One-night stand with cheating fiancé's uncle

Isla Turner got why Damari Evans wanted to grant his grandfather’s dying wish. But with a hundred women throwing themselves at him every day… why her? Just a regular personal assistant.

She asked the question out loud: "Why me?"

"I’m not interested," Isla replied without a beat of hesitation.

A flicker of something unreadable crossed Damari’s dark eyes, gone so fast Isla couldn’t pin it down before it vanished. He answered coolly, "That’s exactly why."

It clicked for Isla. Damari was a total workaholic who couldn’t be bothered with messy romance. Marrying someone obsessed with him would just suck up half his time. He didn’t want a real family—he just wanted a convenient marriage to keep his grandpa happy.

It made total sense, given how he was. Isla didn’t even think it was weird. She got it.

"Mr. Evans, I’m still not the right pick for this."

Her refusal didn’t faze him. He kept going, voice steady: "Three-year marriage contract. You play the good granddaughter-in-law for me, and I’ll give you whatever compensation you want. Money, connections, resources—name what you need, as long as I can give it to you."

The word resources hit her like a punch to the chest, and suddenly her little brother Mack’s too-pale face flashed through her mind. She hesitated.

Her parents had always favored boys over girls, and Mack had been their whole world. But even as a kid, Mack would sneak his favorite candy to Isla and tell everyone she was his favorite sister. On crisp, cold autumn afternoons, he’d wrap his arms around her from behind on their porch and promise he’d buy her a huge house one day, so she’d never have to huddle and shiver in the cold again.

This little brother, the one who’d warmed every lonely part of her childhood, had come down with kidney disease. After years of draining treatment, her parents had given up on him and had another boy instead. For years now, it had just been Isla and Mack against the world—she was the one carrying all the weight of his illness.

"Your brother needs dialysis three times a week. That’s a massive financial burden for most people. And if a matching kidney comes up? The surgery alone will run you close to a hundred grand."

Isla’s fingers tightened around her purse strap until her knuckles went white with every word he spoke.

"I can cover all of his surgery and recovery costs. And I can find you a donor."

Isla’s head snapped up, and her gaze collided with Damari’s. His eyes felt like they could see straight through every wall she’d put up.

He added, quiet and certain: "I can make him better."

Those six words were a lighthouse cutting through the black fog that’d swallowed her whole for months.

When she’d been dating Vicente Wood, she’d never breathed a word about Mack’s illness. She didn’t want to drag their relationship down with that kind of heavy baggage.

Just recently, a matching kidney had been found. The doctor told her to come up with thirty thousand dollars for the surgery and hospital stay, and that didn’t even count post-op care and meds. She’d already planned to take out a loan to cover it.

But on the exact same day she’d broken up with Vicente, Damari had offered her a deal she couldn’t afford to walk away from.

When she stayed silent, he probably took it as indecision. His voice softened, just a little: "Or are you planning to get back together with him? If that’s the case, just consider this me overstepping."

"I’m not," Isla answered immediately, sharp and decisive.

To other people, Vicente hadn’t done anything unforgivable. He hadn’t even physically cheated. Why was she so dead-set on throwing away a years-long relationship over something that seemed so small?

Only Isla knew how much she’d cared about that relationship. Even when she had plenty of admirers who could’ve easily handed her thirty thousand dollars (and more) if she’d just asked, she’d kept her distance and never breathed a word about how desperate she was. Three months ago, someone had slipped her a drug at a work event. She’d sliced her palm open on a broken glass just to stay conscious, then climbed down a drainpipe off a third-floor balcony to escape. Hiding under a bridge, bruised and bleeding, she’d called Vicente who was overseas for work, and she’d just casually said she was fine. She never told him she’d almost been assaulted.

He’d promised when he came back they’d get married, and Isla had believed him. She’d thought they were already acting like a married couple, even long-distance.

But reality was nothing like that. When he wasn’t with Isla, he was out celebrating his coworker Lilith’s birthday, watching fireworks with her at Disneyland, going to movie premieres together, chasing sunrises and sunsets side by side.

Even if Vicente still loved her, even if they got married—marriage wasn’t the finish line. It was just the start. Sooner or later, he’d regret it. His feelings for her would fizzle out in the boring, messy grind of daily life, and he’d probably keep seeing Lilith on the side anyway.

None of that was what Isla wanted. Lilith would always be a thorn stuck in her chest, throbbing and hurting no matter what she did.

Vicente was probably better than most guys. But Isla had given a hundred percent of herself to that relationship, and Vicente had only ever given eighty. That imbalance would kill their marriage eventually, no matter what.

Isla was more mature and practical than most girls her age. It didn’t take her long to make up her mind. If she couldn’t get a hundred percent pure, whole marriage even after putting everything on the line, she’d take a marriage that was just good for both of us instead.

Her resolve solidified. She looked up at him and said, "Mr. Evans, I agree."

He turned the car key, the engine purring to life. "Alright. Where’s your passport?"

Isla blinked, caught off guard. "It’s at my place, you…"

"I’ll drive you to get it, then we head straight to the registry office."

"It’s so late, they’ll be closed. Can’t we do tomorrow?" Isla’s head was still spinning—this was all happening so fast, she couldn’t keep up.

Damari pressed his foot to the gas, leaving her staring at his sharp, determined profile. "I’ll make the arrangements."

He drove her to her apartment building. To save every extra penny for Mack’s treatment, she lived in a dump without an elevator.

"Mr. Evans, just wait here for me. I’ll run up and grab it."

The door clicked shut behind her, leaving his sleek black Mercedes and his tall, broad frame standing out under the yellow streetlight like they didn’t belong here at all.

He followed her anyway. "This place doesn’t look safe."

Isla’s brain went totally blank for a second, and the words slipped out before she could stop them: "It’s not just looks. It actually is dangerous."

She froze, startled by her own bluntness, and hurried to backtrack: "Mr. Evans, I mean—it’s not that bad."

Damari watched her flustered, fumbling explanation with quiet curiosity as he followed her up the creaky stairs, a faint, unspoken smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Isla unlocked her front door and awkwardly gestured over her shoulder: "Just give me one minute. I’ll be right back out."

He stood tall in her doorway, radiating that untouchable, commanding energy that always surrounded him. Vicente had never even set foot in this place. Damari was the first man to ever come inside her home.

Isla grabbed her passport and ID in a hurry, didn’t even stop to change her shoes. Damari glanced around the small space. Her living room was tiny, but it was neat and cozy, warm and lived-in.

A minute later, she was holding the documents out to him. "Mr. Evans, we can go now."

He pulled his gaze away from the framed photo of her and Mack on the counter, voice calm as ever: "Alright."

Thirty minutes later, they pulled up to the registry office. The staff had all been called in to work overtime, but not a single one looked annoyed. They greeted them with crisp, professional smiles: "Mr. Evans, everything’s ready for you."

After photos, forms, and the final stamp, Isla was standing outside holding her marriage certificate in her hands, still half-convinced she was dreaming.

On the exact same night she’d broken up with Vicente, her long-term boyfriend, she’d married her cold, untouchable boss.

On the drive back, Damari glanced at the certificate tucked in his glove compartment, his face still impassive. "The money will hit your account tomorrow. I’ll also start moving on finding that kidney donor right away."

Hearing that, a sharp, bitter twist pinched at Isla’s chest. It felt like she’d just sold herself to pay for her brother’s treatment. But this was her choice. She didn’t regret it.

"Mr. Evans, my doctor told me a few days ago they already found a matching donor. So you don’t have to stress about that part. It’s just…" She hesitated, then blurted it out: "The surgery and hospital fee is thirty thousand."

"Mr. Evans, you can just drop me off here. I’ll take a cab back to my place."

Instead, the car glided smoothly into the underground garage of a fancy five-star hotel a few blocks from Damari’s office. Isla hadn’t seen this coming, but the passenger door was already swinging open before she could protest.

"You’ll stay here tonight. It’s way closer to the office. Your commute from that apartment is ridiculous."

Every refusal she’d rehearsed died on her tongue when she met his sharp, penetrating gaze. She just nodded: "Thank you, Mr. Evans."

"Get some rest," he said, then pulled the door shut and walked off toward the elevators.

The suite was toasty warm from every direction. Isla was so exhausted from the night’s chaos that her legs almost gave out the second the door clicked shut behind her.

She unbuttoned her coat, heat flooding her cheeks when she remembered the thin, semi-sheer black lace slip her friend had forced her to pack for the work trip last week, clinging to every curve of her body.

She stared at the slip in the mirror over the dresser and huffed a dry, wry laugh at herself.

She headed to the bathroom, took a quick shower, and grabbed the plush bathrobe hung up on the hook by the shower.

She assumed it was just the standard hotel issue for guests, so she slipped it on without a second thought.

It was way bigger than a regular hotel bathrobe. At five foot six, Isla looked like she’d borrowed her dad’s robe, swallowing her whole.

The doorbell rang, and she assumed it was room service dropping off a complimentary welcome treat. She opened the door without even bothering to tie the belt tighter.

Damari was standing there, still in his tailored work suit.

His gaze dropped straight to her, and he didn’t look away. What she didn’t know was that this suite was his regular permanent executive suite—everything here was custom-made for him, including that oversized robe she was wearing.

Seeing his personal robe wrapped around her soft, still-damp body, her fresh-washed hair falling loose over her shoulders, water droplets tracing down her delicate collarbone and disappearing into the folds of the fabric… something deep and low stirred in his chest.

The ill-fitting robe gaped open at the top, just enough to show the flush of her skin still warm from the shower steam.