Page 1 of Marrying His Son’s Ex (Forbidden Kings #3)

KASI

The bus door hisses shut behind me, and I’m left standing on the sidewalk with exactly twenty-three dollars, my passport in my bag, and nowhere else to run.

The hotel across the street is the kind of place Dante used to take me for “special occasions”—when he wanted to remind me how generous he was, how lucky I was to have him. I tug at the hem of my wrinkled dress, the same one I’ve been wearing for three days, and cross the street anyway.

“Hey, beautiful!”

A guy in an expensive suit stumbles out of a nearby bar, his eyes tracking my movement like a predator. “Where you going? Let me buy you a drink!”

I keep walking. After two years with Dante, I know how to ignore the wolves.

“Come on, don’t be like that!” he calls, but I’m already pushing through the hotel’s revolving door.

The lobby is familiar in its excess—marble, crystal, and expensive furniture that costs more than most people make in a year.

The bar is tucked into a corner, dimly lit with leather booths and the quiet murmur of money changing hands. I slide onto a stool and place my last twenty on the polished wood.

“Whiskey,” I tell the bartender. “The strongest you have.”

He raises an eyebrow but pours without comment. I down it in one burning gulp, the fire spreading through my chest and numbing the edges of my panic.

This is it. Rock bottom.

Three months ago, I found a recording, and everything shattered.

Everything I thought was love turned out to be a transaction. A deal struck behind my back, selling me like property.

That’s when I ran.

I drain the glass and signal for another.

The bartender hesitates. “You sure about that, miss?”

“I’m sure.”

What happens after this drink doesn’t matter anyway. An alley, the streets, whatever comes next—it’s all better than the cage I escaped from.

“Allow me.”

A smooth voice interrupts my spiral. I look up to find a distinguished older man sliding onto the stool beside me. Expensive suit, silver at his temples.

He nods to the bartender. “Two more of whatever the lady’s having. Top-shelf.”

The bartender pours without question. The man slides one glass toward me, raises the other.

“To new beginnings,” he says.

I stare at him. “I don’t know you.”

“No, but I recognize someone who’s reached the end of their rope.” His smile is kind and understanding. “I’m Vincent. I manage an escort company.”

“Kasi.” The name slips out before I can stop it. First time I’ve said it aloud in months.

“Beautiful name for a beautiful woman.” He sips his whiskey, studying me with eyes that have seen everything. “What’s a girl like you doing drinking alone in a place like this?”

“A girl like me?”

“Smart. Stunning. Clearly not from this world.” He gestures around the opulent bar. “This isn’t where someone like you ends up unless something’s gone very wrong.”

The alcohol is making me reckless. “Everything’s gone wrong.”

“Want to talk about it?”

Something in his tone breaks down my defenses. Maybe it’s the drinks, maybe it’s the fact that I haven’t had a real conversation with another human being in weeks, but I find myself talking.

“I have nowhere to go,” I admit. “No money, no family worth calling family. After this drink, I’ll probably walk out of here and…I don’t know. Figure out which bridge looks most appealing.”

Vincent’s expression darkens. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only answer I have left.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, turning his glass in his hands. “What if I told you there was another option?”

“Like what?”

“You need money. I occasionally have clients who need…companionship. Beautiful, intelligent women who can hold a conversation, who can make a man feel less alone in the world.”

The words sink in slowly. “You’re talking about?—”

“I’m talking about one evening. One client. Five thousand dollars.” His voice is gentle but direct. “Are you willing to do whatever it takes to survive, Kasi?”

I stare at the amber liquid in my glass. Five thousand dollars. That could give me a real chance to start over again.

“Yes,” I whisper.

Before my father sold me, I was going to be a teacher.

Now I’m seriously considering selling my body to a stranger.

But isn’t that what I was doing with Dante? Isn’t that exactly what I’d been—a beautiful object to be displayed, used, traded? At least this way, I get to choose. At least this way, I get paid.

“Okay,” I whisper.

Vincent nods once. “Excellent. Let’s get you prepared.”

The preparation room is smaller than I expected, maybe the size of a generous walk-in closet. No windows, just warm overhead lighting that makes everything look golden. There’s a single chair, a vanity table covered in makeup and hair products, and a full-length mirror propped against one wall.

Two women are waiting for me. One’s maybe forty, blonde, wearing a simple black dress. The other is younger, brunette, with efficient movements, as if she’s done this a thousand times.

“Arms up, sweetheart,” the blonde says, and they help me out of my wrinkled dress.

I catch myself in the mirror and freeze.

Jesus. When did I get so thin? Gas station food and whatever scraps I could afford have carved me down to nothing.

“You’re beautiful,” the brunette says, noticing my stare. “Just need to put some meat back on those bones.”

They guide me into a shower that feels like silk against my skin. Real soap, expensive shampoo that smells like jasmine. The hot water strips away the feeling of fear, leaving me feeling almost human again.

They dry my hair until it falls in waves past my shoulders, apply makeup that makes my eyes look mysterious instead of hollow, and paint my lips the color of red wine. The dress they bring is black silk, simple but elegant, cut to show the curve of my waist and the length of my legs.

In the mirror, I look like someone else entirely. Someone who belongs in a place like this.

Someone who might actually be worth five thousand dollars.

The small snake tattoo on my collarbone peeks above the dress’s neckline—a reminder of the woman I’m trying to become. I got it two days after I left Dante, a symbol of rebirth, of shedding old skin.

Slipping away from Dante had taken everything I had.

“Perfect,” Vincent says when they present me to him. “The penthouse. He’s expecting you.” He walks me to the elevator. “Good luck,” he says as the doors close.

The elevator ride feels endless. My heart pounds against my ribs as I stare at my reflection in the polished steel doors.

This is insane. This is desperate. This is foolishness, but I have no choice.

There could be a serial killer expecting me in the penthouse.

Or a weird old man, with too many fetishes to count on one hand.

Dante was like that too. I shake my head, forcing the memories back to the dark box in my mind where I put them away after every incident.

The penthouse door is unlocked when I arrive. I step inside and expect to see the man who’s paid for my services, but the place is empty.

The bedroom’s floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the city lights. There’s wine waiting on the nightstand, and soft jazz is playing from hidden speakers. The bed dominates the space. I approach it cautiously.

It’s covered in what looks like clouds made of Egyptian cotton. I can’t remember the last time I slept on anything that wasn’t a couch or a bus seat. Before I know it, I’m sinking into the mattress that feels like heaven has decided to cradle me personally.

My eyes drift shut, just for a second. I just want to feel what it’s like to be comfortable again, and before I can stop myself, I’m drifting.

Run, Kasi, run.

His voice echoes as I stumble through dark alleys, his men’s footsteps closing in.

“Found you, princess. Time to come home.”

I wake with a start, heart pounding, from the same damn nightmare I’ve been having since I ran away.

A man is standing over me.

How long was I asleep for? I look outside—still pitch-dark save for the light pollution.

“How long have you been here?” I ask, as I quickly sit up.

“Not long.” His voice is deep. “I got caught in traffic. I’ve been in Italy for so long that I forgot how intense this city can get.”

I can barely make out his features. Just shadows and suggestions, but I see him remove his jacket and hang it on a chair.

“Italy sounds nice.”

“It does. You were having a nightmare.”

“You could have woken me up instead of just…staring.”

“You looked peaceful at first. Until the end.” He sits on the edge of the bed, leaving space between us. “I didn’t want to startle you.”

Neither of us speaks for a long moment.

“This is awkward,” I admit.

“It doesn’t have to be.” He pours wine from the bottle on the nightstand and offers me a glass. “I expected you’d want to get straight to…business. But you fell asleep.”

I take the wine, our fingers brushing. “Well, I’m awake now. We could get into it.”

He pours himself a glass and takes a sip before responding. “No need to rush now. Sex shouldn’t be a straight road.”

“What do you mean?”

“It should build. Like good wine.” He settles back against the headboard, and I find myself relaxing. “Tell me about yourself.”

“Not much to tell.” I curl my legs under me. “Twenty-two. Recently single. Very recently homeless.”

“What happened?”

“Found out the man I thought loved me had been lying about everything. Turns out I was just a business transaction.” I take a sip of wine. “What about you? Let me guess—businessman?”

“Something like that.”

“Rich businessman who can afford penthouse suites and expensive wine.” I study his outline in the dim light. “But not the kind who made his money completely legally.”

He chuckles, low and rough. “What makes you say that?”

“The way you move. The way you talk. There’s an edge there.” I tilt my head. “Plus, completely legal rich guys don’t usually need to pay for companionship.”

“Maybe I’m just lonely.”

“Are you?”

“Yeah.” The honesty in his voice catches me off guard. “Very lonely.”

We talk for a long time after that, the wine making us both more open than we probably should be. He tells me about years of regret, about choices that haunt him, about a son he’s lost touch with. I share pieces of my story—the betrayal, the escape, the months of running and hiding.

Neither of us gives names or details that matter.

“I haven’t talked to anyone like this in years,” he admits, his hand finding mine in the shadows.

“Like what?”

“Honestly. Without an agenda.” His thumb traces across my knuckles. “You’re not what I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

“Someone who needed saving. Someone fragile.” He lifts our joined hands and presses a soft kiss to my palm. “You’re not fragile at all.”

“You’re not what I expected either,” I whisper.

“No?”

“I thought you’d be demanding. Entitled. Take what you paid for and leave.” I shift closer to him on the bed. “Instead, you’re…”

“What?”

“Gentle. Kind.” I look up at his shadowed face. “When’s the last time someone was gentle with you?”

“I don’t remember.”

“When’s the last time you were gentle with someone?”

He’s quiet for a long moment. “I don’t remember that either.”

Something shifts between us. The space on the bed feels smaller, the air thicker with possibility.

“We could try,” I whisper. “Being gentle with each other.”

When he kisses me, it’s nothing like I’ve ever experienced before.

I kiss him back, tasting wine and loneliness and the promise of something different.

Something that might actually heal instead of hurt.

It’s nothing like Dante’s kisses—demanding, possessive, designed to remind me who was in control. This is soft, questioning, like he’s asking permission with every breath.

My hands fist his shirt as I pull him closer. He responds with a low growl, his arms coming around me to lift me onto his lap.

I straddle his thighs, my dress riding up as I settle against him. His hands span my waist, and I feel something I haven’t felt in two years—safe.

“Your tattoo,” he murmurs against my throat, his thumb tracing the small snake on my collarbone. “What does it mean?”

“Rebirth,” I breathe, arching into his touch. “Shedding old skin.”

“Beautiful,” he says, and the word is full of reverence. “You’re beautiful.”

I want to argue, to tell him he can’t see me clearly enough to know, but then his mouth is on mine again, and I stop thinking altogether.

His hands worship my body, and when he removes my dress, it’s with the kind of reverence usually reserved for sacred things. When he lays me back against the silk sheets, it’s like he’s handling glass.

“Are you ready?” he asks, his voice rough with restraint.

“I am.”

What follows is unlike anything I’ve ever known. He focuses entirely on me—my pleasure, my comfort, my needs. His touch is patient, exploring, learning what makes me gasp and arch beneath him. When tears slip down my cheeks, he kisses them away.

“Why are you crying?” he whispers.

“Because I never knew it could feel like this,” I answer.

He doesn’t respond with words, just holds me tighter as exhaustion pulls me under.