Flash Marriage To The Mysterious Doctor

"How many blind dates does this make for you?"

Outside, a late autumn rain streaked down the windows of the coffee shop, but inside, the air was warm and thick with the scent of roasted beans.

Alexa Hood sank into the leather booth, her gaze drifting lazily toward the man across from her. She parted her lips-a deep, matte crimson-and let out the question she asked every time.

The man sitting opposite was, objectively, devastating. When he'd shed his overcoat, what remained was a charcoal cashmere sweater that clung to the architecture of his chest and the swell of his biceps.

"Twenty-something," he said, arms folded as he leaned back against the booth, his posture radiating an almost offensive level of indifference. "Lost count."

"And none of them worked out?"

A faint, unreadable smile flickered across Alexa's face. She toyed with the small spoon in her cappuccino, swirling the foam into nothing.

The man didn't shift. "I didn't want them to work out."

Interesting. This was easily the most arrogant man she'd ever sat across from in one of these arranged disasters.

She let her smile stretch wider, raking her gaze over him from his dark hair to his broad shoulders, slow and deliberate, like she was appraising a piece of real estate she wasn't sure she wanted to buy.

"My aunt says you're quite the catch," she said. "Twenty-eight. Apartment on the Upper East Side, six-figure savings," she gestured vaguely at him, "So if you're not here to succeed, what's the problem? Some kind of... unmentionable condition?"

He sat forward slightly, one hand coming down on the table, his mouth tugging into a smirk that matched her own.

"Alexa Hood. Wall Street analyst. Approaches everything with ruthless logic. Lives with your mother. Twenty-three failed blind dates and counting." He paused, his dark eyes glinting. "Tell me-is the problem that you're not attracted to men at all?"

Touché, asshole.

Alexa's expression relaxed into something almost like amusement. She settled back into her seat.

"Takes one to know one," she said. "Here's the truth: I'm not interested in marriage. I support myself, I make my own decisions, and I don't see the appeal of bringing a man into my life just so he can clutter up my apartment and tell me what to do."

The man across from her let out a low, appreciative laugh. "Then we're in the same boat." He met her eyes. "I have my own... unmentionable condition."

Alexa's smile tightened at the edges. "You really don't hold back with strangers, do you?"

"This is what blind dates are for, isn't it? Family background, personal habits, hobbies-anything I can discuss, I'll discuss openly." His tone was light, but there was an edge of calculation beneath it. "That way, you won't be able to complain to our matchmaker that I wasn't forthcoming."

"Right," she said. "Well. That clears things up. I won't waste any more of your time."

She reached for her coat, and began to rise.

"Don't rush off." His voice stopped her. "I have a proposition. Hear me out. If it works for you, it's an option. If not, no harm done."

"Look," she said, her voice colder than she intended. "I'm only here because my aunt is friends with your mother. I'm not looking for a relationship. I work sixty hours a week, and I'm drowning in debt mess left by my father. So unless you have a thing for financially unstable workaholics, we can go our separate ways."

He didn't even blink. He swirled the deep red liquid in his glass, watching the way it clung to the sides. "And are you happy with that? Drowning?"

His question was a scalpel, sharp and precise, cutting straight to the heart of her desperation. It left her speechless. Her carefully constructed wall of defiance crumbled.

She gripped her water glass, the condensation cold against her fingertips. "What do you want?"

"My family's requirement is that I get married this year," he said. "So here's my idea: if you're as tired of this circus as I am, we could solve each other's problem. Get the paperwork done. Satisfy both families. And then go our separate ways-no interference, no obligations. You live your life, I live mine."

His long fingers drummed against the tabletop, a slow, steady rhythm, as he waited for her answer.

Alexa fell silent.

In her mind, an image formed-sharp, seductive, and impossibly appealing.

No more of her mother's relentless nagging. No more pitying looks from colleagues who thought something must be wrong with her. No more family dinners where she had to sit through lectures about her biological clock.

Freedom. Real, structural freedom.

Her jaw tightened.

"I'll think about it. Give me three days."

He reached into his pocket again and produced a business card. It was thick, expensive cardstock, with a name and a number embossed in simple, elegant font. Donovan Beasley.

He slid it across the table. The sharp edge of the card pricked her fingertip as she took it, a tiny, stinging pain.

"You have thirty-six hours," he said. The words weren't a suggestion. They were a command. The pressure was immense, a physical weight settling on her shoulders. She bit down on her lower lip, hard.

They stood to leave. He deliberately fell half a step behind her, and she could feel his gaze on her back, an intense, possessive stare that seemed to trace the outline of her body through her coat.

At the entrance, the doorman opened the heavy brass doors. A blast of cold, damp air rushed in. Donovan moved, positioning his body to block the worst of the wind from hitting her. The small, unexpected gesture of courtesy threw her off balance.

A valet pulled up in a sleek, black SUV. Donovan opened the passenger door, then turned and simply looked at her, waiting.

Clutching the sharp-edged card in her hand, Alexa gave a stiff, formal nod. "Goodnight, Mr. Beasley."

She turned and walked away from him, into the rain, her back straight and her steps determined, refusing to let him see how much his proposal had shaken her.

Donovan watched her go before getting into his car. He didn't start the engine. He just sat there, the windshield wipers sweeping back and forth, tracking the lonely figure of a woman in a trench coat hailing a yellow cab in the pouring Manhattan rain.

Inside the taxi, the city lights smeared into watercolor streaks on the wet window. Alexa stared at the gold lettering on the business card. Donovan Beasley. The name felt heavy, dangerous. His offer replayed in her mind, a relentless loop of risk and reward.

The cab screeched to a halt at a red light, jolting her forward. In that moment of sudden, jarring stillness, the decision solidified. She wasn't just drowning. She was suffocating. And he had just thrown her the only lifeline in sight.

---

The piercing shriek of her alarm clock dragged Alexa from a fitful sleep on the couch. Her arm, pinned beneath her body all night, was a numb, tingling mess. She'd fallen asleep holding her phone, Donovan Beasley's name glowing on the screen.

She stumbled into the bathroom, the cheap linoleum cold under her bare feet. After a scalding hot shower that did little to wake her, she took his business card and locked it in the back of her desk drawer, a desperate attempt to put the insane proposal out of her mind. If she didn't think about it, maybe it wasn't real.

The L train to Manhattan was packed, a suffocating metal tube of damp coats and sour breath. She squeezed into a corner, put in her earbuds, and cranked up the volume, trying to drown out the reality of her life. The daily grind, the endless commute, the feeling of being a cog in a massive, uncaring machine-it was all becoming unbearable.

Emerging from the Wall Street station, the cold morning air was a welcome shock to her system. She took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and walked into the gleaming glass and steel tower that housed Sterling Trust & Capital.

In the elevator, a colleague, Leo, tried to make small talk. "Tough night, Hood?"

Alexa just pointed to her headphones and gave him a tight, dismissive smile.

Her cubicle was exactly as she'd left it: a chaotic pile of financial reports for the Steele account. Mr. Steele was a new, high-value client, and the pressure to get his portfolio structured was immense. She sighed, loosening the top button of her blouse, and powered on her computer.

She ran the initial data through her proprietary analysis model. The computer whirred, struggling under the sheer volume of information. She tapped an impatient rhythm on her desk with a pen, her stomach already churning with a familiar mix of coffee and anxiety.

Finally, the results populated the screen. A single cell glowed a violent, angry red. A capital shortfall. Not a small one, either. A massive, eight-figure black hole.

Her blood ran cold.

She started pulling the raw data, cross-referencing every invoice, every wire transfer, every tax filing. It took her two hours, but then she found it. A series of invoices with doctored tax identification numbers. It wasn't an error. It was fraud. Deliberate, blatant fraud.

A wave of nausea washed over her.

She grabbed her phone and dialed Mr. Steele's direct line. His secretary tried to block her, a well-practiced dance of deflection and delay.

"Put him on the phone now," Alexa said, her voice low and dangerous. "Or my next call is to the SEC."

A moment later, Steele's booming, arrogant voice was on the line. He denied everything, his tone dripping with condescension. "Listen, little girl, you're a junior analyst. You've probably just punched a number in wrong. Why don't you go get some coffee and let the big boys handle the numbers."

Alexa's hand tightened on the receiver. "On invoice 74-B, the tax ID for the shell corporation in Delaware is invalid. The same goes for invoices 81-C and 92-A. The funds were never invested. They were wired to an offshore account in the Caymans."

The line went dead silent. For a full ten seconds, the only sound was the hum of the office. Then, with a furious curse, Steele slammed the phone down.

The dial tone buzzed in her ear. Alexa threw her pen onto the desk in a fit of rage. It bounced off a stack of papers and clattered against her coffee mug.

The sound attracted her supervisor, a balding, perpetually stressed man named Mark. He walked over, his face already pale. "What was that?"

"Steele is cooking the books," Alexa said flatly.

Mark's eyes darted around the office. "Alexa, listen to me. Steele is a friend of the CEO. This is his flagship account. Whatever you think you found, you need to make it disappear. Find a way to make the numbers work. Do you understand me?"

The implication was clear. Falsify the report. Become an accessory.

"No," Alexa said, her voice shaking with anger. "I won't. That's a federal offense."

Mark's face turned a blotchy red. "You're making a big mistake, Hood. A career-ending mistake." He turned and stormed off, leaving her completely alone in a sea of cubicles.

She felt a wave of dizziness, the walls of her small workspace closing in on her. She pushed back her chair and fled to the restroom, splashing cold water on her face. She stared at her reflection in the mirror-the dark circles under her eyes, the faint lines of stress around her mouth. This was her life. Underpaid, overworked, and now, being asked to commit a crime to protect some rich crook.

Donovan Beasley's offer echoed in her mind. Are you happy with that? Drowning?

No. She wasn't.

She walked back to her desk, her steps firm and resolute. She bypassed Mark entirely. She compiled all the fraudulent data, encrypted the file, and wrote a concise, factual email. She attached the file and sent it directly to Robert in the compliance department.

The moment she hit send, a profound sense of both terror and relief washed over her. She slumped back in her chair, her body trembling. The stress had settled in her stomach, a tight, painful knot.

The rest of the day passed in a haze. People avoided her desk. Mark wouldn't even look at her. By six o'clock, the office was nearly empty. But Alexa stayed, opening a new spreadsheet, determined to build an airtight case file that compliance couldn't ignore. She would work all night if she had to.

At nine-thirty, her phone lit up on the desk. A text from an unknown number.

"How is the consideration coming along?"

Her breath hitched. It was him. Donovan.

She didn't reply. She flipped the phone face down and forced her eyes back to the glowing screen of her monitor, back to the endless rows of numbers.

At eleven o'clock, Alexa finally finished. She saved the final report, the evidence chain now complete and undeniable. As she clicked the mouse, the pain in her stomach sharpened, making her gasp and double over in her chair.

She shut down her computer, the silence of the empty office pressing in on her. She picked up her phone and looked at his message again. Her defenses, worn down by the long, brutal day, finally crumbled.

With a deep, shuddering breath, she typed her reply.

"We need to talk about the specific terms."

The soft chime of the sent message echoed in the cavernous room. It felt like a death sentence and a pardon, all at once.

Alexa packed her bag and left the building. The night wind on Wall Street was cold and sharp. She pulled her coat tighter around herself, knowing, with absolute certainty, that her life had just gone completely off the rails.

---

Friday night, the bass at Neon, a speakeasy-style bar in the East Village, hit Alexa like a physical blow the moment she pushed through the unmarked door. The air was hot, sticky, and smelled of sweat, spilled beer, and expensive perfume.

She shouldered her way through the writhing mass of bodies on the dance floor, ignoring the drunken bumps and shoves. Her best friend, Chloe, was waiting in a corner booth, a triumphant grin on her face and two shot glasses of tequila already lined up on the table.

"There you are!" Chloe yelled over the deafening music. "I was about to send a search party!"

Alexa slid into the booth and grabbed one of the glasses. "Don't," she said, and threw the shot back in one gulp. The tequila burned a fiery path down her throat, making her eyes water. It was exactly what she needed.

"Whoa, okay," Chloe said, her eyebrows shooting up. "Bad day? Bad week? Let me guess. That asshole Mark?"

"Worse," Alexa shouted, leaning across the table. "He told me to bury evidence of fraud. For a client who's one of the CEO's golf buddies. I went over his head to compliance. I think I'm about to be fired." She left out the part about the insane marriage proposal. That was too crazy to even say out loud.

Chloe winced in sympathy. "Oh, honey. That's rough." She paused, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Well, I have some news that will either make you feel better or a whole lot worse. Guess who's back in New York?"

Alexa didn't have to guess. She knew from Chloe's tone. "Don't."

"Flint Rhodes," Chloe said, drawing out the name. "Saw him at the new Cipriani downtown. He looks even better than he did in college, if that's possible."

The name hit Alexa like a bucket of ice water. Flint. The man who had meticulously and systematically broken her heart, choosing his family's legacy over her. The air in her lungs seemed to evaporate. Her hand, which was reaching for the second shot, started to shake.

She clenched her fist, her nails digging into her palm. "Flint Rhodes is dead to me," she said, her voice hard and brittle. "And you know what? He did me a favor. He taught me a valuable lesson."

She picked up the second shot glass, her hand now steady. The tequila was warm, the burn familiar. The whole day came crashing back - Mark ordering her to falsify a report, the suffocating weight of her father's debts she'd been dodging calls about, the grinding fear of being fired without a single safety net underneath her. All of it. The injustice and the exhaustion curdled in her stomach.

"Never, ever marry for love," she said, her voice flat and cold. "It's a scam. A lie we tell ourselves. And look where it got me. Flint chose his family's legacy, and now I'm on the verge of losing my career because some rich client wants to use me as a scapegoat. I'm done being the one who gets screwed over." She downed the second shot, the burn a welcome distraction. "From now on, the only proposal I'm accepting is a business transaction."

Downstairs, the two shots had hit Alexa hard and fast. The booth felt claustrophobic. "I need to dance," she announced, standing up on slightly unsteady legs.

She plunged into the center of the dance floor, letting the pulsing rhythm take over. She moved with a wild, desperate energy, trying to sweat out the memories, the anger, the suffocating weight of her life. The flashing strobes fractured the world into a million pieces.

A man, reeking of cheap cologne, slid up behind her, his hands reaching for her waist. "Hey, beautiful. You're all alone?"

Alexa twisted away instantly, her body recoiling. "Get lost," she snapped, her eyes flashing with disgust.

She was turning, her heel catching on the sticky floor, and her body tilted backward in a slow-motion fall.

She braced for the impact, for the hard, unforgiving floor.

It never came.

A strong arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her back from the edge. She was flush against a hard, unyielding chest. A clean, sharp scent of cedar and something uniquely masculine filled her senses. It was familiar. Terrifyingly familiar.

She looked up, her heart hammering against her ribs.

Through the strobing, chaotic lights, she saw his face. Donovan Beasley. His expression was dark, intense, his eyes burning into hers.

The entire world seemed to fall away. The music, the crowd, the noise-it all faded into a dull roar. There was only the heat of his hand on the small of her back, the solid wall of his chest against hers, and his suffocating presence.

She tried to pull away, but his arm tightened, holding her in place. He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear.

"Your defenses," he murmured, his voice a low, rough vibration that shot straight through her, "are dangerously weak when you're drinking."

His warm breath on her skin was like an electric shock. A shiver traced its way down her spine. With a surge of adrenaline, she shoved him hard, stumbling back a few steps.

He didn't try to follow. He just stood there, a dark, immovable object in the middle of the swirling crowd. He held her gaze for one long, searing moment-a look so possessive it felt like a brand-and then he turned and melted back into the shadows.

Alexa stood frozen, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Her skin tingled where he had touched her. The spot on her ear where his lips had brushed against her felt like it was on fire.

Chloe appeared at her side, grabbing her arm. "Oh my god, who was that? He was gorgeous! Do you know him?"

Alexa couldn't speak. She shook her head, a jerky, unconvincing motion. "No. He... he must have mistaken me for someone else."

It was a pathetic lie, and she knew it. She couldn't stay here. Not for another second. She grabbed her purse from the booth and practically ran for the exit, pushing past people without apology.

She burst out onto the street, the cold night air a shock against her flushed cheeks. She leaned against the brick wall of the building, gulping in air, her heart still beating a frantic, terrified rhythm.

She was losing control. And Donovan Beasley was the one making her spin.

---