Flash Marriage To The Secret Zillionaire

Blaire pushed her weight against the heavy glass door of the midtown Manhattan cafe. The biting chill of the early autumn wind was instantly severed, replaced by a wall of artificial heat that blasted her face. She frowned, her skin prickling under her thin coat.

Deep in her pocket, her phone vibrated violently. The screen flashed with her mother's name-Sharon. It was the sixth back-to-back call. Blaire sucked in a sharp breath, her lungs tight, and pressed the volume button to silence the buzzing.

She scanned the room. Her eyes cut through the crowded booths, searching for the specific marker her blind date had mentioned in his text: a red rose.

In the far corner, right next to a fogged-up window, her gaze locked onto a man. He had a heavy, protruding stomach and a cheap plastic red rose shoved unceremoniously into a water glass.

Blaire adjusted the strap of her purse, her low heels clicking against the hardwood floor as she approached. She pulled out the chair opposite him. The man looked up. His greasy eyes immediately dragged up and down her body, stripping her down in a way that made bile rise in the back of her throat.

"Mitch Kowalski," he announced, not bothering to stand.

Before Blaire could even settle her weight into the chair, Mitch snapped his fingers in the air, waving down a passing waitress with arrogant entitlement. He ordered the cheapest black coffee on the menu for himself.

The waitress turned her notepad toward Blaire. "And for you, miss?"

"She doesn't need anything," Mitch interrupted, his tone flat.

Blaire's jaw locked. The muscles in her face went rigid. She looked directly at the waitress. "I'll have a vanilla latte. And here is my card." She pulled her credit card from her wallet and handed it over, her movements sharp and deliberate.

Mitch stared at the plastic card in the waitress's hand. He curled his upper lip in a sneer. "Suit yourself."

He leaned forward, resting his thick forearms on the table. Without missing a beat, he launched into a loud, boastful monologue about his job. He bragged about making sixty thousand dollars a year, emphasizing the word "high-income" as if he were a Wall Street tycoon.

"When we get married," Mitch continued, his voice dripping with condescending charity, "you'll need to quit your little retail job. I need a wife at home, preparing for pregnancy."

Blaire bit the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted copper. She fought the overwhelming urge to roll her eyes. The waitress returned and set the hot latte down. Blaire wrapped her cold fingers around the ceramic mug, taking a slow sip. She stared at him, hoping her absolute silence would kill the conversation.

It didn't. Mitch took her silence as submission. He reached into his briefcase and slapped a few sheets of stapled paper onto the table.

"This is a draft of our prenup," he stated. "You need to waive any rights to my used Ford Focus."

Blaire stared at the papers. Her chest tightened, restricting her oxygen.

"And," Mitch added, tapping the paper with a thick finger, "you'll use your pre-marital savings to cover all our daily living expenses. My salary needs to be freed up for my investments."

The blood drained from Blaire's face, only to rush back in a hot, furious wave. Her fingers gripped the coffee mug so tightly her knuckles turned stark white. The fuse on her patience burned out completely.

She slammed the heavy ceramic mug down onto the table.

The sharp crack echoed through the cafe. The ambient jazz music seemed to pause. Heads turned from the neighboring booths, eyes locking onto their table.

Blaire leaned forward, her voice ice-cold and brutally fluent. "You want me to quit my job, pay for your groceries, and sign away a used Ford Focus?"

She stood up, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. She looked down at Mitch, whose face was rapidly turning the color of a bruised plum.

"A man who forces a woman to split the bill for a cup of coffee," Blaire said, her voice carrying clearly across the silent room, "doesn't deserve to use the word 'investment'."

Mitch's face twisted in humiliated rage. He shoved his chair back and lunged upward, his thick hand reaching out to grab her wrist.

Blaire's reflexes kicked in. She sidestepped sharply. Mitch's hand grabbed nothing but air. His momentum carried him forward, his chest slamming into the table. The water glass tipped over, sending the plastic red rose and freezing water splashing all over his crotch.

A suppressed wave of laughter erupted from the surrounding tables. Mitch stood there, dripping wet and completely pathetic. He pointed a trembling finger at Blaire's face and started screaming obscenities.

Blaire let out a short, breathy laugh. She grabbed her purse, didn't spare him a single backward glance, and marched straight toward the exit.

Two booths away, hidden in a secluded alcove, an elderly woman wearing a discreet but incredibly expensive pearl necklace gently set her porcelain teacup down on its saucer.

The Brewer Matriarch's eyes gleamed with intense satisfaction. Beside her, the massive man in the black suit gently tapped a sleek, discreet directional microphone resting on the table, which had perfectly amplified every word of the disastrous date into her earpiece. She had heard every insult, and watched every second of Blaire's decisive counterattack.

The old woman tilted her head slightly toward the massive man in a black suit sitting rigidly beside her. "Find out everything about that girl," she whispered. "Immediately."

Blaire pushed through the heavy doors and practically ran out onto the sidewalk. The cold Manhattan wind hit her flushed cheeks, cooling the angry heat radiating from her skin. She exhaled a long, shaky breath, her chest rising and falling heavily.

Her phone vibrated again. A text from Sharon lit up the screen: How is it going? Mitch is a great catch!

Blaire ground her back teeth together. Her thumbs flew across the keyboard, hitting the screen with aggressive force. He is an absolute bastard. The date is over!

She hit send, shoved the phone deep into her purse, and turned her body toward the subway station.

At that exact moment, a sleek, pitch-black Rolls-Royce Phantom glided silently around the street corner, passing mere inches from her.

The tinted rear window was rolled down halfway. Inside, Jude Brewer sat in the shadows, his head bowed as he reviewed a stack of legal documents. His sharp, cold profile was briefly illuminated by the streetlights before fading back into the darkness of the luxury car.

Blaire didn't notice the vehicle. She kept her eyes straight ahead, marching toward the subway entrance, completely unaware that the gears of her fate had already begun to turn.

Blaire emerged from the subway station onto the bustling pavement of Fifth Avenue. The early autumn sun broke through the skyscrapers, hitting her directly in the eyes. She raised a hand to shield her face, squinting against the harsh glare.

She hadn't walked more than two blocks when an elderly woman in a plain beige trench coat stumbled directly in her path.

The woman let out a sharp cry of pain. Her body pitched sideways. A canvas grocery bag slipped from her grasp, hitting the concrete. Red apples spilled out, rolling across the dirty sidewalk.

Blaire's body reacted before her brain did. She lunged forward, her hands shooting out to grip the old woman's frail arms, catching her just before her knees hit the pavement.

"Are you okay?" Blaire asked, her heart hammering against her ribs. She carefully helped the woman steady herself, then crouched down, her hands moving quickly to gather the bruised apples back into the canvas bag.

The Brewer Matriarch looked down at the girl. A sly, calculated gleam flashed in her aged eyes, but she instantly masked it with a look of overwhelming gratitude. "Oh, thank you, sweetheart," she gasped. "You are such a rare, good girl."

To show her "appreciation," the old woman clamped her fingers around Blaire's wrist with surprising strength. She pulled Blaire toward a wooden bench sitting just inside the entrance of Central Park.

Once they sat down, the old woman let out a heavy, theatrical sigh. She stared at the passing crowds and began to complain about her "useless" grandson.

Tears welled up in the old woman's eyes. She spun a tragic tale, claiming her grandson was a dirt-poor sales rep, drowning in mortgage payments, and working himself to the bone. Worse, his dying grandfather was forcing him to get married before he passed away.

Blaire listened, her stomach twisting. The mention of being relentlessly forced into marriage struck a raw nerve. She thought of Sharon's suffocating demands. A strange, sympathetic ache bloomed in her chest for this unknown man.

Sensing the shift in Blaire's demeanor, the old woman reached into her pocket. She pulled out a printed photograph and shoved it into Blaire's hands. "Please," she begged, her voice cracking. "Just help him. A fake marriage. That's all."

Blaire's mouth opened to deliver a firm, absolute rejection. But the words died in her throat. Her eyes locked onto the photograph.

The man in the picture was wearing a plain white button-down shirt. His eyebrows were dark and straight, his eyes piercing. His jawline was so sharp it looked like it could cut glass, and the curve of his throat-his Adam's apple-was devastatingly masculine.

Blaire swallowed hard. Her heart skipped a massive, undeniable beat. As a hopeless victim of good looks, her body betrayed her logic. Heat crawled up her neck and settled in her ears.

She stared at the photo, a chaotic war raging in her mind. With a face like that... is a fake marriage really a loss?

The Matriarch didn't miss the flush on Blaire's cheeks. She immediately doubled down. "You won't have to interfere with each other's lives," she promised quickly. "Just act like a couple in front of the elders occasionally. That's it."

Blaire's phone chimed loudly. It was a voice message from Sharon. The shrill audio played out loud, echoing around the park bench: "If you don't find a husband today, don't ever call me your mother again!"

The ultimatum hit Blaire like a physical blow. Her lungs constricted. She curled her fingers into tight fists, her nails digging into her palms. She took a deep, shuddering breath.

She lifted her head. The hesitation in her eyes hardened into desperate resolve. She looked at the old woman and nodded. "Okay. I'll meet him."

Instantly, the old woman's frail demeanor vanished. She stood up with the speed of a marathon runner, pulled out a smartphone, and dialed a number.

Through the receiver, Jude's voice sounded like cracking ice, irritated and impatient. The Matriarch ignored his tone, barking an absolute command for him to get his ass to the south entrance of Central Park within ten minutes.

Exactly ten minutes later, a beat-up, black Toyota Camry screeched to a halt against the curb.

The driver's door swung open. A pair of incredibly long legs stepped out. Jude walked toward the bench, his face set in a dark, thunderous scowl. A suffocating, low-pressure aura radiated from his body.

Blaire stood up. The physical impact of seeing him in person was a hundred times more intense than the photo. Her stomach did a nervous flip. Her fingers instinctively clamped down on her purse strap.

Jude's razor-sharp gaze swept over Blaire. His eyes were full of hidden scrutiny and deep-seated defense. He instantly categorized her as just another gold-digger his grandmother had dug up to steal his wealth.

The Matriarch grabbed Blaire by the shoulders and pushed her forward. "This is your future wife," she announced, leaving no room for argument.

Jude's jaw ticked. He opened his mouth to reject the absurdity, but his eyes caught Blaire's. Her gaze was clear, open, and completely devoid of the calculating greed he was so used to seeing.

He needed to stop his family's endless, suffocating blind dates. He weighed the pros and cons in a fraction of a second. He looked at Blaire and spat out a single word: "Let's go."

Blaire froze. She pointed a trembling finger at him. "Go where?"

Jude pulled open the passenger door of the Camry. His voice was completely devoid of emotion. "City Hall. To get the license."

Blaire's breath hitched. The sheer, ruthless efficiency of his demand paralyzed her. But under the Matriarch's aggressive shoving, she forced her legs to move, sliding into the worn passenger seat of the cheap Toyota.

The Toyota Camry merged into the congested, honking traffic of Manhattan. Inside the car, the silence was so thick it felt like a physical weight pressing against Blaire's chest.

She nervously twisted her fingers together in her lap. From the corner of her eye, she studied Jude in the driver's seat. His hands gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles prominent and sharp.

Suddenly, Jude pressed a button, rolling down his window completely. The biting autumn wind rushed into the cabin. He needed the freezing air to clear the suffocating, nauseating panic that always crawled over his skin whenever a woman was in close proximity.

Blaire shivered as the cold air hit her. Thinking he was too hot, she leaned forward, her hand reaching toward the center console to turn on the air conditioning.

"Don't touch me!" Jude barked, his voice cracking like a whip.

Blaire violently yanked her hand back. Her heart slammed against her ribs. Heat flooded her cheeks, burning with intense embarrassment. She pressed herself against the passenger door, thinking this man had the worst temper she had ever encountered.

Jude realized his reaction was extreme. He forced his breathing to slow, fighting the physical palpitations of his haphephobia. He stared straight at the road and laid down his first absolute rule. "Do not touch me without permission."

Blaire bit her lip. Ugh, what a creep, she thought. But outwardly, she gave a stiff, jerky nod.

The car rolled to a stop at a red light. Jude slammed his foot on the brake. He turned his head, his piercing eyes locking onto hers, and began to outline the boundaries of their contract.

"This marriage is nothing but a piece of paper," he stated, his voice flat. "It's to get my family off my back. We do not interfere in each other's private lives."

He leaned slightly closer, his gaze hard. "Do not get any ideas about me. In exactly one year, we divorce."

Blaire listened to his intense, overly defensive speech. She remembered the old woman's story about his crushing mortgage and his miserable sales job. A bubble of ironic amusement rose in her throat.

She straightened her spine, refusing to be intimidated. "Don't worry. I have absolutely zero interest in your assets."

A flicker of dark mockery passed through Jude's eyes. He thought she was playing hard to get. He had heard that exact lie from a dozen women before.

Determined to prove she wasn't a leech, Blaire made her offer. "Since we're going to be roommates, we split the rent and living expenses down the middle. Fifty-fifty."

Jude's hands jerked on the steering wheel. He snapped his head toward her, his eyebrows crashing together in pure shock.

As the CEO of a multi-billion-dollar empire, the concept of splitting a grocery bill with a woman had never once existed in his universe.

He narrowed his eyes, searching her face for the punchline, looking for the crack in her acting. But all he saw was stubborn, earnest determination.

When he didn't answer, Blaire assumed he was stressed about the money. Her sympathy flared again. "If your sales commissions are low this month, I can cover a little more of the utilities."

A muscle feathered in Jude's jaw. For the first time in his life, his ability to provide was being questioned. A bizarre sense of offense burned in his chest.

He ground his teeth together. To maintain his fake identity, he forced the words through his tight lips. "No. I can afford it."

The light turned green. Jude stomped on the gas pedal. The old Camry let out a loud, struggling groan and lurched forward aggressively.

The sudden momentum threw Blaire backward. Her shoulders slammed into the seat. She let out a short gasp and scrambled to grip her seatbelt tightly across her chest.

Jude caught her panicked expression in the rearview mirror. The irrational irritation in his gut dissipated slightly, but he kept his profile locked in a cold, unreadable mask.

They navigated the streets near City Hall. Finding parking was a nightmare.

Jude spotted an impossibly tight space between two SUVs. With sharp, aggressive spins of the steering wheel, he parallel-parked the Camry perfectly on the first try. Blaire watched his hands move, secretly impressed by the raw competence of the maneuver.

They stepped out of the car and walked up the massive stone steps of City Hall. All around them, couples were holding hands and kissing. The physical distance between Blaire and Jude felt like a gaping canyon in comparison.

As they passed through the security metal detectors, Blaire fumbled with her purse. It slipped from her fingers, hitting the floor. Her lipstick and compact powder spilled out, rolling across the dirty tiles.

Jude's body reacted instantly. He took a distinct half-step backward, his hands retreating into his pockets. His haphephobia and intense germaphobia paralyzed him. He stood there, staring blankly, offering absolutely zero help.

Blaire crouched on the floor, frantically gathering her makeup. Her face burned. She looked up at his indifferent posture, and the filter of his extreme good looks shattered into a million pieces. He is gorgeous, but he is absolute trash, she thought.

She stood up, aggressively dusting off her skirt. Without waiting for him, she marched past the security guards toward the registration hall, her back stiff with anger. Jude's eyes darkened, and he followed her inside.