Shared by the Shadows

I entered an arranged marriage. The groom? Roman. The exact same guy who shot me down in high school. They say you always want what you can't have. Well, I got him.

He’d aged into his features—a sharper jawline, infinitely more lethal. After we tied the knot, the man turned into a total velcro husband.

He’d pin me to the mattress, demanding I say I love you on an endless loop. And honestly? I devoured every second of it. Then came the family dinner.

The man I thought was my husband shoved me against the rooftop's glass railing, his arms caging me in. His scalding breath washed over the pulse point on my neck. Crash.

The heavy carved doors of the penthouse kicked open, shattering the quiet. A man stood in the doorway, soaked to the bone, water dripping from his chin.

His chest heaved, jaw tight enough to crack as his bloodshot eyes locked onto us. He had Roman’s exact face.

He glared at the man pinning me. "Damian." The name ripped from his throat. "Stealing my identity to get into her bed. You're pathetic." The man pressing into my back didn't flinch.

He just let out a low, vibrating chuckle. "What can I say?

She's my wife now." He tilted his head, eyes mocking. "Besides, you never were one to settle, right?" The soaked man lunged.

He yanked my wrist, pulling me flush against his dripping chest. His grip was bruising, his voice cracking with a desperate, raw edge. "I messed up.

I let this bastard play me." Damian pushed off the glass railing, casually brushing off his cuffs. "Bastard?" A dark, hungry smirk twisted his lips. "How do you know I haven't been plotting to make her mine from the very start?" My gaze flicked between the two identical faces.

Twins. Well, damn. This just got interesting. Chapter 1 The deadline for the family trust fund was breathing down my neck.

My parents had spent an entire week turning my penthouse into a war zone over this arranged marriage bullshit.

They were desperate to marry me off, but their lineup of candidates was a joke. A parade of pretty boys with trust funds and dead eyes. Total fuckboys.

When Mom brought it up for the fourth time, she stood by the floortoceiling windows.

The harsh backlight swallowed her expression, but the sheer exhaustion in her voice was impossible to miss. "Fallon, they agreed to the terms.

The engagement is next month." I let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Mom, how many times do I have to spell it out?

I don't need a husband to secure my seat at the table." "The company needs their capital." She turned around, gripping a sleek manila folder. "You're the sole heir.

This isn't a choice." I opened my mouth to snap back, but she shoved the folder right against my chest. "Just look at who it is." I ripped it open, already over it.

The glossy photo slipped from the pages and fluttered to the hardwood. A man in a bespoke black suit, leaning casually against the door of a sports car. My breath hitched.

That razorsharp jawline perfectly aligned with the face I’d hated for eight years. "You know him from high school.

Roman," she said. "His pedigree, education, background… it's a perfect match." I stared at the glossy paper. My thumb froze on the edge of the photograph. Eight years.

Two thousand nine hundred and twenty days. I’d had countless dreams, and in every single one, all I saw was the back of his jacket as he walked away. Senior year.

I was standing on the school roof in a ridiculous white sundress, waiting for two hours.

The wind whipped my hair into a mess while my sweaty palms ruined the envelope of my confession letter. When he finally showed up, the sunset dragged his shadow across the concrete.

I told him I liked him. He looked at me, eyes dead, like I was a piece of trash stuck to his shoe. "Fallon, I'm not interested." He turned on his heel. Didn't even miss a beat.

It was the first time I’d ever been rejected. And the last.

People think trustfund babies get whatever they point at, but they don't get the punchline: the more you have, the more you obsess over the one thing you can't touch.

The day Roman walked away, a switch flipped in my brain.

There are only two things in this world worth chasing: what you can't have, and what you're about to take. "I'm in." "Fallon, I know you hate the idea, just think about—" Mom froze midlecture, spinning back around.

Her eyes widened. "What did you say?" "I said, I agree to the marriage." I tossed the photo onto the glass coffee table, tapping my acrylic nail against his printed face.

They were right. The forbidden fruit always tastes the sweetest. And I was finally taking a bite. The corporate marriage machine moved fast.

The official meetandgreet was booked at an exclusive private club. I showed up ten minutes early, sitting in the VIP booth, tracing the gold rim of my teacup.

The heavy mahogany door pushed open. Roman walked in. Same face. Same dark eyes. But looking at him… something felt off. "Miss Fallon." He extended a hand.

His tone was perfectly polite and entirely hollow. I slipped my hand into his. My stomach dropped. Rough knuckles. A distinct ring of calluses along his palm.

I remembered Roman's hands from high school—smooth, elegant, like a pianist's.

The hands gripping mine right now belonged to a man who broke things for a living. "Roman," I said, releasing his grip to flash a flawless, calculated smile. "Drop the formalities.

Just Fallon is fine." A muscle twitched at the corner of his jaw before his features locked back into a cool mask. "Alright.

Fallon." Chapter 2 When he said my name, a faint tremor ripped through his voice. It sounded like he’d been starved for it. We traded pointless small talk.

He kept refilling my cup, his movements painfully gentle. He clung to every syllable that left my mouth, yet his gaze kept darting to the table, avoiding my eyes.

It was him, but it wasn't. The Roman from high school was an arrogant prick, always looking down his nose at everyone like he owned the oxygen in the room.

Even when he played the quiet, untouchable golden boy, it was just an act. I used to obsess over dragging that untouchable golden boy down into the dirt.

But this guy sitting across from me? Completely different. A dark spark of amusement ignited in my chest. Interesting. The wedding hit like a freight train.

Both families were desperate to lock down the merger. A month later, I was strapped into a custom Vera Wang.

Whispers buzzed through the pews about how perfect this match was, how our empires were finally colliding. I stood in the bridal suite, staring at the stranger in the mirror.

White silk, flawless contour, my signature dimple faintly showing. The perfect, plastic bride. The wedding march started.

I looped my arm through my father’s and walked down the aisle. He stood at the altar in a tailored black tuxedo, still as a statue. Our eyes locked. His chest rose and fell sharply.

His pupils were dilated, and his throat worked a hard swallow. When he slid the custom diamond onto my ring finger, the heavy, rough calluses on his thumb scraped over my bare skin.

A shiver crawled down my spine. I tilted my chin up, catching his gaze. He flinched, immediately snapping his eyes to the floor. A smirk tugged at the corner of my mouth.

I didn’t claw my way to the top of the corporate food chain by being blind. I survived by reading the room.

Either the last eight years had chewed Roman up and spit him out, or… this wasn't Roman at all. But did it matter?

The ink on the marriage certificate still spelled his name. "I do," I said.

His eyes turned bloodshot. "I do." When he kissed me, his lips trembled against mine, yet his grip on my waist was bruisingly tight. The wedding night.

Dim amber light washed over the master bedroom, casting a heavy, suffocating heat over the dark red silk sheets. He stood at the foot of the bed, yanking at his silk tie.

I sat on the edge of the mattress, crossing my legs. "Nervous?" I asked. His hands froze.

He turned around, jaw tight. "A little." He closed the distance between us and dropped to his knees right between my thighs. He tilted his head back to look up at me.

The absolute submission in his posture was intoxicating. "Fallon." He wrapped his large hands around my wrists.

His voice was a harsh, gravelly whisper. "You're finally mine." That sealed it. This wasn't Roman. Roman would never beg. Roman would never put himself beneath my heels.

But I wasn't about to blow his cover. Instead, I reached out and traced the sharp line of his jaw. "Yeah. I'm all yours." A choked sound escaped his throat.

He threw his arms around my waist, burying his face directly into the crook of my neck. "I waited so long," he breathed against my pulse point. "So damn long." I lazily stroked his back.

He pressed me back against the mattress.

His movements were agonizingly slow, completely restrained, like I was made of spun glass that would shatter if he pushed too hard. "Fallon, can I?" The raw desperation in his eyes was almost pathetic.

I gave him a single nod. I closed my eyes, soaking in the absolute worship radiating off his skin.

This little game was turning out to be a hell of a lot more entertaining than I thought. Hours later, he had me caged against his chest.

His breathing leveled out into a deep, rhythmic hum. I thought he was out cold.

Then, a fractured whisper slipped past his lips. "I'm sorry… Fallon… I really love you…" My eyes snapped open in the dark. A slow, wicked grin spread across my face. I knew it.

God, this is going to be fun. Chapter 3 One week into the marriage. The man calling himself Roman was playing the ultimate trophy husband.

Every morning, he’d walk into the bedroom wearing nothing but lowslung sweatpants, carrying a tray of fresh espresso and French crepes.

Stray droplets of water from the kitchen sink would still be clinging to the sharp Vline of his abs. "Eat up, Fallon," he'd say, sitting at the edge of the mattress.

His dark eyes were so soft they practically melted into mine. By clockout, he was exactly where he needed to be.

His black Maybach idled at the curb outside my corporate headquarters.

He’d lean against the passenger door, catching my eye with a slow, devastating smile. "Rough day, Fallon?" He had my entire existence memorized. My exact tea order.

My signature perfume. The exact shade of roses I tolerated. I watched him, a sick, twisted satisfaction curling in my chest. Being worshipped like a literal goddess?

It was a million times more intoxicating than the real Roman’s arrogant, icy brushoffs back in high school. But the part I was most addicted to?

His absolute desperation in the dark. Every single time the sheets cooled down, he’d cage me in his arms.

His voice would drop into a raw, gravelly beg. "Fallon, say you love me." I’d trace his jaw and whisper, "I love you." The rims of his eyes would instantly flush red, like I'd just handed him the keys to the universe. "Say it again." He’d bury his face into the curve of my neck, his hot breath shuddering against my skin. "I love you." His grip around my waist would turn bruising.

I said it every time he asked. Words were cheap. But watching this massive, dangerous man unravel over a threeword lie? Worth every single syllable.

A few days later, I slipped into his home office to grab a misplaced contract. His monitors were wide open. My eyes locked onto the glowing screens.

It wasn't spreadsheets of his own company. It was a chaotic, hyperdetailed web of M&A blueprints and trust fund loophole analyses—all filed under my assets.

This man who dropped to his knees for me every night was quietly pulling the strings of my entire empire from the shadows. I yanked open his top drawer.

A faded photograph stared back at me. Me. High school. Dressed in that hideous uniform, hair pulled back, smiling like an idiot.

The edges of the photo were worn soft and yellowed, rubbed raw from thousands of thumbprint traces. I picked it up, my pulse kicking against my ribs.

So… he’d been obsessed with me since back then? Then why steal Roman's identity? And where the hell was the real Roman? I dropped the photo back, slamming the drawer shut. Whatever.

No need to rush. The board was just set, and I was holding all the winning pieces.

A week later, my "husband" cleared his throat over dinner. "My family is hosting a dinner party," he muttered, his gaze suddenly finding the hardwood floor fascinating. "Everyone's expected to be there." I flashed a blinding smile. "Perfect." Everyone.

Did that include the real Roman? I won't lie—I was feeding off this high. The way this imposter looked at me, like I was his oxygen.

Like I was a prize he’d clawed his way out of hell to claim. But I’ve always been a greedy bitch. If I had a fake Roman willing to die for me… what about the real one?

Why couldn't I play with both? The family estate was a sprawling, suffocatingly opulent mansion. Manicured hedges, valet lines, the works.

He interlaced his fingers with mine as we walked up the marble steps. His palm was clammy. "Nervous?" I smirked.

He forced a tight smile. "A little." The ballroom was packed with old money and judging eyes.

My fake husband stayed plastered to my side the entire night, flawlessly playing the role. After the suffocating dinner, he dragged me up to the penthouse terrace.

The city skyline glittered below us, but he wasn't looking at the view. His massive hand gripped my waist, his palm burning straight through the silk of my dress.

I knew that darkened, dilated look in his eyes. He didn't ask this time. He slammed his mouth over mine. The kiss was aggressive, desperate, stripping away his gentle facade.

His teeth grazed my bottom lip, swallowing my gasp as his breath hitched into a ragged, broken rhythm. He was devouring me, mapping my mouth like a starving man.

The heavy friction of his rough calluses slid up my thigh, slipping just under the hem of my dress. Crash. A deafening shatter of glass ripped through the terrace.

I tore my mouth away, whipping my head toward the sound. A man in a tailored black trench coat crunched over the shattered remains of a glass door.

His face was an exact, mirrorimage replica of the man holding me. But his eyes? They were burning with a psychotic, worldending obsession.

Chapter 4 He scanned the terrace, his gaze locking onto me. Dead stop. I stared right back. Damian’s grip on my hand tightened, his knuckles turning white.

His entire body locked up like coiled steel. So, this was the real Roman. A vicious, ugly jealousy warped Roman’s features.

He crossed the terrace in three long strides and knotted his fist into the lapels of Damian’s suit. "Damian. You sick bastard. Stealing my identity to crawl into her bed?" Damian.

So that was his name. The man beside me didn't flinch. He just let out a low, vibrating chuckle. "What do you want me to say?

She's my wife now." Damian wiped a smear of blood from his split lip.

He stalked toward Roman, his eyes feral like a starving wolf defending its kill, refusing to give an inch of ground. "Who do you think has been making her scream into the mattress these past few months?

It was me she fell for in high school, and she belongs to me now!" Damian spun around, his large hands bracketing my face.

He crashed his mouth down on mine, biting lightly at my bottom lip. A hand clamped around my waist, yanking me away and slamming me into a solid chest.

Roman's mouth covered mine, aggressive and utterly territorial. When he finally pulled back, his voice was tight, bleeding with resentment. "I messed up.

I let this treacherous piece of trash play me." Damian sneered, rolling his shoulders. "Treacherous?

How do you know I haven't been plotting to take her since day one?" Identical twins. God, this was delicious.

I played my part, letting my shoulders slump into a picture of fragile distress.

After they finished using my mouth as their personal battleground, they gently guided me to a safe corner of the terrace.

Then, they turned back to each other. "How the hell do you justify stealing my life?" Roman’s voice was absolute ice. "I love Fallon!" "You're pathetic.

Were you going to lie to her forever?" "I never lied to her!" Damian’s head snapped up. The veins in his neck bulged, his eyes bloodshot. "I love her!

I love her ten times the man you could ever be!" "I'm the one on the marriage contract!" "Yeah, I admit it.

I rigged the board and got you sent away." Damian's voice shook, fractured with desperation. "But what did I do wrong? I've loved her since high school.

Why does she automatically belong to you?" Roman froze. "What the hell are you talking about?" "Those three years of high school?" Damian turned to me, pure agony bleeding into his gaze. "Every time you skipped class, Roman, I went in your place. "The second I saw Fallon, I was done for.

That little dimple when she smiles. The way her eyes light up.

The only reason I woke up every day was hoping you'd skip so I could go see her." I stood there, slapping a look of utter, devastating shock onto my face. Internally?

I was practically eating popcorn.

But the show must go on. "Wait…" I let my voice tremble, looking straight at Damian. "So… the guy who rejected me on the roof… that was you?" Damian nodded, his face twisting in torment. "I'm so sorry, Fallon.

You were waiting for Roman, but it was me. "I wanted to say yes so badly it felt like my ribs were cracking. But I couldn't. I was wearing his face.

If I said yes, you'd be loving him." A tear spilled over his lashes. "I knew I'd lose my mind with jealousy.

I had to shoot you down. "I had to stand there and watch you run away." He struck his chest with his fist. "It felt like swallowing glass." The two of them locked eyes again, the hostility suffocating the air. "You think you're the only one who loves her?" Damian snarled. "What right do you have?" "I have every right!" Roman turned to me, the ice in his eyes melting into something heavy and complicated. "She saved my life.

Fifteen years ago. At the estate pool. I was drowning, and she jumped in to pull me out." I widened my eyes, letting my mouth fall open slightly.

The Oscar goes to me. "You… you were that little boy?" Roman nodded, his jaw tight. "It was me." I let a perfectly timed tear roll down my cheek, my chest heaving with fabricated sobs.

Damian instantly panicked, stepping forward with his hands raised in surrender.

I looked between their identical faces, letting my voice crack perfectly. "So… which one of you is my husband?" Chapter 5 I wiped the wetness from my cheeks. The two of them froze.

Roman’s brow furrowed. "I'm Roman.

My name is the one on the marriage certificate." I turned to Damian. "So what the hell were the last few months?" Damian’s jaw worked, but nothing came out.

I stepped right between them, my gaze sweeping over their identical, furious faces. I didn't shatter into a million pieces like they expected.

I just crossed my arms. "Let me get this straight.

One of you hijacked my marriage, and the other is trying to guilttrip me over a childhood rescue?" I let out a dry, humorless laugh. "You want me to make a choice right now? Fine.

You both have one week.

Let's see who puts on the better show." Roman closed the distance immediately. "Fallon, leave him." He didn't blink. "My name is on that paper." "We belong together.

You saved my life. I owe you.

And…" A faint flush crept up his neck. "I've been thinking about you for a very long time." Damian shoved his way between us, blocking Roman out completely. "No way in hell!

She is my wife! We stood at the altar!" "You stole my life to get there!" Roman fired back. "The certificate says Roman!

I am Roman!" I pressed two fingers against my throbbing temples. "Enough." They both snapped their mouths shut, turning to me. "One week," I said. "Let me think." A flicker of hope crossed Roman's face. "I'll wait." Damian lunged, his massive hand wrapping around my wrist.

The desperation in his eyes was raw and pathetic. "Fallon, please don't leave me…" I yanked my wrist free. "I said, give me time." I turned on my heel and walked toward the exit.

The heavy rooftop door clicked shut behind me, leaving them locked in their tense, suffocating standoff.

To keep the stock prices of both our family empires from nosediving, I had to play it smart. No sudden moves. I headed back to the townhouse I shared with Damian.

He followed, silent the entire ride. The second the front door clicked shut, he dropped. His knees hit the hardwood with a heavy thud.

He wrapped his arms around my calves, pressing his face into my knees.

A hot drop of moisture splashed against my bare ankle. "Fallon, I know I'm a piece of shit." His shoulders shook. "But I love you.

For eight years, you were the only thing in my head." "I bled myself dry building my accounts just so I could finally be worthy of standing next to you." He gasped, fighting for air. "I know stealing his face was wrong.

But I didn't have a choice. If I showed up as Damian, you would have looked right through me." I let out a slow exhale.

I sank into a crouch, wrapping my arms loosely around his shaking shoulders. "I never said I was leaving you." His head snapped up.

His eyes were completely bloodshot. "You mean it?" "I just need time." I brushed a stray lock of hair from his damp forehead. "This is a massive bomb to drop.

I need a second to process it." He nodded frantically, a desperate, jerky movement. "Take all the time you need.

As long as you want." He pulled me tight against his chest, burying his face back into the crook of my neck. "Fallon, if… if you end up picking him…" His voice shattered into a rough whisper. "I'm not leaving." My brow arched. "Excuse me?" "I mean…" He pulled back.

His jaw was tight with a reckless, destructive kind of surrender. "I'll be your side piece. I don't care about the title.

As long as I get to stay with you, I'll take whatever you give me." I stared at him. The corner of my mouth twitched upward into a slow smile. I wasn't lying to him.

I really did need time. Time to figure out exactly how I was going to get Roman into my bed too.

The next afternoon, right after I stepped out of a brutal board meeting, my assistant buzzed me. Someone was waiting downstairs.

I pushed through the glass doors of the corporate lobby. Chapter 6 A flashy limitededition sports car idled right at the entrance of the building.

Roman leaned lazily against the driver's side door. A dark grey bespoke suit wrapped around his explosive, muscular frame.

Even from behind his dark sunglasses, I could feel the absolute, predatory weight of his stare locking onto me. "Looking for the CEO?" I asked, closing the distance.

Roman pulled off his shades.

A flicker of awkwardness crossed his eyes before his jaw set tight. "Get in." "What are you doing here?" "Picking you up." He said it with unapologetic arrogance, but a faint red flush crept up the tips of his ears.

I let out a low laugh. "Don't you have a multibillion dollar company to run?" "My schedule's clear." He popped the passenger door open. "Get in." I slid into the leather seat.

The engine roared, and we merged into city traffic. The cabin was dead quiet. Roman gripped the leather steering wheel. His knuckles were sharp, the lines of his hands flawless.

Completely different from Damian’s. Damian’s hands were rough, coated in calluses, and always burning hot. Roman’s hands were immaculate.

Like a priceless piece of art. "Do you…" He broke the silence, his voice tight like a snapped string. "…love Damian?" I tilted my head to study his profile. "Do you care?" He went rigid for three long seconds. "I just don't want to see that bastard win." "Oh." I dragged the syllable out. "So you're just playing chauffeur to score points against your brother?" "No." The denial shot out of him instantly.

Then, total silence. Red light. The tires screeched to a halt.

I leaned across the center console, deliberately invading his personal space. "So you want me to pick you?" He snapped his head toward me. We were inches apart.

Close enough for me to read every microexpression in his dark eyes. The raw tension. The frantic anticipation.

The suffocating, suppressed hunger. "I…" His Adam's apple bobbed hard.

His voice roughened. "I need to tell you something." I gave him a single nod. "I've been looking for you all these years.

I didn't know you were the one who pulled me out of the water.

It makes me sick that it took me this long to realize…" I kept my face perfectly blank. "So…" I locked eyes with him. "You want me to pick you because of a childhood debt?" Roman's jaw clamped shut.

The light flipped green.

He slammed his foot on the gas. "Not just because of that," he muttered, his knuckles turning white on the wheel. "I'm not… immune to you." Men like Roman were so damn predictable.

Like stray cats. Chase them, and they bolt. Ignore them, and they end up rubbing against your legs. The second he awkwardly muttered picking you up, I knew.

I had him right on the hook. As for the whole 'childhood savior' trope? Please.

That was the holy trinity of trashy romance, right up there with the surprise pregnancy and the amnesia plot. Of course I remembered pulling him out of that pool. But playing dumb?

That was way more fun. For the next few days, I lived the absolute dream. Having my cake and eating it too. Mornings belonged to Damian.

He'd cook breakfast and wake me up with ridiculous gentleness. "Fallon, time to get up." He’d pick out my outfits, button my silk blouses, and even stand there blowdrying my hair. "Big board meeting today?" "Yeah." "Wear the black blazer.

It screams alpha." He catered to my every single need like a hyperobsessed butler. Evenings belonged to Roman. At exactly 5 PM, his car was at the curb. "Come on.

Let's eat." He dragged me to every Michelinstarred spot in the city, ordering all my exact favorites. "Eat more.

You're practically just bone." "How did you know I liked this?" I asked, stabbing a piece of wagyu. "I had my people run a background check." He averted his eyes, jaw ticking. "I memorized your files." Nights belonged to Damian.

He’d wrap his massive arms around me in the dark. "Did you have a good day, Fallon?" "It was fine." "Good." He pressed his lips softly against my forehead. "As long as you're happy." I lay against his chest, staring at the ceiling, happily doing the math in my head.

Chapter 7 Damian worshipped the ground I walked on. Absolute submission. He treated me like his god.

Roman’s affection was a bitter pill—all arrogant bite with a dangerously soft center. Two entirely different flavors of obsession. And honestly? I was completely addicted to both.

One night in the car, right after dinner, Roman shattered the silence. "Have you and Damian… slept together?" I turned my head to study his profile. "Why the hell do you care?" A faint flush crept up his neck. "I just… need to know." "We did." I leaned back in my seat. "He's my husband.

Why wouldn't we?" Roman's jaw tightened, a dark, volatile shadow crossing his features. "Did you… like it?" I let out a low laugh. "What exactly are you trying to find out, Roman?" He didn't answer, but the tips of his ears burned a deep crimson.

I unbuckled my seatbelt and leaned across the center console, deliberately invading his personal space.

My lips hovered just inches from his ear. "Do you want to sleep with me, Roman?" His entire body locked up like a steel rod. "Watch your mouth, Fallon." "I'm just answering your question." I pulled back, sinking into the leather seat. "You want to know how Damian is in bed?

Why don't you try it out yourself? See how you measure up." Roman's knuckles turned stark white against the black leather of the steering wheel.

His Adam's apple bobbed hard. "Stop playing with me, Fallon