Flash Marriage To The Vengeful CEO

Debora's hands shook so violently that the plastic stick tapped against the edge of the porcelain sink.

Two solid pink lines.

The air vanished from her lungs. She sucked in a harsh breath, the smell of cheap bleach and mildew burning her throat. Her left hand flew to her flat stomach, pressing hard against the thin cotton of her t-shirt. Her heart slammed against her ribs, a frantic, erratic rhythm that made her dizzy.

"Debora! Get out of there!" Marlene's shrill voice pierced through the thin wooden door, accompanied by the heavy thud of a fist. "You've been in there for twenty minutes!"

Panic, cold and sharp, spiked in Debora's chest. She fumbled with the pregnancy test, her slick fingers struggling to grip it. She unrolled a long strip of scratchy toilet paper, wrapping the plastic stick over and over until it looked like a thick, white bandage.

She shoved the wrapped bundle deep into the small trash can, burying it under crumpled tissues and empty toothpaste tubes.

She turned on the cold tap, splashed water onto her pale cheeks, and took a shuddering breath. Her fingers were still trembling as she reached for the doorknob and turned it.

Before she could pull the door open, it was violently shoved inward.

Marlene barreled into the cramped bathroom, her heavy frame nearly knocking Debora into the bathtub. Marlene's eyes, lined with smeared black pencil, raked over Debora with pure disgust.

"Worthless," Marlene spat. "A paroled convict living under my roof. You bring nothing but shame to this family."

Debora kept her head down, her jaw clamped shut. She turned her body sideways, trying to squeeze past her foster mother and escape into the hallway.

But Marlene stopped. Her eyes narrowed with malicious suspicion as she noticed Debora's defensive posture. Without warning, Marlene kicked the small trash can with her heavy boot. The plastic bin tipped over, spilling its contents across the scuffed tiles. Amidst the crumpled tissues and empty toothpaste tubes, the thick, white toilet paper bundle rolled out, looking entirely out of place.

Debora's stomach plummeted. She lunged forward, but she was a second too late.

Marlene bent down and snatched the bundle. She ripped the toilet paper away. The two pink lines glared under the flickering bathroom bulb.

The silence in the bathroom was suffocating. Marlene's face morphed from confusion to shock, and then to a deep, ugly shade of red.

A piercing shriek ripped from Marlene's throat. Her hand shot out, her fingers twisting into Debora's hair.

"Ah!" Debora gasped, the sharp pain radiating across her scalp.

Marlene yanked hard, dragging Debora out of the bathroom. Debora stumbled, her knees hitting the scuffed hardwood floor of the hallway. Marlene didn't stop, pulling her all the way into the dimly lit living room and shoving her hard.

Debora crashed to the floor beside the frayed sofa, her shoulder taking the brunt of the impact.

Burt, her foster father, paused the television. He pushed himself out of his recliner, his bushy eyebrows pulling together. "What the hell is going on?"

Marlene slammed the pregnancy test down on the stained coffee table. "Your precious charity case is pregnant! A convicted felon and now a whore!"

Burt's face hardened into a mask of fury. He crossed the room in three heavy strides and stood over Debora, pointing a thick, calloused finger at her face.

"Who is it?" Burt roared, the smell of stale beer washing over her. "Who is the bastard? You listen to me. You get rid of it, or you pack your trash and get out of my house today."

Debora bit down on her lower lip until she tasted copper. She curled her body inward, her arms wrapping tightly around her stomach. If they kicked her out, she would have no registered address. Her parole officer would be notified. She would go straight back to prison.

"I'm not getting rid of it," Debora whispered, her voice shaking but her grip on her stomach iron-clad.

"You ungrateful bitch!" Marlene raised her hand, her palm aimed right at Debora's cheek.

Debora squeezed her eyes shut, her muscles locking as she braced for the sting.

A sharp, loud buzz from the doorbell shattered the tension.

Marlene's hand froze mid-air. Burt cursed under his breath, turning away from Debora and stomping toward the front door.

"I swear to God, if it's another salesman," Burt muttered, yanking the front door open.

Debora opened her eyes, her breath catching in her throat.

A man stood on the porch. He was tall, his broad shoulders easily filling the doorframe. He wore a dark, tailored suit that looked expensive but lacked any flashy logos. His face was carved from stone-sharp jaw, straight nose, and eyes the color of a frozen ocean.

Those icy blue eyes bypassed Burt completely, cutting through the dim living room to lock directly onto Debora, who was still huddled on the floor.

The man didn't introduce himself to Burt. He didn't even look at him. His deep, gravelly voice resonated through the small house, carrying zero warmth but absolute authority.

"I am the father of that child. And I am here to marry her."

The heavy silence in the living room was broken only by the sound of Jameson stepping over the threshold. His leather dress shoes thudded against the creaky floorboards. He ignored Burt's gaping mouth and walked straight toward Debora.

He stopped right in front of her. He reached down, offering a large, long-fingered hand.

Debora stared at it. Her chest heaved. She remembered those hands from the dark hotel room a month ago, but the man attached to them now felt like a complete stranger. Slowly, she lifted her own trembling, sweat-slicked hand and placed it in his.

Jameson's fingers closed around hers. His grip was crushing, pulling her up from the floor with a force that made her shoulder joint ache. It wasn't a gentle rescue; it was a claim.

Marlene finally snapped out of her shock. Her greed quickly replaced her anger. She planted her hands on her wide hips and stepped into Jameson's path.

"Who do you think you are?" Marlene shrieked. "You think you can just walk in here and take the girl we raised? She owes us!"

Burt quickly caught on, stepping up beside his wife. "She's a paroled convict. A liability. If you want to take her off our hands, it's going to cost you."

A hot wave of humiliation burned the back of Debora's neck. She yanked her hand, trying to break Jameson's grip. "I am not a piece of property!" she yelled at Burt.

Jameson let out a low, dark chuckle. The sound held no humor. It made the hairs on Debora's arms stand up.

He didn't release her hand. Instead, he reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket with his free hand and pulled out a leather-bound checkbook and a heavy fountain pen.

He didn't ask for a seat. He slapped the checkbook down onto the dusty television stand, uncapped the pen with his thumb, and wrote a string of numbers in quick, sharp strokes. He tore the check free and held it out to Burt, pinched between two fingers.

Burt snatched it. His eyes bulged as he read the numbers. "One... one million dollars?"

Marlene gasped, leaning over Burt's shoulder. The ugly scowl on her face instantly melted into a sickeningly sweet, greedy smile.

Debora stared at the piece of paper, her mind spinning. She looked up at Jameson's hard profile. "Where did you get that kind of money?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper. She thought he was just a regular guy from a bar.

"I recently sold off a niche software patent I developed in college," Jameson said, his voice flat, devoid of any attachment to the fortune he was giving away. "It's the entirety of the buyout. Consider it a dowry."

The lie was smooth, flawless. A heavy stone of guilt dropped into Debora's stomach. He was giving up everything he had for her. For a mistake they made in the dark.

Burt shoved the check deep into his pocket. "Go pack your things, Debora. Don't keep the man waiting."

Marlene grabbed Debora's bicep, her fingernails digging into the skin. She dragged Debora toward the narrow kitchen.

The moment they were out of Jameson's sight, Marlene's fake smile vanished. She leaned in close, her cheap perfume suffocating Debora.

Marlene jabbed a finger hard into Debora's collarbone. "You listen to me. That man just paid one million dollars for you, and you better make sure you serve him well and keep him happy. If he gets bored of you and brings you back here, I will call your parole officer and tell him you've been stealing from us. You'll be back in a cell by nightfall."

Debora's jaw clenched so hard her teeth ached. Her eyes burned with unshed tears. She knew Marlene wasn't bluffing. They had sold her.

She didn't say a word. She pulled her arm free and walked toward the tiny closet that served as her bedroom.

She dragged out a faded canvas duffel bag. She shoved her few threadbare t-shirts and jeans inside. From the nightstand, she picked up the only thing of value she owned: a blurry photograph of her biological mother. She carefully slid it between the pages of a paperback book and placed it at the bottom of the bag.

Debora zipped the bag and walked back into the living room. Jameson was standing by the window, his hands clasped behind his back, looking utterly repulsed by his surroundings.

Hearing her footsteps, he turned. His eyes dropped to her pathetic bag. A flicker of mockery danced in his blue eyes, gone as quickly as it appeared.

He didn't offer to carry it. "Follow me," he ordered, turning on his heel and walking out the front door.

Debora gripped the handles of her bag. She didn't look back at Burt and Marlene, who were already arguing over the check. She stepped out into the cold air, following the broad back of the man who had just bought her life.

Debora lugged the heavy canvas bag down the cracked sidewalk, struggling to keep up with Jameson's long strides. He stopped beside a dark gray Chevrolet Malibu parked on the curb.

He pressed the key fob. The headlights flashed. He opened the driver's side door and slid in without a word.

Debora stood awkwardly by the passenger door for a second. She took a deep breath, pulled the handle, and climbed inside, dropping her bag by her feet.

The interior of the car smelled like cedar and expensive leather, a scent that felt entirely too rich for a standard sedan.

Jameson started the engine. He pulled the car away from the curb, leaving the decaying suburban street behind.

The silence in the car was thick and suffocating. Debora gripped the seatbelt across her chest, watching the blurred trees pass by the window. Her stomach churned with a mixture of morning sickness and pure anxiety.

"Where are we going?" she finally asked, her voice cracking slightly.

Jameson kept his eyes locked on the road. "My apartment. In Brooklyn."

An hour later, the Chevy turned into a slightly rundown but clean neighborhood in Brooklyn. Jameson parked the car in front of a weathered red brick apartment building. He killed the engine and stepped out.

Debora followed him into the building. They stepped into a cramped elevator that groaned and rattled as it carried them to the third floor.

Jameson walked to the end of the hallway and shoved a key into the lock. He pushed the door open and stepped aside.

Debora walked in. It was a standard one-bedroom apartment. The furniture was minimal, generic, and completely devoid of any personal touches. It looked like a showroom, not a home.

Jameson pointed to the only closed door in the short hallway. "That's your bedroom. I'll take the couch."

Debora blinked, surprised by the arrangement. A small fraction of the tension in her chest loosened. She looked at him, her eyes softening with genuine gratitude. "Thank you. Really."

Jameson stared at her grateful expression. A muscle feathered in his jaw. A dark, violent irritation flared in his chest, warring with the disgust he felt looking at her. "I have to go back to the office," he said, his voice hard and clipped.

He grabbed the coat he had just taken off, turned around, and walked out. The door slammed shut behind him.

Debora stood alone in the quiet living room. She placed her hand over her stomach, feeling the slight firmness there. She took a deep breath. She was going to make this work. She had to.

Down on the street, Jameson didn't walk toward the Chevy. He turned the corner and stepped into a narrow, shadowed alleyway behind the brick building.

A sleek, black Maybach was idling in the shadows. A man in a sharp suit stood by the rear door.

As Jameson approached the car, the posture of a middle-class analyst vanished. His shoulders squared, and the terrifying, commanding aura of the CEO of King Consolidated radiated from him.

His assistant, Pierce, opened the door. Jameson slid into the plush leather seat and immediately yanked his tie loose.

Pierce handed him a tablet. "Sir, your schedule has been cleared for the morning. The background for the Brooklyn apartment is fully established in the system."

Jameson swiped a finger across the screen, his eyes cold. "Cut off any access she might have to high-end social circles. Monitor her phone. Monitor her movements."

He looked out the tinted window at the top floor of the red brick building. His eyes darkened with a venomous hatred. "She destroyed everything that mattered in my life," he whispered, the words laced with poison, his mind flashing to the twisted metal and shattered glass of that horrific night. "I'm going to make her suffocate in her own despair, inch by painful inch."

The Maybach glided silently out of the alley, disappearing into the glittering lights of Manhattan.

Back in the apartment, Debora unzipped her bag. She hung her few clothes in the empty closet. She walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge. It was completely empty.

She touched her thin wallet in her pocket. She needed money. She needed to buy food for the baby. Tomorrow, she would go out and find a job.

She took a hot shower, the water washing away the grime of her foster parents' house. She climbed into the unfamiliar bed. Her body was exhausted, but for the first time in months, she felt a fragile sense of safety. She closed her eyes and let sleep pull her under.