have to be the solution?

"Please," I sobbed, my voice hitching. "Just take the pill. If you don't, I'm going to die of embarrassment."

Roman paused. He looked down at me, his gaze searching my face for a long moment.

He didn't move away. Instead, he tangled his hand in my hair, laughing softly. "Relax. I know my limits. I won't break you."

He didn't break me.

But he certainly shattered my reality.

I lost track of time in that room.

The light outside the heavy curtains shifted from gray to black to gray again.

Time became a blur of sensation and exhaustion. I was a small boat in a hurricane, tossing and turning at his mercy. He was a machine, relentless and insatiable.

At some point, food was delivered.

I was so angry I knocked the tray over.

Romans expression darkened to a thundercloud. He ordered another tray.

He looked so terrifying that I lost my nerve and ate. The food was my favorite takeoutThaibut it tasted like cardboard and regret.

Finally, mercifully, he let me sleep.

It was the deepest sleep of my life, though my dreams were haunted by Romans burning, crimson eyes.

When I finally woke up, fully lucid, the room was silent.

Roman was gone.

My phone sat on the nightstand, fully charged.

I checked it frantically. Texts from my friends had been replied toin my style. No suspicion raised.

Pinned to the top of my messages was a new contact.

Roman Scott.

He had sent several unread messages.

[I'm in the study next door handling a merger. Text me when you wake up. Be good.]

I scrolled up. He had been updating me on his location for hours.

My thumb slipped, scrolling back to the pre-kidnapping texts. The contrast between my naive confidence then and my current ruin made my nose sting.

I tried to get out of bed to gather my clothes scattered across the carpet.

My legs gave out the moment my feet hit the floor. I collapsed, banging my knees hard.

Fresh tears sprang to my eyes. I wiped them away furiously, but the humiliation was a rising tide.

Sniffling, I used the bedframe to haul myself up. I dressed quickly, wincing with every movement.

On the other nightstand, I found a Post-it note. The handwriting was sharp, aggressive.

[Don't run. Phone is on the right. Call me.]

I ignored the note. I grabbed my phone and peeked into the hallway like a fugitive.

Coast clear.

I didn't breathe until I was in the back of a taxi, watching the skyline retreat.

I pulled out my phone. Opened the pinned chat.

Block. Delete.

Goodbye, Roman Scott. I hope I never see your face again.