Accidentally His

LAYLA

DARKNESS HAS A WAY of making even a room full of strangers feel intimate, like the world has narrowed down to whoever's breathing closest to you.

I stood frozen near the guest list table, my heart hammering against my ribs, listening to two hundred wealthy voices rise into a tangled chorus of confusion and half-panicked laughter. Somewhere to my left, glass shattered, a dropped champagne flute, probably, though in the dark it sounded far more ominous than it likely was.

"Everyone remain calm," a man's voice called out, smooth and practiced, cutting through the chaos with the kind of authority that made people actually listen. "Security's already on the backup generator. We'll have lights within minutes."

I didn't recognize the voice, but something about its calm certainty made my shoulders ease slightly, even as I stood there in the pitch black, uncertain whether to stay put or feel my way toward the exit Nadia had shown me earlier.

A hand closed around my wrist.

I gasped, instinct screaming at me to pull away, before a low voice spoke directly against my ear, close enough that I felt his breath against my skin.

"You're standing in the middle of a stampede waiting to happen," Zayd Marchetti said, his voice carrying none of the polished charm I'd expect from someone photographed on magazine covers, only quiet, practical urgency. "Move with me. Now."

I didn't have time to protest before he was pulling me sideways, weaving through bodies I couldn't see with a confidence that suggested he'd already memorized the room's layout the moment he walked in. We stopped somewhere near a wall, tucked into an alcove that put solid marble at my back and his shoulder inches from mine.

"How do you know your way around a room you've never been in," I managed, my voice steadier than I felt.

"I make it a habit to map every exit within thirty seconds of entering any building," he said. "Bad things happen to people who don't."

"That's either very smart or deeply paranoid."

"Ask me again once the lights come back," he said, and I could hear, even in the darkness, the faint trace of amusement in his voice. "Until then, I'd rather be paranoid and alive than relaxed and trampled."

The lights flickered back on exactly as he finished speaking, the ballroom blinking into sudden, blinding brightness that sent a ripple of relieved applause through the crowd.

I finally got a proper look at the man standing beside me, and something in my chest tightened uncomfortably at how much more striking he was up close than any photograph had managed to capture, dark eyes that missed nothing, a jaw set with the particular tension of someone perpetually calculating three steps ahead, and an expression that shifted, subtly but unmistakably, the moment he actually looked at me properly for the first time.

"You're not on the guest list," he said slowly, something curious threading through his voice now.

"I'm staff," I said quickly. "Assistant to Nadia Farah. I shouldn't even be standing here."

Something flickered behind his eyes, confusion, maybe, or the beginning of some calculation I didn't yet understand.

"Then why," he said, "does my head of security just address you as Miss Conti?"

I turned to find a man in a dark suit approaching us with visible urgency, a tablet clutched in his hands, his expression carrying the particular strain of someone whose entire evening had just gone sideways.

"Mr. Marchetti," the man said, slightly breathless. "I apologize for the delay. Miss Conti's identification documents were misplaced during the blackout, but we've located them now, along with the finalized contracts your legal team required before the ceremony." He glanced at me, something like relief crossing his features. "I'm glad to see you're both already acquainted. It'll make the announcement considerably smoother."

"What announcement," I said, dread beginning to pool cold in my stomach.

The security head blinked, clearly confused by the question. "The engagement, Miss Conti. Given everything riding on tonight's international partners actually witnessing the union confirmed in person, Mr. Marchetti's team felt it wisest to move the announcement forward, especially after the disruption of the blackout."

"I'm not---" I started, but my voice was swallowed by a sudden swell of applause as the same smooth-voiced man who'd calmed the crowd earlier stepped onto a small raised platform near the front of the ballroom, a microphone now in hand.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he announced, his voice carrying easily across the now-illuminated room. "Please join me in congratulating Zayd Marchetti and his bride, Yasmine Conti, whose union tonight secures not only a partnership between two extraordinary families, but the foundation of an international investment that will reshape three continents' approach to sustainable urban development."

I stood frozen, my mind racing to catch up with words that made absolutely no sense applied to me, watching in growing horror as every eye in the ballroom turned toward us, toward this strange tableau of a billionaire and a woman he'd mistaken for someone else entirely.

"There's been a mistake," I said, panic finally breaking through my shock. "I'm not Yasmine Conti. My name is Layla Bellini. I'm nobody's fiancée, I'm literally just---"

"Layla." Zayd's voice was quiet, controlled, though I caught the faint tension along his jaw that suggested he was processing something far more complicated than his composed exterior let on. "How exactly did my security team come to believe you're Yasmine Conti?"

"I have no idea," I said honestly, my heart pounding as I glanced toward the crowd, searching desperately for Samira or Nadia, anyone who might explain the horrifying mix-up currently unfolding in front of two hundred witnesses and, judging by the number of phones already raised to capture the moment, considerably more people by morning.

I found Samira instead, standing near the back of the room, her expression carefully neutral in a way that made my skin crawl.

She wasn't rushing forward to correct anyone.

She wasn't saying anything at all.

"Mr. Marchetti," the security head said, glancing nervously between us, clearly sensing something had gone catastrophically wrong despite having no idea what. "The international partners are already on video call, waiting for confirmation of the union before they finalize their portion of tomorrow's signing. If there's a delay now---"

"There won't be a delay," Zayd said, cutting him off, though his eyes remained fixed on me, sharp and assessing in a way that made me feel like he was solving a puzzle in real time.

"Zayd," I said, using his first name without thinking, desperation clawing up my throat. "Whatever's happening right now, I promise you, I am not who they think I am."

"I believe you," he said quietly, surprising me enough that my next protest died in my throat. "Which raises a considerably more interesting question."

"What question," I managed.

His eyes held mine, something calculating and unreadable settling behind them.

"If you're not Yasmine Conti," he said, "then someone in this room went to considerable trouble tonight to make absolutely certain everyone believed you were. And I intend to find out exactly who, and why, before I let this deal, or you, walk away from me tonight.