Chapter 1

I was going to call off the marriage.

My nemesis lost his mind first.

Six-two. Eyes red at the rims. He had his arms around me.

"Ivy. My stomach hurts."

"Rub it again."

I almost kicked him off me.

Then I remembered the swap.

A few days ago. He got my cramps.

· · ·

Morning. I woke up to my own voice.

No.

I woke up to a voice that was not mine.

A low hum came out of my throat, like heavy machinery turning over. It lived in the chest. My eardrums went numb.

Six-two. Bass.

I sat up and threw the covers back.

Men's silk pajamas.

Chest — flat.

Abs — six of them, cut down the waist, the V so tight it hurt to look at.

I hit the bathroom barefoot and looked in the mirror.

I stood there for a full thirty seconds. Did not move.

The face in the glass: hard bone, sharp brows, sharper eyes.

Rhys Calder.

The man I had been fighting for twenty years. The iceberg heir to the Calder Group, the one who lived three floors above everyone else.

I had turned into him.

I had not even started digesting that ghost story when the room next door made a sound — crushed down, familiar. A moan from a throat I knew.

My voice.

Whatever was left of my brain burned off. I kicked the door in.

· · ·

Rhys was wearing my face. No pajamas.

He had dug up an oversized white shirt from somewhere. The collar had slid off one shoulder. Pale skin. One clean collarbone.

His soul was a grown man. He was sitting on the carpet with his legs spread, zero dignity.

My black hair was a mess down the front of the shirt, shaking when he breathed.

Innocent. And ruinously hot.

He was locked on my phone. His whole face was black weather.

I pulled in a breath and opened my mouth —

His bass came out.

"Rhys. What are you doing."

He lifted his head slow.

My cold, expensive face. Lashes, a little flutter. Somehow innocent.

"You're up? Good. Your fingerprint lock's garbage. Took me seven, eight tries."

He didn't look up. "What's the payment PIN?"

I went for the phone.

This man's body, getting close to "me," did a thing on instinct — throat tight. The jasmine on him hit the body I was wearing, and heat dropped straight into my stomach.

I looked at the screen.

He had used my account. The rich-kid group. One blast:

Notice: Married. Off the market. Anyone who takes me looking for male models or clubs gets blocked. Also, Miles — your Stories last night were greasy. Muted.

A row of question marks.

Dead air.

Twenty years of ice-heiress work.

Gone.

"Rhys."

I had my teeth together. My blood pressure was climbing a ladder.

"You used my account for that. Are you sick?"

"Cleaning up your circle."

He used the sofa to stand. Five-five, looking up at me, all challenge.

The shirt slid another inch.

The body I was wearing clenched, low and mean.

Fuck.

That was his body. Not me.

"Also." He pointed at my closet. "Your clothes are a problem."

I turned.

I cracked.

Every backless dress. Every mini. This control-freak bastard had put snaps in them, hem to collarbone.

Nun habits. All of them.

Then, while I was watching, he left my favorite group: Victoria's Secret.

I stared at him.

He put my face into an expression that was awkward and bossy at the same time. My voice, soft enough to sound like a whine, ice-cold:

"Ivy Bennett. You're an heiress. You don't walk Victoria's Secret."

The last of my good behavior snapped.

Fine.

Rhys Calder.

You want to have no shame?

We burn together.