My Fake Bankrupt Husband Is A Tycoon

The heavy glass door of the diner refuses to budge.

My palms slide against the grease-stained metal. My lungs burn. I need air. I need the freezing Philadelphia winter, but the diner is a suffocating trap of fried bacon and cheap bleach.

Before I can throw my weight against the door again, thick fingers dig into my bicep. The nails pierce through my thin sweater, scraping my skin.

"Where do you think you're going, Grace?"

My mother's voice is a jagged blade. Doris yanks me backward with a force that makes my neck snap. She shoves me into the cracked vinyl booth. The springs groan under my weight.

Across the table, Clarnce leans forward. The stench of his cheap cologne hits the back of my throat, thick and nauseating. He smiles, revealing a row of yellowed teeth.

"Don't be shy, Gracie," Clarnce says.

He reaches across the sticky table. His thick, calloused hand clamps over my jaw. His fingers press into my cheeks, hard enough to grind my teeth against the inside of my mouth. A whimper tears from my throat.

"Let go of me," I choke out, my voice trembling. "I am not marrying a man with two domestic violence charges."

Doris slams her hand on the table. The salt shaker rattles. She digs into her oversized purse and pulls out a ring. The diamond is small, cloudy, and set in cheap, tarnished metal. She shoves it across the table.

"You will put this on, and you will go to City Hall with your cousin right now," Doris hisses, her face turning a mottled red. "Do you know how much money he gave me? You ungrateful little bitch."

People in the surrounding booths are staring. I can feel their eyes crawling over my skin. Doris notices the audience and immediately changes her tune. She throws her hands in the air and lets out a loud, theatrical wail.

"My own daughter!" she cries out to the diner. "Leaving her poor mother to starve! Refusing to help her family!"

The walls of the diner close in on me. My heart hammers against my ribs so violently I think it might crack my sternum. I grip the strap of my canvas bag until my knuckles turn white. I can't breathe. I can't marry him. I will die if I marry him.

A waitress approaches our booth, carrying a tray with two mugs of scalding black coffee. She looks nervous, her eyes darting between Clarnce's grip on my face and my mother's fake tears.

This is it.

I jerk my body to the side, pretending to struggle against Clarnce's hold. As I twist, I slam my elbow hard into the edge of the waitress's tray.

The tray tips. The mugs slide.

Scalding black coffee cascades directly into Clarnce's lap.

He unleashes a sound that is half-scream, half-roar. His hand flies off my face as he jumps up, knocking his knees against the table. The booth shakes. Doris shrieks, grabbing a handful of cheap napkins and frantically dabbing at his soaked jeans.

Chaos erupts.

I don't hesitate. I grab my canvas bag, spin around, and sprint toward the narrow hallway leading to the kitchen.

"Hey! You can't go back there!" a cook yells as I push past him.

I ignore him. I shove open the heavy metal back door and burst into the freezing alley.

The winter air hits my lungs like shattered glass. I don't stop. I run. I run until my legs burn and my throat tastes like copper. I sprint past dumpsters, down three dark blocks, my boots slipping on the icy pavement.

I finally stop at the corner of Rittenhouse Square. I lean against a cold streetlamp, my chest heaving. My hands are shaking so badly I can barely unlock my phone. I open the contract marriage app. The blue dot shows my arranged partner, Ethan, is already at the location.

I wipe the sweat from my forehead and try to smooth my tangled hair. A nondescript, black Ford sedan pulls up to the curb. The passenger window rolls down.

The man behind the wheel has a profile carved from granite. His jawline is sharp, his dark hair perfectly styled. He wears a suit that has no visible logos, but the fabric looks expensive. He frowns, his dark eyes scanning my ragged breathing, my cheap coat, and the sheer terror written all over my face.

"Grace Glover?" His voice is a low, deep rumble that vibrates in my chest.

I nod, swallowing hard. I pull open the heavy car door and slide into the passenger seat.

The heat of the car wraps around me. The interior smells like expensive cedarwood and clean linen. It doesn't match the cheap Ford badge on the steering wheel.

Ethan turns his head. His eyes are cold, calculating. "I'll be upfront," he says, adjusting his cuff. "I'm only here because my sick grandmother won't stop nagging me. I need a wife on paper. Today."

My breath catches. I look out the window.

Less than fifty feet away, at the end of the block, Clarnce is stomping down the sidewalk. His face is purple with rage. He is looking for me.

Panic seizes my throat. I lunge across the center console, grabbing Ethan's forearm. His muscles are rock-hard beneath the suit jacket. He flinches, leaning back against his seat, his eyes narrowing at my sudden invasion of his space.

"Do you have your driver's license and social security card on you?" I ask, my words rushing out in a frantic breath.

Ethan stares at me, his jaw ticking. "Yes."

"Take me to City Hall," I beg, my voice cracking. "Let's get married, right now. If you find me annoying or for any other reason, we can get divorced the day after we get married, so let's get married today. I won't cause you any trouble!"

Ethan looks past my shoulder, spotting the massive, angry man scanning the street. He looks back at me. A muscle feathers in his cheek.

"Put your seatbelt on," he says.

Ethan slams his foot on the gas. The Ford lurches forward, merging seamlessly into the heavy Philadelphia traffic. I watch in the side mirror as Clarnce's furious figure shrinks and disappears.

I collapse against the headrest. A long, shaky breath escapes my lips. Cold sweat clings to my spine.

Ethan doesn't look at me. He keeps one hand on the steering wheel and uses the other to pull a clean tissue from the console. He holds it out to me. His movements are precise, almost mechanical.

"Thank you," I whisper, taking the tissue and dabbing the sweat from my forehead. "My mother... she was trying to force me to marry my cousin. He paid her."

Ethan's expression doesn't change. He just keeps his eyes on the road. "Disgusting," he mutters, the word clipped and cold.

He pulls the car to a stop across the street from City Hall. The massive stone building looms against the gray winter sky.

We step out of the car. The wind whips my hair across my face. As we cross the busy street, a delivery biker runs a red light, speeding directly toward me.

"Watch out."

Ethan's arm wraps around my shoulders. He yanks me hard against his chest.

The bike flies past, missing me by inches.

I am plastered against him. His chest is a solid wall of muscle. The heat radiating from his body seeps through my thin coat. I can smell that cedarwood scent again, intoxicating and entirely male. My heart stutters.

He releases me instantly, stepping back as if my touch burned him. He rubs his thumb against his index finger, a slight frown on his face.

"Stay close," he says, his voice devoid of emotion.

We walk into the grand lobby of City Hall. The marriage bureau is crowded with couples holding hands and kissing. Ethan and I sit on a wooden bench, a full two feet of space between us.

A bored clerk named Agnes hands us a stack of paperwork.

I chew on the end of my pen. I glance over at Ethan's form. Under 'Occupation', he writes Financial Analyst. It makes sense. He drives a Ford, wears a plain suit, and needs a fake wife. He's just a regular guy trying to appease his family.

Agnes reviews our forms. "That will be thirty-five dollars for the license."

I immediately dig into my canvas bag, searching for crumpled dollar bills.

Ethan beats me to it. He slides a plain, standard-issue credit card across the counter. "I've got it."

"We should split it," I insist, pulling out a ten and a five.

"Put your money away, Grace," he says, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Agnes stamps the papers. "The judge can see you now for the ceremony. Do you have rings?"

I freeze. My stomach drops. "Rings? No. We didn't..."

The silence is agonizing. Agnes raises an eyebrow.

Ethan reaches into his coat pocket. He pulls out a plastic pull-ring from a water bottle he bought earlier. He looks at me, his dark eyes unreadable.

He steps closer. He takes my left hand. His fingers are warm and slightly rough. A shiver trails up my arm.

"With this ring," Ethan says, his voice dropping an octave, sounding incredibly smooth and convincing, "I thee wed."

He slides the plastic ring onto my bare finger. It fits perfectly.

My cheeks burn. I feel a sudden, terrifying flutter in my chest. I stammer through my vows, my voice barely a whisper.

"You may kiss the bride," the judge announces.

My eyes go wide. Ethan steps into my space. He cups my face with both hands. His thumbs rest gently against my cheekbones. He tilts his head down.

I close my eyes, my breath hitching.

I feel his lips press against his own thumb, which he has strategically placed right over my mouth. His warm breath fans across my nose. It's a fake kiss. A perfect illusion.

He pulls away. The judge claps. Agnes hands us the marriage license with a gold seal.

We walk out of City Hall. The cold air instantly shatters the illusion of intimacy. We are strangers again.

"Thank you," I say, bowing my head slightly. "I'll meet you here tomorrow at the same time to file the annulment."

"Tomorrow," Ethan agrees.

I turn and walk quickly toward the subway station.

Ethan watches her go. Once her small frame disappears into the crowd, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a sleek, encrypted satellite phone.

Ethan turns down a narrow, empty alleyway adjacent to City Hall.

A black, armored Maybach 62S sits idling in the shadows. The rear door swings open. His executive assistant, K. Jennings, stands at attention.

Jennings takes the unbranded suit jacket Ethan strips off and tosses it directly into a nearby dumpster.

Ethan slides into the plush leather backseat of the Maybach. He loosens his tie, rolling his shoulders. The suffocating disguise of a middle-class worker falls away, replaced by the terrifying aura of the man who controls the Patterson Empire.

He pulls the marriage license from his pocket. He snaps a high-resolution photo with his phone and sends it to a contact labeled Eleanor.

Ten seconds later, the phone rings.

"You actually did it!" Eleanor's voice crackles through the speaker, breathless with laughter. "The heir to the Patterson fortune, married in a dingy City Hall!"

Ethan rubs his temples. "It's a piece of paper, Grandmother. It buys you peace of mind for your surgery. I am annulling it tomorrow."

"We'll see about that," Eleanor hums. "Bring the future Mrs. Patterson to the New York estate. I want to meet her."

"Goodbye, Grandmother." Ethan hangs up. He tosses the phone onto the seat. He looks at Jennings in the rearview mirror. "Run a full background check on Grace Glover. I want everything."

The subway ride to the Old City district takes forty minutes.

I walk down the cobblestone street toward Blooming Grace, the small flower shop I pour my soul into. I live in the tiny attic above it. It's my only safe haven.

I pull my keys from my bag. Before I can insert them into the lock, a screech of tires makes me jump.

A beat-up truck slams to a halt by the curb. Doris jumps out. Two massive men follow her-distant cousins from the Vaughan side of the family.

Doris kicks the glass door of the shop. It rattles violently.

"You little runaway whore!" Doris screams, pointing a thick finger at my face.

I back up quickly, retreating behind the wooden cash register counter. My hand drops below the counter, my fingers wrapping tightly around the cold metal handle of my heavy gardening shears.

Doris storms inside, her eyes darting to my hands. She sees the plastic ring.

"Where is Clarnce's ring?" she demands, her face turning purple. "He gave me twenty thousand dollars for you! You give me that money right now, or you're coming with us!"

"I don't have his money," I say, my voice shaking but my grip on the shears tightening. "And you can't force me to go anywhere. I'm married."

Doris pauses. Then, she throws her head back and barks out a harsh laugh. "Married? You expect me to believe that?"

I reach into my bag with my left hand. I pull out the marriage license and slam it onto the counter. The gold seal catches the light.

Doris stares at the paper. She reads the names. Her face drains of color, then flushes with a rage so intense she looks demonic. The realization that her twenty-thousand-dollar payday is gone snaps the last thread of her sanity.

"Smash it," Doris snarls.

She grabs a heavy ceramic pot holding a rare orchid and hurls it at the floor.

The ceramic shatters. Dirt explodes across the hardwood.

"No!" I scream, lunging forward.

One of the cousins shoves me hard in the chest. I stumble backward, crashing into a display shelf.

The two men tear through the shop. They flip tables. They stomp on the delicate roses I spent weeks cultivating. Glass vases explode against the walls. Water and crushed petals cover the floor in a slippery, tragic mess.

I scramble to the corner, throwing my body over a tray of succulents that belong to my sister, Eloise. A falling glass vase clips my hand.

A sharp pain slices across the back of my hand. Warm blood instantly wells up, dripping onto the green leaves of the succulents. I bite my lip so hard I taste copper. Tears of pure hatred blur my vision.

Outside, Greta, the owner of the convenience store next door, peers through the window. Her eyes go wide. She immediately pulls out her phone and dials 911. The two men are massive, their menacing postures silencing the few onlookers who had started to gather at the door, making it clear no one is to interfere.

Doris grabs a handful of my hair, yanking my head back.

"You call that bastard you married," Doris spits in my face. "You tell him he owes me twenty grand, or I will burn this place to the ground with you in it."

The wail of police sirens pierces the air. Red and blue lights flash against the broken glass of my shop.