Not Straight!

Clara's hands moved in a frantic, exhausting blur, furiously scrubbing the faded countertops of her cramped, one-room apartment. Her knuckles ached, but the physical pain was a welcome distraction. Another job interview had ended in humiliating failure just hours ago, leaving her spirit heavily bruised. Yet, as she wiped down the modest surfaces in a desperate bid to make the tiny space presentable, her resolve burned brighter than ever.

Her new husband, Arthur, was expected to arrive at any moment. He was a gorgeously handsome model, and Clara had thoroughly convinced herself that he was a bizarre blessing in disguise. Sure, she firmly believed the man was completely gay, but this impulsive flash marriage was exactly what she needed. It was her ultimate, razor-sharp retaliation against Derek.

Just thinking that name made her stomach churn. The agonizing memory from exactly a month prior violently resurfaced, dragging her back to the day her entire world shattered. It was merely a day before their scheduled wedding. She had walked into the apartment they were supposed to share, intending to surprise her childhood sweetheart. Instead, she heard the unmistakable sounds of whimpering and loud moaning echoing from their bedroom.

When she pushed the bedroom door open, the sight permanently burned into her retinas. Derek was entirely naked, his sweaty body thrashing aggressively on their bed. He was having sex with Brianna—Clara's own younger step-sister. There was no mistaking the crude reality of the betrayal; Derek’s penis was thrusting deeply in and out of Brianna’s vagina, both of them completely lost in the shameless act.

The sheer horror of it was only eclipsed by their absolute lack of remorse. When they realized they were caught, neither Derek nor Brianna offered a single apology. Instead of shame, Derek simply pulled on his pants and unceremoniously threw Clara out onto the streets, refusing to even let her pack her belongings.

Scrubbing the counter one last vicious time, Clara threw the sponge into the sink. Marrying Arthur first was her bold, undeniable declaration. It was her way of screaming to Derek and Brianna that they meant absolutely nothing to her anymore.

The sharp, sudden ring of the doorbell snapped her out of the agonizing flashback. Clara took a deep breath, smoothing down her clothes, and pulled open the door to welcome her new husband.

Vance stepped inside, and his tall, incredibly broad-shouldered frame instantly dwarfed the cramped confines of her modest apartment. He was dressed casually in a simple white t-shirt and dark jeans, yet Clara’s keen eyes immediately noted the way the fabric draped across his muscular chest. It carried an undeniably expensive, luxurious quality that didn't match a struggling model. He radiated an aloof, commanding aura—like an invisible crown rested on his head—leaving Clara shifting on her feet with a strange, inexplicable uneasiness. It was a billionaire's attitude wrapped in casual denim.

"I've cleared out a shelf for you," Clara offered, gesturing to the small space. "Please, make yourself at home."

He gave a quiet nod, stepping further into the room.

"I'll go get dinner ready," she said, quickly turning her back to escape the overwhelming intensity of his presence.

The absolute second Clara slipped into the tiny kitchenette, Vance's relaxed demeanor shifted. He swiftly pulled out his sleek phone, his thumbs flying across the glass screen in a blur of efficiency as he dispatched a ruthless text to his secretary, Colin.

*Find out everything about Clara Whitmore. I need a comprehensive, highly detailed background report on her, immediately.*

He smoothly slid the phone back into his pocket just as Clara emerged carrying their plates.

During a strangely quiet, intensely intimate dinner at the small dining table, the silence hung heavy between them. Vance unexpectedly broke the quiet, his deep voice slicing through the small space.

"How was your job interview today?" he inquired, his gaze piercing.

Clara paused, her fork hovering over her food. She forced a tight-lipped, exhausted smile, unable to hide the crushing reality of her situation. "No luck. This is the third interview I've totally failed. It seems like nobody is willing to hire me, not even for a basic, plain receptionist role."

Vance didn't offer empty pity. Instead, he casually leaned back and stretched his arms. The powerful, defined muscles of his chest and biceps flexed seamlessly beneath his thin t-shirt. Clara’s gaze was magnetically drawn to the hard lines of his torso. A sudden, terrifying urge gripped her—an impulse to reach across the table, press her palms against his solid chest, and feel the heat radiating off his body.

*Shame on you, Clara,* she internally berated herself, violently scolding her traitorous mind. *He just saved you from being a complete laughingstock. You are a bleeding mess right now, and more importantly, he swings the other way! Stop creeping on him.*

To break her dangerous train of thought, she hastily stood up to clear the dishes. "I'll make us some coffee," she mumbled.

Hours later, the apartment settled into a quiet evening routine. Vance sat at the small workspace, intensely absorbed in his laptop screen, looking every bit the ruthless workaholic. Clara approached his back quietly, gently setting down a fresh, steaming mug of coffee beside his hand.

"Arthur," she softly called out.

He remained completely unresponsive, totally engrossed in whatever data was on his screen.

She frowned slightly and called his name a second time, a bit louder. "Arthur?"

Vance physically jumped, his head snapping around in pure, unfiltered surprise, as if he had just been shocked.

Clara let out a light chuckle, tilting her head. "Sometimes you behave as if you aren't Arthur at all."

That innocent, teasing remark completely froze Vance's blood in his veins. Intensely flustered and instantly realizing his dangerous slip of entirely forgetting his own assumed alias, he needed a distraction. Without thinking, he hastily grabbed the steaming mug of coffee and took a massive, desperate gulp.

His icy blue eyes instantly went perfectly round with agonizing pain. The scalding liquid viciously burned his lips and tongue. He slammed the mug down, coughing and wincing as the heat seared his mouth.

Sitting there feeling like an utter fool, the powerful, untouchable CEO realized the ridiculousness of his current situation. He had just practically torched his own face over a fake name.

Clara burst into a hearty, uninhibited laugh, the sound bright and ringing in the tiny apartment. "You are behaving like a literal child!" she teased him, rushing over to the small cabinet to retrieve her medical box. "Watch out! Is that how you drink boiling coffee?"

She hurried back and stood right beside his chair. Closing the small distance between them, she gently cradled his strong, chiseled jaw with her left hand, tilting his face upward. With her right forefinger, she carefully dabbed a cool, soothing ointment onto his swollen bottom lip.

The sudden, dangerous physical proximity hit her like a runaway freight train. Their faces were barely an inch apart. As their eyes locked in a breathless, unblinking contest, her thoughts spun wildly out of control. A forbidden, burning curiosity bloomed in the back of her mind, whispering about what it would feel like to press her own lips against his warm, injured ones instead of her finger.

Terrified by her surging, undeniable physical attraction to a man she firmly believed was entirely unavailable, she awkwardly and hastily pulled her hand away. Her cheeks were burning hot. She averted her gaze, clearing her throat to mask the heavy romantic tension that had just suffocated the room.

As night fully set in, Clara prepared the small living area for sleep. She gathered a blanket and a flat pillow, preparing to surrender the comfortable bed to her guest and sleep on the terribly uncomfortable small couch.

She heard the bathroom door click open. Vance suddenly emerged, and the sight of him made Clara’s breath violently hitch in her throat.

He was wearing nothing but a single, thin white towel slung precariously low on his narrow hips. The terrycloth barely clung to him, boldly highlighting the deep V-line pointing downward and his smoking hot, perfectly sculpted torso. Drops of water clung to his broad chest, tracing the hard ridges of his abdominal muscles.

Fighting the overwhelming, intoxicating visual distraction, Clara forced her eyes up to his face, her heart hammering against her ribs. She gripped her pillow nervously. "Will it be okay... if we leave the lights on while we sleep?"

Vance walked casually over to the small window, holding a glass of cold water in his hand. The moonlight caught the sharp angles of his face as he took a sip. He simply nodded in response, his demeanor calm and collected.

The silence stretched uncomfortably in the tiny room. Clara stared at the lumpy couch, dreading the long night ahead. Unable to hold it in, she awkwardly blurted out a confession.

"I really hate sleeping on the couch," she mumbled, shifting her weight timidly. She looked over at his broad, imposing back. "Do you think... perhaps in the near future, we could just share the bed?"

The question caught the disguised billionaire completely off guard. He froze, the glass halfway to his mouth, trying to process the sudden, highly intimate request from his brand-new, fake wife.

But before Vance could even process the implications of her offer, Clara delivered a devastatingly innocent, oblivious final blow.

"Besides," she added with a reassuring smile, "Tessa told me that you are gay, so sharing a bed shouldn't be a problem for you at all."

The sheer, unadulterated shock of the statement hit Vance’s throat perfectly out of sync with his swallow. He violently choked on his water, hacking and coughing wildly, his icy blue eyes watering as he stared at her in total disbelief.