Flash Marriage To The Ruthless Surgeon

Jaimie ended the call and threw her phone onto the couch like it was burning her skin. The screen lit up the dark living room, a harsh reminder of Gerry Brady's voice still ringing in her ears.

A personal injury lawsuit. He was actually going to do it. He was going to sue her, and worse, he was going to drag her father into it.

She pressed her palms against her temples, trying to physically push the panic back down her throat. Outside, the rain lashed against the windowpanes, the wind howling like a living thing trying to break in. Thunder rolled, shaking the floorboards of her small apartment.

Her phone buzzed again. A text from her dad. Just checking in, sweetheart. Everything okay?

A bitter taste flooded her mouth. Everything was a disaster. Her PhD was hanging by a thread, her savings were wiped out, and now Gerry was threatening to destroy her father's career over a shove that he had provoked.

The sharp, intrusive chime of her doorbell cut through the sound of the storm.

Jaimie froze. Nobody rang her doorbell at eleven o'clock at night in a thunderstorm. She walked slowly toward the door, her bare feet silent on the hardwood. She leaned in and peered through the peephole.

A tall, dark shadow filled the frame. She couldn't make out a face, just the broad outline of a man standing in the pouring rain.

"Who is it?" she called out, her voice trembling despite her attempt to sound tough.

"It's Graham."

That single word sent a jolt of electricity through her system. Graham. Graham Lawson. The boy from next door. The boy she hadn't spoken to in a decade.

She fumbled with the locks, her fingers clumsy, and pulled the door open just an inch. A gust of freezing, rain-soaked air hit her face.

He stood there, completely drenched. His black hair was plastered to his forehead, water dripping down the sharp line of his jaw. His white t-shirt was translucent, clinging to the muscles of his chest, and his jeans were heavy with rain. He looked like a stray dog that had been caught in a hurricane, but his eyes-those dark, piercing eyes-were completely dry and unnervingly steady.

"Graham?" she breathed, her mind going completely blank. "What are you-"

"Jaimie, marry me."

The words hit her like a physical blow. She stared at him, waiting for the punchline, waiting for the lightning to crack and reveal this was some bizarre hallucination brought on by stress.

"What?" she finally managed.

"Marry me," he repeated, his voice low and rough, cutting through the noise of the storm. "Tonight."

"You're insane." She grabbed the edge of the door, ready to slam it shut. "You show up at my door in the middle of a hurricane after ten years and ask me to marry you? Are you drunk?"

Before she could close it, his hand shot out. His palm pressed flat against the wood, the strength in his arm unyielding. The door didn't budge an inch.

"I'm not drunk, Jaimie. Let me in. We need to talk."

"There is nothing to talk about!"

"Let me in," he said again, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Or I'll stand out here until the whole building wakes up and sees me. Is that what you want?"

She hesitated, her heart hammering against her ribs. The fight or flight instinct warred in her chest, but the sheer absurdity of the situation, combined with the desperate exhaustion from Gerry's call, made her step back.

She opened the door.

He stepped inside, bringing a puddle of rainwater with him. He dripped onto her welcome mat, his presence making her small apartment feel suddenly suffocating. A wave of nausea hit her as she watched the dirty water seep into the fibers of the mat. Her skin crawled, and she had to physically restrain herself from shrieking at him to get out. The urge to grab bleach and scrub the entire entryway was overwhelming.

She grabbed a towel from the bathroom and threw it at him. Her hand was already reaching for a sanitizing wipe in the hall closet before he even caught it. He caught it effortlessly, wiping his face and hair without taking his eyes off her.

"Explain," she demanded, crossing her arms over her chest. "And it better be good."

"My mother had a heart attack," he said, his voice flat. "She just had bypass surgery. She's coming back to East City to recover, and I need to be here to take care of her."

Jaimie felt a flicker of sympathy, but it was quickly swallowed by confusion. "I'm sorry to hear that, Graham, but what does that have to do with me?"

"I need a wife," he said simply. "I need a legal, binding reason to stay in this city indefinitely. I took a leave of absence from my hospital in Washington. My family... it's complicated. They have certain expectations, and they want me back there as soon as possible. A marriage, a local one, gives me the most solid reason to stay and manage my mother's care without their interference. It cuts off their arguments at the source."

"You're a doctor?" She looked him up and down. He hadn't mentioned that in his brief, crazy proposal.

"Orthopedic surgeon. Washington General." He tossed the damp towel onto a chair. "I don't have time for dating, and I don't have time for romance. I need a transaction. You need help. I can provide it."

The sympathy evaporated, replaced by a cold anger. "I don't need your help."

"No?" He took a step closer, his height towering over her. "I heard Gerry Brady is suing you. I heard he's threatening your father's pension. I heard you're about to lose your research position."

Her stomach dropped. "How do you know that?"

"I make it my business to know." His gaze didn't waver. "I can make Gerry Brady go away, Jaimie. I can make all of it go away. All you have to do is sign a piece of paper."

It was a trap. It had to be. But the image of her father's worried text flashed in her mind. The memory of Gerry's sneering voice echoed in her ears.

She looked at Graham, searching for the boy she used to know, but there was only a stranger looking back at her. A desperate, calculating stranger.

"Fine," she said, the word tasting like ash in her mouth. "But we sign a prenuptial agreement. No shared assets, no interference in each other's personal lives, and an immediate, no-questions-asked divorce the moment either of us asks for it."

She expected him to argue. She wanted him to argue so she could throw it back in his face.

"Agreed," he said without missing a beat.

She blinked. "Just like that?"

"Just like that."

Jaimie turned and grabbed her laptop from the coffee table. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, pulling up a basic template. She modified it with the legal knowledge she'd picked up from her undergrad minor, her hands shaking slightly as she typed.

Within twenty minutes, she printed it out. Two copies. Black and white, plain as day.

Graham picked up the pen she offered. Before he signed, he read the document, his eyes scanning the lines. Then he pulled the paper toward him, grabbed a pen, and wrote a single line at the bottom of the last page.

This marriage is to remain confidential from all family members until mutually decided otherwise.

He looked up at her. "Add that to yours."

Jaimie stared at the line. Keeping it a secret? From her parents? From his sick mother? It was insane. But then again, nothing about tonight was sane.

She picked up her pen and copied the line, then signed her name with a jagged scrawl right beneath his.

A flash of lightning illuminated the room, freezing the moment in stark white light. Graham capped the pen and set it down.

"Tomorrow morning. Eight o'clock. I'll pick you up for City Hall."

He didn't wait for her response. He turned, opened the door, and walked back out into the storm. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Jaimie standing alone in her living room, staring at the damp spot on the floor where he had stood.

Her knees gave out. She sank onto the sofa, the signed paper clutched in her hand. The apartment smelled like rain and the faint, clinical scent of antiseptic that had clung to his skin.

A doctor. A crazy, manipulative doctor. She pressed a hand to her chest, trying to calm her racing heart. It was just a piece of paper. It was just a transaction. It was better than being destroyed by Gerry Brady.

It had to be.

The alarm screamed at 6:00 AM.

Jaimie bolted upright, her head pounding like a drum. Sunlight was streaming through the gaps in her blinds, and for one blissful second, she thought the entire night had been a nightmare. The storm, the lawsuit, the proposal. But the memory sharpened: after Graham had walked out, she had stood frozen in the living room, listening to the rain. Minutes later, a knock had cut through the silence. She had opened the door to find him there again, drenched and shivering, his eyes unreadable. Wordlessly, she had stepped aside. He had crossed to the sofa, collapsed onto it, and she had retreated to her bedroom, too drained to speak. Then she heard the cough.

It was a deep, wet sound coming from her living room.

She scrambled out of bed, her bare feet hitting the cold floor, and rushed out of her room. She stopped dead in her tracks.

Graham Lawson was asleep on her sofa. His large frame was awkwardly folded onto the cushions, one arm hanging off the edge, his head resting on a throw pillow that was far too small for him. He was still wearing the same damp clothes from last night.

As she stepped closer, she noticed the flush on his cheeks. It was unnatural, a bright, feverish red against his pale skin. His breathing was shallow and rapid.

"Graham?" she whispered.

He didn't stir. She reached out, her fingers hovering over his forehead for a second before she touched his skin. It was burning. He was radiating heat like a furnace.

Panic spiked in her chest. He was a doctor. How could he let himself get this sick?

She ran to the bathroom, yanked open the medicine cabinet, and grabbed a bottle of ibuprofen and a digital thermometer. When she returned, she poured a glass of water from the kitchen pitcher and knelt beside the sofa.

"Graham," she said louder, shaking his shoulder. "Wake up. You're burning up."

His eyes snapped open instantly. They weren't groggy or confused; they were sharp, alert, and locked onto her with an intensity that made her flinch. He looked like a cornered animal, ready to strike.

Jaimie jerked her hand back, nearly dropping the pills. "You have a fever," she said, her voice stiffer than she intended. She pushed the water and the pills toward him. "Take these."

He stared at her for a long moment, his jaw tight, before the tension in his shoulders seemed to deflate. He sat up slowly, his movements stiff, and swallowed the pills without a word.

The silence in the room was thick and suffocating. Jaimie stood up, needing to put distance between them. "I'm going to get ready. We have to leave soon."

She retreated to the bathroom, locking the door behind her. She leaned against the sink, staring at her pale reflection. She needed to wash her face, brush her teeth, and figure out how to survive a marriage to a man who looked at her like she was the enemy.

She opened the laundry hamper to toss in her nightshirt and froze.

Sitting on top of the pile of her clothes was a pair of men's grey Nike sweatpants. They were clearly used, balled up in a way that suggested they had been kicked off in a hurry.

They weren't Graham's. He had been wearing jeans last night.

A cold dread washed over her. The only person who had been in her apartment recently, the only person who left clothes behind, was Gerry. He had stayed over last Wednesday, before their final, explosive breakup.

But why were they here? Had Gerry broken in? Or had Graham brought them?

The thought hit her like a physical blow. Graham had a girlfriend. He had fought with her, stormed out in the rain, and used Jaimie as a pawn to make his girlfriend jealous. It was the only logical explanation.

Rage, hot and blinding, exploded in her chest. She grabbed the sweatpants out of the hamper and stormed out of the bathroom.

Graham was still sitting on the sofa, his head in his hands. She threw the sweatpants at him. They hit him square in the chest.

"Whose are these?" she demanded, her voice shaking with anger. "You have a girlfriend, don't you? You had a fight, you came here to use me, and you left her clothes as some kind of sick trophy?"

Graham caught the fabric before it fell. He looked down at the grey Nike logo, and for a moment, the fever seemed to overwhelm him. He swayed, his knuckles white as he gripped the sofa cushion. He squeezed his eyes shut, as if fighting off a wave of dizziness, and took a deep, shuddering breath. When he looked up again, the feverish glaze was gone, burned away by a chilling, razor-sharp focus. His eyes were like chips of ice. "You don't recognize them?"

Jaimie hesitated. The fury flickered, replaced by a sudden, sinking feeling. She looked closer at the worn fabric, the frayed hem.

"Gerry Brady," Graham said, his voice low and rough, scraping against the silence of the room. "Last Wednesday night. He was here, wasn't he?"

The blood drained from Jaimie's face so fast she felt dizzy. The room tilted. She hadn't told him that. She hadn't mentioned Gerry staying over, not the specifics, not the dates.

"How..." she started, but the word died in her throat.

Graham pushed himself to his feet. He swayed slightly, the fever still gripping him, but his presence was overwhelming. He took a step toward her, the sweatpants dangling from his fist.

"Jaimie," he said, his tone sharp enough to cut glass. "If we are going to do this, if we are going to start a new life together, I expect you to clean up your garbage. All of it."

The words slapped her across the face. The humiliation was a physical ache in her chest. He knew. He knew about Gerry. He knew about Wednesday. He knew things about her life that she hadn't told anyone.

Fear began to crawl up her spine, mixing with the shame. "How do you know about Wednesday?" she whispered. "Who told you that?"

Graham just stared at her, his expression unreadable. The silence stretched, heavy and accusatory.

"Get rid of them," he finally said, dropping the sweatpants onto the floor. "And get ready. We leave in thirty minutes."

He turned and walked into the bathroom, shutting the door with a decisive click.

Jaimie stood there, her body trembling. She stared at the crumpled grey fabric on the floor. It felt like a symbol of everything she wanted to forget, everything she was ashamed of.

She grabbed a garbage bag from the kitchen, shoved the sweatpants inside, and tied the bag tight, her hands shaking. She threw the bag into the outside bin, wanting to scrub her hands raw.

Back inside, she sat at her vanity and tried to apply her makeup. Her hands were still trembling, making the eyeliner skip. She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself.

This wasn't a rescue. This wasn't a transaction. This was a trap, and she had walked right into it.

After the bathroom door had clicked shut, Jaimie had sat back down at her vanity, her fingers still clumsy on the eyeliner. She heard the bathroom door open, then the front door open and close. For a long, hollow moment, she thought he had walked out for good-that the marriage was over before it began. Then, the front door opened again, and the sound of wheels on hardwood pulled Jaimie out of her thoughts.

She walked out of her bedroom to find Graham standing in the living room, flanked by two sleek, silver Rimowa suitcases and a large cardboard box. He looked slightly better than he had an hour ago-the fever had broken, and he had changed into a plain white t-shirt and jeans-but his face was still set in that hard, unreadable mask.

"What is this?" she asked, pointing at the luggage.

"I live here now," he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Until I find a suitable place, I'm staying here. It's part of the deal. We are married, Jaimie. We need to cohabitate."

She wanted to argue, to tell him that her tiny apartment wasn't built for a giant of a man with expensive luggage, but the look in his eyes shut her down. He wasn't asking.

He picked up the suitcases and walked past her into the small guest room. She heard him unzip the bags and start pulling things out.

Curiosity getting the better of her, she followed him and leaned against the doorframe. She watched as he pulled out stacks of clothes. Basic, boring items. Grey t-shirts, black t-shirts, dark wash jeans. Nothing with a label, nothing with a hint of personality.

He carried the entire armful over to her washing machine, which was tucked into a closet in the hallway. He opened the lid, dumped every single piece of clothing inside without sorting it, and then reached for the detergent.

Jaimie's eye twitched. She had severe mysophobia. She hated germs, she hated dirt, and she absolutely hated it when people mixed colors and whites.

"What are you doing?" she asked, her voice tight.

"Washing my clothes," he replied, pouring a capful of detergent directly onto the pile.

"You can't just throw everything in together! The colors will bleed. And those are wool sweaters!" She pointed at a dark grey lump. "They'll shrink!"

Graham didn't even look at her. He turned the dial on the machine until it clicked onto "Heavy Duty/Whites." Then he pulled out the temperature knob and jammed it all the way to "Hot/Sanitize."

"Are you insane?" Jaimie lunged for the dial, but he stepped between her and the machine. "That's the industrial cycle! It's for disinfecting hospital linens! You'll destroy everything in there!"

"Clean is clean," he said flatly. He slammed the lid shut and pressed the start button. The machine roared to life, the water rushing in with a violent hiss.

Jaimie stared at the vibrating machine in horror. It was like watching a car crash in slow motion. "You're a barbarian," she muttered, retreating to the kitchen. "An absolute barbarian."

She slumped into a kitchen chair, burying her face in her hands. How was she supposed to live with a man who treated a washing machine like a torture device?

A few minutes later, a rich, earthy aroma drifted into the room. She looked up. Graham was standing at the counter, holding her French press. He was scooping ground coffee into the carafe with a precision that surprised her. He checked the temperature of the water from the kettle, poured it slowly, and set a timer on his phone.

When the timer went off, he pressed the plunger down with deliberate, even pressure and poured a single cup. He walked over and set it down in front of her.

She looked at the cup, then up at him. "You know how to use a French press?"

"Survival skill," he said, pouring a second cup for himself. He took a sip, his eyes closing for a brief second. "You like it strong. Bitter."

It was exactly how she liked it. She took a hesitant sip, the warmth spreading through her chest. It was perfect. Frustratingly perfect.

An hour later, the washing machine beeped. Graham pulled out the clothes. Jaimie watched from a distance, expecting to see a pile of ruined, felted fabric.

Instead, the clothes were slightly wrinkled, but intact. The hot water hadn't destroyed the cotton, and the dark colors hadn't bled into the whites. They were just... exceptionally clean. They smelled like bleach and detergent, a sterile, clinical scent that, she had to admit, didn't offend her mysophobia.

He hung them on the drying rack, his movements efficient and precise. He wasn't careless. He just didn't care about the things normal people cared about. He cared about efficiency. About sanitation. About the end result.

"You're strange," she blurted out.

He looked at her, one eyebrow slightly raised.

"You wash clothes like you're scrubbing in for surgery, but you make coffee like a barista," she said. "You say you have no time for a life, but you obviously know how to live."

"Survival isn't living, Jaimie," he said quietly. "It's just not dying."

He unzipped the second suitcase and pulled out a crisp, white dress shirt. It was the only item in the bag that was on a hanger, encased in a dry-cleaning bag. He carried it to the bathroom, and a moment later, he emerged, transformed.

The white shirt was perfectly pressed, tucked into his jeans. He looked polished, professional, and completely unapproachable. The soft, feverish man from this morning was gone, replaced by Dr. Lawson, the untouchable surgeon.

Jaimie looked down at her own clothes. She was wearing a simple, sleeveless blue dress. It felt inadequate, like she was attending a board meeting in a swimsuit.

"We should go," he said, checking his watch. "City Hall waits for no one."

She stood up, her stomach clenching into a tight knot. The coffee turned to acid in her throat. She followed him to the door, her hands clammy.

This was it. She was really doing this. She was marrying a stranger who washed his clothes on the sanitize cycle and looked at her like she was a puzzle he had already solved.