To Touch a De León: A Forbidden Billionaire Affair

Maritza de León should never have opened that door. But curiosity had always been the thing that got girls like her killed.

It was her birthday, her night. Somewhere inside an expensive club, her fiancé was about to ruin it.

Freya’s warning echoed in her mind, sharp with pity:

“He’ll never change, Ritz. He doesn’t love you; he loves the chase.”

She should have listened. But her entire family had tied her to Ricardo Montoya since childhood — the golden boy, her perfect match on paper, and the man her mother adored.

The man who made her feel small for years.

The music throbbed against her ribs, matching the dread crawling up her spine.

Reed had given her the key. “He’s with someone,” he’d whispered. “You deserve to know.”

Reed was her best friend and she trusted him.

She wished she didn’t.

The key turned.

Click.

A moan cut through the bass—a high-pitched, breathy sound. Then a low, taunting voice, Ricardo’s.

“Keep going, baby. Maybe she’ll hear us this time.”

A woman giggled. “You think she’ll cry again?”

Ricardo snarled, “I’ll give her the biggest diamond. She’ll shut up and smile for the cameras. Now, where were we?”

The woman laughed, “Okay, Daddy.”

Maritza’s hand flew to her mouth.

Shock? No.

Rage.

She pushed the door open and found…her serial cheater fiancée—half naked and fucking golden—on top of some short blonde. Probably aged under 25.

The girl squealed and pulled a sheet up.

She rolled her eyes, “Yeah, nice boob jobs.” She turned to meet her, glaring at him. He usually tried to cover his tracks and apologize, but lately he had been…open about his affair, and now? No guilt whatsoever.

“You could’ve knocked, mi amor,” he smirked as if this were a joke they both understood.

Fine, let’s make this party merrier.

Maritza saw them. The laugh, the touch—it was all there. Her vision hazed red. She grabbed the nearest glass and hurled it. Not at them. In the world. At the lie.

“What the fuck is wrong with you bitch?” The nameless blond screamed in terror. Yeah, well, maybe she finally soaked.

“Oops…sorry! You finally really soaked”

She was out before he could zip up his pants. She turned and ran. Heels clicking. Ricardo is calling after her.

The hallway was a blur of bodies and bass. She wasn’t watching where she was going when she crashed into someone.

Strong arms caught her. A scent of sea salt and whiskey.

Cole Harrison.

She hadn’t seen him in fifteen years—not since that summer in the Hamptons when they were kids and he’d turned her down for a dance. She’d been sixteen. He’d been seventeen. He’d called her “annoying.”

Now he was here. All grown up. Green eyes. Shorter hair than she remembered. Bartender’s apron. The rest of him? Tempting. Dangerously so. Like her family’s Ultima tequila—smooth on the tongue, burns on the way down.

Ironic. She hadn’t touched tequila in years. Too many memories of her grandfather.

“Maritza,” he said steadily. “Are you…”

“Don’t,” she snapped, breath ragged. “Don’t act like you care.”

He held her a moment longer, then handed her purse back. “You dropped this. And apparently, your sanity.”

She gave a choked laugh. “Cute. Didn’t think you slummed it with the rich anymore.”

“Bartending. Your cousin pays well.”

His eyes flicked to the club entrance. “Are you running from him?”

Ricardo’s furious voice carried, “Ritz! Don’t walk away from me!”

Something inside her snapped.

She slammed her mouth against his like she was trying to bruise them both.

Fuck you, Ricardo. Fuck me for staying.

His stubble scraped her chin. Whiskey and salt filled her mouth. For a brief moment, everything went blurry, then…gone. His hand rested on her waist firmly.