Flash Marriage To The Secret Billionaire

Preston Finch tapped his gold watch against the wooden table, the sharp sound making the muscles in Kittie Ramos's neck pull tight.

"Three years," Preston said, his eyes dragging over the faded fabric of Kittie's trench coat like it was a stain on the floor. "That is the timeline. You close that little flower shop of yours, we move to my apartment in Manhattan, and we have two kids. I need a wife who understands her primary function."

Kittie stared at him. The half-eaten croissant on her plate suddenly looked like cardboard. A sour taste coated the back of her throat, and her stomach twisted into a hard, painful knot.

She pressed her thumb against her index finger, picking at the edge of her nail until it stung. This was her adoptive mother's idea of a perfect match. A Wall Street analyst who treated a first date like a corporate merger. Just this morning, her brother Miles had texted her, nagging her to reach out to his old college roommate, Connor, who was supposedly back in town working in tech somewhere nearby. Maybe I should have asked him for help with my shop's website instead of agreeing to this nightmare, she thought bitterly.

Preston pulled out his phone, shoving the screen into her face.

"Look at this view," he bragged, pointing to a sterile, high-rise living room. "You do not get this in Brooklyn. You people here lack ambition. I am offering you an upgrade."

Kittie took a slow, shallow breath. The air in the coffee shop felt too thick to pull into her lungs. She forced the corners of her mouth up, her facial muscles protesting the fake smile.

"Right," Kittie said, her voice tight. "An upgrade."

Preston leaned back, crossing his arms.

"To prove you can follow directions," he said, his tone dropping into a command. "My car is parked out front. A bird ruined the hood. Go ask the waiter for a wet towel and clean it off. Now."

The knot in Kittie's stomach snapped. The blood rushed to her ears, a loud, roaring sound that drowned out the soft jazz playing in the background.

Her hand moved before her brain fully processed the decision. She grabbed the plastic cup of iced Americano sitting between them. The condensation made her fingers wet and cold.

Preston was still talking, his mouth moving around words about a weekend in the Hamptons.

Kittie flipped her wrist.

The dark liquid, heavy with ice cubes, hit Preston squarely in the crotch of his custom-tailored suit pants.

Preston let out a high-pitched shriek. He jumped up so fast his chair tipped backward and slammed into the floor. The ice cubes bounced off his thighs and scattered across the hardwood.

The entire cafe went dead silent. The clinking of spoons and the low hum of conversation stopped.

Kittie pulled a paper napkin from the dispenser. She wiped the cold moisture off her fingers, her hands shaking slightly from the adrenaline dumping into her veins.

She tossed the crumpled napkin right at Preston's face.

"You crazy bitch!" Preston screamed, his face turning a blotchy, ugly red. "Do you know how much these pants cost? You stupid, uneducated hillbilly!"

"Congratulations," Kittie said, picking up her worn leather purse. "Your expensive pants finally have a personality."

She turned to walk away.

Preston lunged forward. His hand shot out, his thick fingers aiming right for her arm.

Kittie saw the movement out of the corner of her eye, but her feet felt glued to the floor. Her breath hitched in her throat.

A large, pale hand clamped down on Preston's wrist mid-air.

The grip was so sudden and brutal that Preston let out a sharp gasp of pain.

Kittie blinked, stepping back.

A man stood beside their table. He wore a crisp, dark button-down shirt with no visible logos, but the fabric stretched tight across broad shoulders.

Kittie looked up and her lungs forgot how to work.

Connor. Her older brother Miles's college roommate.

Connor's eyes were fixed on Preston. They were a pale, icy blue, and he did not blink. He looked at the Wall Street analyst the way a person looks at a cockroach on a kitchen counter.

Connor twisted his wrist just a fraction of an inch.

Preston stumbled backward, his knees hitting the edge of the table. The color drained from his face.

"I suggest," Connor said, his voice so low and calm it made the hair on Kittie's arms stand up, "that you leave before I break this."

Preston did not say a word. He yanked his arm free, grabbed his leather briefcase with a trembling hand, and practically ran out the glass doors of the cafe.

Kittie stood frozen. Her heart slammed against her ribs like a trapped bird. She looked at Connor, her mind struggling to connect the quiet guy she barely remembered from college with the terrifying presence standing in front of her.

She forced her jaw to unclench.

"Hi," Kittie managed to say, her voice cracking. "That was... a family-arranged disaster."

Connor turned his head. The coldness in his eyes vanished the second he looked at her. The corner of his mouth twitched upward.

He reached out and pulled out the chair Preston had just vacated. He sat down, his movements smooth and completely relaxed.

He raised a hand, catching the waiter's attention.

"Two fresh coffees, please," Connor said.

Kittie stared at him. He acted like this was his living room. She slowly sat back down in her chair, her knees feeling weak.

Connor rested his arms on the table. His long index finger began to tap a slow, rhythmic beat against the wood.

"So," Connor said, his gaze locking onto hers. "How are you planning to survive the next blind date?"

The waiter placed a hot latte in front of Kittie. She grabbed the ceramic mug with both hands, letting the heat seep into her freezing palms. She took a massive gulp, letting the scalding liquid burn away the bitter taste Preston had left in her mouth.

Connor sat across from her. He leaned forward, his broad chest pressing against the edge of the table. He did not touch his coffee. He just watched her, his posture completely still, offering a silent, open space for her to fall into.

Kittie let out a long, shaky breath.

"My mother," Kittie started, the words spilling out before she could stop them. "Dolores. She thinks I am a defective product sitting on a clearance shelf. Every week, it is a different restaurant, a different guy in a suit telling me how to fix my life."

Connor's eyes darkened. His index finger tapped the table once.

"What other kind of trash has she set you up with?" he asked.

The genuine interest in his voice chipped away at Kittie's defenses. Her chest felt heavy, weighed down by months of suppressed anger.

"It is not just the setups," Kittie said, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. "It is my own terrible choices. My ex, Eben Richardson. I caught him in my bed with my best friend. So now, I am completely immune to the concept of romance. I just want to be left alone."

Connor's eyes darkened for a fraction of a second, a detail so fleeting Kittie missed it entirely. His posture remained perfectly sympathetic, though the muscles in his jaw feathered with a sudden, violent tension.

"What is your plan, then?" Connor asked softly. "You cannot just keep throwing coffee at people."

Kittie rubbed her temples. A dull headache throbbed behind her eyes.

"If I can just survive the Thanksgiving dinner next month without bringing home a disaster, I will do anything," she muttered.

Connor's finger stopped tapping. Thanksgiving. The timeline clicked into place in his mind like a loaded magazine.

"What if there was a way to permanently fix this?" Connor asked.

Kittie looked up, her eyebrows pulling together.

"I do not have the cash to hire a high-end escort to play my fake boyfriend, Connor," she said, waving a hand in the air.

Connor let out a low chuckle. The sound vibrated in the small space between them, deep and magnetic. Kittie felt a sudden, strange flutter in the pit of her stomach. She swallowed hard, shifting in her seat.

The air between them grew thick. The background noise of the cafe seemed to fade out.

Then, her phone vibrated against the wooden table.

The buzzing sound shattered the quiet moment. Kittie looked down. The screen lit up with Dolores's name.

All the color drained from Kittie's face. Her skin turned pale and clammy.

She hit the red button to decline the call. A second later, a rapid series of text message notifications pinged loudly.

Kittie picked up the phone. Her eyes scanned the family group chat.

Dolores: Preston just called me screaming. What is wrong with you?

Aunt Mary: Kittie, you are not getting any younger.

Dolores: You are an embarrassment.

Connor watched her shoulders cave in. He saw the exact moment her spirit cracked. The timing was perfect.

Kittie slammed the phone face-down on the table. She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes.

"Are you having trouble with your shop's lease, too?" Connor asked quietly.

Kittie dropped her hands. She stared at him, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

"How did you know that?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

"Just a guess," Connor said. "Your coffee shop and floral business... it is struggling. What if we make a trade?"

Kittie frowned. The headache pounded harder.

"A trade?" she repeated. "You are a programmer. What kind of trade?"

Connor smiled. It was a small, tight smile that did not reach his eyes.

"I have a problem of my own," Connor lied smoothly. "I am dealing with a highly complex overseas asset trust audit. The board requires me to maintain a married status to mitigate certain legal risks and bypass a severe single-executive penalty. The auditors are breathing down my neck."

Kittie stared at him. The idea was insane. But the phone on the table buzzed again, vibrating against the wood like a warning siren.

She thought about the past due rent notices sitting on her counter. She thought about Dolores's sharp, cruel voice.

"This is crazy," Kittie breathed out.

Connor saw the hesitation in her eyes. He saw the desperation.

"Let us get out of here," Connor said, standing up. "Let us find somewhere quiet and talk about a real business arrangement."

Kittie looked at his outstretched hand. Her stomach did a nervous flip. She stood up, her legs feeling like lead, and followed him out the door.

The cold wind hit Kittie in the face the second they stepped onto the sidewalk. She pulled her trench coat tighter around her body, shivering.

Connor walked beside her, leading her toward a plain, dark gray Ford parked halfway down the block.

Before they reached the car, Kittie's phone started ringing again. The sound pierced through the street noise.

Connor took a step back, pulling his own phone from his pocket and pretending to check an email. His ears, however, were entirely focused on her.

Kittie hit the green button and pressed the phone to her ear.

"Mom, I cannot talk right now," Kittie said, her voice strained.

"You will listen to me!" Dolores's voice shrieked through the speaker, loud enough that Connor could hear the pitch. "Preston Finch was a catch! You humiliated me in front of the entire neighborhood!"

Kittie squeezed her eyes shut. Her fingernails dug so hard into the palm of her free hand that the skin threatened to break.

"He told me to wash his car," Kittie whispered, her throat burning.

"So what?" Dolores snapped. "Look at Beatrix! She just married into the Thorne family. A century-old Boston money family! She had a wedding at the Plaza! And you? You are throwing coffee at men who actually have a 401k. This is exactly why I always said adopting you was a risk. You have no drive to secure your future."

The words felt like a physical punch to Kittie's gut. The air rushed out of her lungs. Her eyes burned with hot tears, but she locked her jaw, refusing to let them fall.

Connor watched the muscles in her neck tighten. A violent, dark urge flared in his chest. He wanted to find Dolores and rip her vocal cords out. He forced his face to remain blank, pushing the rage down.

"I have to go," Kittie said, her voice completely dead.

She ended the call.

The silence between them was heavy and suffocating. Kittie stared at the concrete sidewalk, her chest heaving as she fought to control her breathing.

She forced a tight, plastic smile onto her face and looked at Connor.

"Sorry about that," she mumbled.

She needed to change the subject. Her brain scrambled for anything else to talk about. The name her mother mentioned sparked a thought.

"Hey," Kittie said, her voice shaking slightly. "You work in tech. Do you know anything about that crazy rich family in Boston? The Powers family? Mom is obsessed with old money right now."

Connor froze for a fraction of a second. A dark amusement flickered in his icy blue eyes.

"The Powers family?" he repeated.

Kittie hesitated. "I know you're also a Powers, but..." She gave his clothes a quick once-over. "Ahaha, just kidding."

She leaned against the side of the Ford. "Yeah, the CEO. Is he some bald, fat old guy sitting on a pile of gold?"

Connor bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing.

"Worse," Connor said, his tone dripping with fake disgust. "They are a bunch of bloodsuckers. The CEO is a ruthless workaholic. He has no life, no personality. Just a machine. He is probably a nightmare to deal with."

Kittie let out a genuine sigh of relief.

"See?" she said, shaking her head. "That sounds awful. The rich are miserable. I would rather sleep on the floor of my shop than live in some strict mansion with a guy like that."

Connor's chest expanded as he took a slow breath. The tension in his shoulders melted away. She did not care about money. She did not care about status.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, but he ignored it.

Kittie's phone pinged again. Another text from the family group.

She looked at the screen, her face dropping.

"If I show up to Thanksgiving alone," Kittie whispered, her voice cracking, "they will eat me alive."

Connor stepped closer. He reached out and opened the passenger door of the Ford.

"Then let us talk about that trade," Connor said softly.

Kittie looked at the dark interior of the car. Her pulse hammered in her throat. She slid into the passenger seat.

Connor shut the door, walked around the front, and got behind the wheel. He started the engine. The low hum of the motor filled the cabin. He gripped the steering wheel, a terrifying sense of victory rushing through his veins.