Flash Marriage: My Secret Billionaire Husband

The subway car rattled and swayed, a rhythmic clatter of steel on steel. Clare sat hunched in the hard plastic seat, the official-looking marriage certificate clutched in her hand. The paper felt flimsy, unreal. Mrs. Clare Pierce. The name was alien on her tongue.

Her phone vibrated violently in her pocket. A voice call from Chloe. Clare fumbled to connect her AirPods, bracing herself.

"CLARE ELIZA CARSON, HAVE YOU COMPLETELY LOST YOUR MIND?"

The shriek was so loud Clare winced, instinctively glancing around. A woman reading a paperback gave her a dirty look.

"Chloe, keep it down," she whispered, cupping her hand over her mouth.

"Did you marry Heath? After everything? I swear to God, Clare, if you went back to that manipulative, gaslighting-"

"It's not Heath," Clare cut in, her voice a strained hiss. "His name is Julian. He's just... a normal guy. An office worker. It's a contract, for Mom's bills."

"A normal guy?" Chloe's voice was dripping with suspicion. "There's no such thing as a 'normal guy' who agrees to a contract marriage in New York City."

Miles away, in the silent, leather-scented cabin of the Maybach, Julian stared at a tablet. The air was frigid. His assistant, a man named Mark, sat tensely in the passenger seat, not daring to breathe too loudly.

On the screen was Clare's file. A comprehensive report detailing every aspect of her life. Julian's gaze was fixed on a section highlighted in red: Harassment by former fiancé, Heath Torres. It listed a dozen incidents-unwanted calls, showing up at her workplace, a restraining order she'd been too afraid and broke to enforce. His jaw tightened, a muscle ticking violently.

"Mark," Julian said, his voice dangerously quiet.

"Sir?"

"Heath Torres. He's been seen outside her apartment building recently?"

Mark swallowed. "Yes, sir. Our surveillance team confirmed he was there three times this week. Loitering in the lobby."

Julian's eyes were chips of ice. "Buy the building."

Mark froze, his hand halfway to adjusting the climate control. "Sir? The entire building? It's a pre-war walk-up in Brooklyn, the property value is-"

Julian lifted his gaze from the tablet. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to. The look in his eyes was enough. It was a look that had made seasoned executives crumble.

"Did I ask for a market analysis, Mark?"

"No, sir. I'll get it done." Mark immediately turned and began typing furiously on his own device.

Clare emerged from the subway station into a light, drizzling rain. She hadn't brought an umbrella. Pulling her thin jacket over her head, she broke into a jog, the cold drops plastering her hair to her forehead.

Her apartment building was just as depressing as she'd left it. The "Out of Order" sign was still taped to the elevator door. Of course. With a weary sigh, she began the long, five-flight climb, her legs aching.

She unlocked the door to her apartment and pushed it open. The sight that greeted her made her stomach turn. It was a mess. Not her mess. Heath's. His stupid, limited-edition sneakers were kicked off by the door, a half-empty protein shake was growing mold on the coffee table, and his video game console was still hooked up to her TV. He had refused to take his things when he left, another petty power play.

A surge of rage, hot and cleansing, cut through her exhaustion. That was it. She was done.

She stalked to the hall closet, yanked out a stack of heavy-duty black trash bags, and began to violently shove his possessions inside. First the overpriced sneakers. Then the collection of sports jerseys. She was stuffing a smelly hoodie into a bag when her phone screen lit up on the counter.

A new iMessage. From Lily.

Lily: Clare, sweetie. I know you're probably mad, but Heath is having a really hard time. His asthma flared up again, he's at the hospital. He just keeps asking for you. Please, can you just come see him? For me?

The cloying, manipulative tone made Clare's skin crawl. She could picture Lily typing it, her face a mask of faux concern. Cold laughter bubbled up in Clare's throat. She typed a furious, scathing reply, her thumbs flying.

Go to hell, both of you.

But just before she hit send, she stopped. What was the point? Arguing with them was like wrestling with pigs in mud. You just got dirty, and the pigs enjoyed it. With a decisive tap, she deleted the message. Then she found Lily's contact and pressed "Block this Caller."

A satisfying sense of finality washed over her.

It was short-lived.

A heavy, rhythmic thumping sound started outside her door. The sound of wheels-heavy, rubber wheels-rolling over the worn hallway carpet. Followed by a frantic rattling of her doorknob.

Clang. The door shuddered as a body slammed against it, stopped only by the flimsy security chain.

"Clare! Open this door! I know you're in there!"

Heath.

Clare's blood ran cold. She grabbed the can of pepper spray she kept on her kitchen counter and crept towards the door. Peeking through the crack, she saw his face, contorted with rage. He was in his wheelchair.

"Why didn't you answer Lily's text?" he yelled, his voice echoing in the stairwell. "She's worried sick! He's in the hospital because of you, you cold-hearted bitch!"

Clare laughed, a harsh, brittle sound. "Get the hell away from my door, Heath, or I'm calling the cops."

"Go ahead!" he taunted, his sense of entitlement infuriating. "What are they gonna do? Arrest a guy in a wheelchair for trying to talk to his fiancée?"

Inside the Maybach, parked a block away, Julian watched the scene unfold on a high-definition monitor. The feed was from a micro-camera his team had installed in the hallway smoke detector that morning. He saw Heath's snarling face, heard his vicious words. A murderous calm settled over him. The temperature in the car seemed to drop twenty degrees.

He picked up his phone and dialed Clare's number.

Inside the apartment, the sudden ringing of her phone made Clare jump. It was Julian. A lifeline. Her hand was shaking as she answered.

"Clare?"

"Julian," she breathed, her voice trembling. "My ex... he's outside my door."

"I hear him," Julian said, his tone low and steady, a rock in the storm of her fear. "What's that sound? Is he hitting the door? Put me on speaker, Clare."

She did as he said, holding the phone up to the crack in the door.

Julian's voice filled the small space, no longer gentle. It was glacial. It was laced with a kind of authority that demanded obedience.

"This is your only warning. You are currently engaged in criminal trespassing and harassment. Leave the premises immediately."

Heath was stunned into silence. "Who... who the hell is this?" he stammered.

The reply was delivered with the chilling finality of a death sentence.

"I'm her husband."

Heath froze, his face a mask of disbelief. In that split second of stunned silence, two figures appeared at the top of the stairwell. They were large men in simple black jackets, moving with silent, unnerving efficiency.

Before Heath could react, they were on him. One grabbed the handles of the wheelchair, the other secured his arms.

"What are you doing? Get your hands off me!" he shrieked, his voice cracking with impotent rage.

They didn't say a word. They simply lifted the wheelchair, with him in it, and began carrying him down the stairs. His furious, pathetic shouts faded as they descended, until the only sound left was the quiet hum of the old building's radiator.