Flash Marriage To My Secret Tycoon

The private elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, revealing the sprawling Manhattan penthouse. Alayna stepped onto the thick Persian rug, her chest tight with the anticipation of finalizing the wedding details.

Her phone vibrated in her palm.

She glanced down. An anonymous number had sent a single image. It was a close up of the master bedroom door in this exact apartment.

Her stomach dropped. The air in the elevator suddenly felt too thin to breathe.

Alayna tried to swallow the metallic taste coating her tongue, convincing herself it was a sick joke. But her feet were already moving, her heels sinking into the carpet as she hurried down the long, dimly lit hallway.

She pressed her thumb to the biometric lock on the master doors. The mechanism clicked.

A muffled groan slipped through the crack.

Alayna pushed the heavy oak door open. The heavy blackout curtains were drawn, casting the room in shadows, but the massive king bed was directly in line of sight.

Two bodies were tangled in the center of the mattress.

Her leather handbag slipped from her numb fingers. It hit the hardwood floor with a heavy thud.

The movement on the bed stopped instantly.

Jordon snapped his head up. The blood drained from his face, leaving his skin a sickly gray. He scrambled backward, shoving the naked woman off his chest.

Lauren let out a high pitched shriek, yanking the silk sheet up to her collarbone. She shrank against the headboard, but Alayna caught the brief, calculated gleam in her secretary's eyes before the fake tears started.

Jordon tumbled off the edge of the mattress, his bare knees hitting the floor. He reached out, his fingers grasping at the air between them.

Alayna jerked her arm back. A cold, suffocating nausea seized her chest.

She took a step back, her spine snapping completely straight. She stared at the man she had loved for three years. Her chest heaved, pulling in jagged, burning breaths as the betrayal sank in.

Jordon stammered, his words tripping over each other as he blamed the champagne, the stress of merging her indie game studio into the Harris corporate umbrella, anything but himself.

Lauren, Jordon's executive assistant, let out a pathetic sob from the bed, apologizing in a whisper.

Alayna cut her off. "Shut your mouth."

The realization that this betrayal had been happening right in front of her, under the guise of business meetings, in her own future home, sent a cold wave of nausea through her veins.

Jordon lunged forward. He grabbed her shoulders, his large hands digging into her collarbones. He tried to force her to look at him, his voice rising in panic.

Alayna twisted her torso, fighting against his grip. He squeezed harder, his nails biting into her skin. Pain flared in her left shoulder.

Her peripheral vision caught the half empty bottle of red wine resting on the nightstand.

Survival instinct overrode the shock. Her hand shot out.

Her fingers wrapped around the thick glass neck of the bottle. She did not hesitate. She swung her arm in a vicious arc, bringing the heavy base down hard against Jordon's forehead.

The glass shattered with a deafening crack.

Dark red wine and bright crimson blood exploded across Jordon's face. He let go of her instantly, stumbling backward with a guttural cry, his hands flying to his bleeding head.

Lauren screamed again, burying her face in the pillows, her body shaking violently.

Alayna stood over him. Her lungs pumped rapidly. She reached for her left hand and gripped the three carat diamond engagement ring. She ripped it over her knuckle, the metal scraping her skin.

She threw it. The heavy diamond struck Jordon square in the chest with a dull thud before bouncing onto the floor.

Jordon clutched his bleeding forehead, looking up at her with wide, furious eyes. He spat out a threat, reminding her that the Smith and Harris corporate merger depended entirely on this marriage.

Alayna let out a cold, hollow laugh. The sound scraped against the walls. She told him she would rather file for bankruptcy than marry a piece of trash.

She reached down, snatched her fallen handbag from the floor, and turned on her heel to walk out. Her heels clicked sharply against the floorboards, a steady, rhythmic drumbeat of absolute finality.

Jordon screamed her name down the hallway, his voice cracking with desperation.

Alayna did not look back.

She stepped out of the penthouse and slammed the heavy front door behind her, cutting off his voice completely.

She walked into the elevator and slammed her hand against the lobby button. The floor dropped beneath her, the sudden weightlessness pulling at her stomach.

Her vision blurred. A single tear escaped, burning a hot trail down her cheek.

She bit down on her lower lip hard enough to taste copper. She aggressively wiped the moisture from her face with the back of her hand.

The elevator dinged. The doors slid open to the grand lobby.

Alayna smoothed her features into a mask of pure ice. She walked briskly past the concierge, heading straight for the revolving glass doors.

She pushed through the glass. A torrential downpour was hammering the Manhattan pavement. She did not stop. She walked straight into the freezing rain.

The icy rain instantly soaked through her silk dress, plastering the fabric to her skin. Alayna stumbled blindly across the flooded street, her hands shaking so violently she could barely grip the door handle of her Porsche.

She yanked the door open and collapsed into the driver's seat.

Water dripped from her hair, blurring the windshield. She slammed her thumb against the ignition button.

The engine roared to life. She pressed her foot down hard on the gas pedal. The tires spun on the wet asphalt before the car shot forward into the dark, storm ravaged streets of Manhattan.

On the passenger seat, her phone lit up and vibrated violently. The screen flashed Jordon's name over and over. The relentless ringing drilled into her skull, making her chest tighten with fresh nausea.

Alayna snatched the phone with one hand, her thumb swiping aggressively to power it off.

The device slipped from her wet fingers and tumbled onto the floor mat.

She cursed, leaning down for a fraction of a second to grab it. Her eyes left the road.

Up ahead, the traffic lights at the intersection short circuited, flashing a chaotic yellow.

A massive commercial truck barreled through the intersection, ignoring the signals. Its blinding high beams flooded the interior of the Porsche, turning the dark cabin into a glaring white box.

Alayna snapped her head up. A scream ripped from her throat.

Her hands jerked the steering wheel violently to the right. The tires shrieked against the flooded pavement, losing all traction.

The Porsche spun out of control. The world outside the windows became a dizzying blur of rain and streetlights. The car slammed sideways into a solid concrete barrier.

The airbags deployed with the force of a bomb. The coarse fabric punched her in the face and chest, snapping her head back.

Everything went black.

Minutes later, a sharp, agonizing pain in her ribs dragged Alayna back to consciousness. Warm liquid dripped down her forehead and into her left eye, tinting her vision red.

Thick, acrid black smoke poured from the crumpled hood. The smell of burning rubber and gasoline choked her lungs. Sparks hissed and popped as the rain hit the exposed wiring.

Panic seized her throat. She shoved her bloody hands against the driver's side door, pushing with all her remaining strength. The metal frame was completely crushed inward. The door would not budge.

A low, vibrating rumble cut through the sound of the storm. The heavy motorcycle that had been tracking her Porsche from three blocks back tore down the street, its single headlight cutting through the smoke and rain.

The bike skidded to a halt near the wreckage. A tall man in a black leather jacket swung his leg over the seat. A matte black, full face helmet concealed his features.

He sprinted toward the burning Porsche without a second of hesitation.

He grabbed the door handle and yanked. The metal groaned but held fast. He immediately reached down to his tactical belt and pulled out a steel window punch.

He slammed the tool against the corner of the driver's window. The tempered glass spiderwebbed instantly. He pulled his fist back and punched straight through the center, clearing the jagged shards with his leather glove.

He leaned half his body into the smoking cabin. The rain and smoke obscured his face, leaving only the sharp, rigid line of his jaw visible to Alayna.

He reached across her chest, his large hand searching for the seatbelt release. He pressed the button. It was jammed.

He pulled a military grade combat knife from his boot. In one fluid, brutal motion, he sliced through the thick nylon strap.

Flames suddenly erupted from the engine block, crawling rapidly toward the leaking fuel line beneath the chassis.

The man shoved his arms under Alayna's armpits. His muscles bunched under his wet jacket. With a terrifying amount of raw strength, he dragged her entire body out through the shattered window.

He scooped her up against his chest and broke into a dead sprint away from the vehicle.

They made it twenty yards before the Porsche detonated.

The explosion tore through the night, a deafening boom that shook the ground. The shockwave hit them from behind.

In the fraction of a second before they hit the pavement, the man twisted his body. He took the brunt of the fall, wrapping his broad back around her to shield her from the flying shrapnel and heat.

Alayna lay pinned against his chest. She could hear the heavy, steady thud of his heart against her ear. He smelled like motor oil, rain, and sharp peppermint.

He pushed himself up, lifting her again, and carried her under the awning of a closed storefront.

He stripped off his heavy leather jacket and wrapped it tightly around her violently shivering shoulders.

He pulled off his helmet and tossed it aside. He pulled a phone from his pocket and dialed 911. His voice was a low, gravelly bark, issuing coordinates with the absolute authority of a commander.

Alayna forced her heavy eyelids open. She looked up at him. A faint, jagged scar rested just above his left eyebrow. His eyes were dark, intense, and completely focused on her.

She tried to speak, but her lips only parted in a silent gasp.

He dropped the phone and grabbed her freezing hand. His thumb, rough with calluses, gently wiped the blood from her cheek. He ordered her to stay awake, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The wail of ambulance sirens finally pierced the storm.

The tension holding Alayna's body together snapped. Her head rolled against his chest, and she slipped completely into the dark.

The sharp, sterile stench of bleach and rubbing alcohol forced Alayna's eyes open. Blinding fluorescent lights stabbed at her retinas. She blinked rapidly, the white ceiling tiles coming into focus.

She tried to push herself up on her elbows. A jagged, tearing pain ripped through her ribs, stealing the breath from her lungs. She fell back against the pillows with a sharp hiss.

The heavy wooden door of the private hospital room swung open with a violent crash.

Mitchell Smith marched into the room. His tailored suit was immaculate, his silver hair perfectly combed. There was no worry in his eyes, only a cold, calculating fury.

Alayna's throat tightened. She opened her mouth to say his name, seeking a shred of comfort.

Mitchell's glare pinned her to the mattress. He stopped at the foot of the bed, towering over her. He did not ask about her injuries. He demanded to know why she had smashed a wine bottle into Jordon Harris's skull.

Alayna's eyes widened. Her voice came out as a raw, broken rasp. She told him Jordon was naked in their new bed with his secretary.

Mitchell waved his hand in the air, dismissing her words as if swatting a fly. He stated coldly that men make mistakes, and the only thing that mattered was the pending corporate merger between their families-the very deal funding her fledgling game studio. "Brenda was right," Mitchell added with a cruel sneer. "You've always been too emotional, just like your mother."

He ordered her to check out of the hospital immediately, go to Jordon's apartment, and beg for his forgiveness. The wedding would proceed as planned.

The remaining warmth in Alayna's blood turned to ice. She stared at the man who was supposed to be her father, her stomach churning with absolute disgust.

She locked her jaw. She told him she would rather die than marry a cheating coward, merger or no merger.

Mitchell's face turned a violent shade of purple. He pointed a manicured finger at her face. He threatened to trigger the morality clause in her late mother's trust fund and freeze every cent to her name if she broke the engagement.

The mention of her mother's money felt like a physical blow to her chest. Her eyes burned with unshed tears, but she forced her spine straight against the hospital bed.

She let out a bitter, hollow laugh. She told him to freeze it. She told him she would beg on the streets before she let him sell her to the Harris family.

Mitchell sneered. He told her she would regret this, turned on his heel, and slammed the door behind him.

The room fell into a suffocating silence.

The adrenaline drained from Alayna's veins. Her chest caved in. She covered her face with her bruised hands and began to sob, the sound tearing from her throat in ugly, broken gasps.

The door handle clicked. The door pushed open silently.

Cruz stood in the doorway. He wore a faded canvas work jacket and grease stained jeans. He held a steaming paper cup of coffee in one hand.

He stood perfectly still, watching her thin shoulders shake. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. A dark, violent shadow passed over his eyes before he forced it down.

He walked into the room, his heavy boots making almost no sound.

He set the coffee on the bedside table. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a clean, folded napkin, and held it out to her.

Alayna lowered her hands. Her eyes were red and swollen. She looked at the napkin, then up at his face. She recognized the faint scar above his eyebrow. The man from the rain.

She took the napkin, her fingers brushing his. She wiped her face and choked out a thank you for saving her life.

Cruz pulled a plastic chair closer to the bed and sat down. He kept his voice low and steady. He introduced himself as Cruz Clayton, a construction worker.

Alayna looked at his hands. They were massive, the knuckles scarred, the palms thick with heavy calluses. He looked entirely out of place in the luxurious private suite, but his presence grounded her.

Her mind raced back to her father's threat. The trust fund would be locked under family control unless she was legally married.

A desperate, insane idea sparked in her brain.

She took a deep breath, her lungs burning. She looked Cruz straight in the eyes and asked if he was single.

Cruz blinked, his broad shoulders stiffening slightly. He gave a slow, deliberate nod.

Alayna gripped the edge of the blanket, twisting the fabric until her knuckles turned white. She swallowed hard and asked him to marry her.

She spoke rapidly, explaining it would be a strict, one year contract marriage. She needed a legal husband to secure her inheritance and cut ties with her father.

She offered to pay him five thousand dollars a month and cover all his living expenses. She held her breath, waiting for him to laugh in her face.

Cruz looked down at his scuffed boots. He lowered his eyelashes, hiding the predatory gleam that flared in his dark pupils. He tapped his thick fingers against his denim clad knee, pretending to weigh the financial offer.

Thirty seconds later, he lifted his head. His gaze locked onto hers with a terrifying intensity.

"Deal," he said.

The single word resonated with a quiet, unyielding weight.