Flash Marriage To My Secret Billionaire
Finley's stepfather gave her a sickening ultimatum: marry her predatory stepbrother Shane tonight, or he would throw her fragile mother out on the street.
To escape this hell, she used a matchmaking agency and hastily married a complete stranger. Garrison Strickland claimed to be an ordinary data analyst making $95,000 a year, driving a beat-up Honda Civic, and needing a wife in name only. They got their marriage license at City Hall that very afternoon.
But when Finley returned home to pack her bags and threw the certificate on the table, her family just laughed. Dozier ordered Shane to drag her into the bedroom to "teach her a lesson" and trap her forever.
"Come on, little sister," Shane crooned, lunging at her. "Don't fight it."
Finley's own mother just stared at the floor, blaming Finley for ruining the family, watching blindly as Shane cornered her.
Terrified and desperate, Finley smashed an ashtray over Shane's head and frantically dialed her new husband's number. Shane snatched the phone, mocking the "imaginary husband" before the line went dead. Finley felt a bottomless despair. Garrison was just a normal guy; he would never risk his life against her violent family. She was completely on her own, waiting for the end.
Suddenly, deafening bangs echoed through the house, and Garrison stepped into the living room radiating a cold, terrifying fury. This supposedly "frugal data analyst" effortlessly snapped Shane's wrist, leveled a ruthless death threat that made Dozier tremble, and whisked Finley away in a waiting Bentley. Looking at the powerful man beside her, Finley's heart raced: just who exactly had she married today?
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Chapter 3
The "Bright Minds" tutoring center was clean, modern, and smelled of whiteboard markers and ambition. The woman who ran the place, a sharp-eyed woman named Mrs. Gable, was visibly impressed by Finley's status as a Columbia University student. It was a credential that opened doors, a key Finley had worked herself to the bone to earn.
The high school history class was a mix of bored, privileged kids and a few genuinely eager ones. Finley, who loved the narrative sweep of history, found her rhythm quickly. She wasn't just reciting dates; she was telling stories. By the end of the first hour, even the most jaded-looking teenagers were leaning forward, listening.
During the mid-morning break, she sat at the small desk, sipping water from a bottle and scrolling through her phone. A few spam texts had come in-one offering a great deal on a mortgage, another from a real estate agent she'd never heard of.
Annoyed, she long-pressed on the first message, selected the other unfamiliar numbers, and hit "Block and Delete." A small, satisfying purge of digital clutter.
She didn't give it a second thought. Garrison's number was new. Unfamiliar. She had only received a few texts from him. In her quick, irritated sweep, his number, saved just the day before, was just another piece of junk mail from a stranger who had somehow gotten her information. Maybe from the agency.
She dismissed the thought and turned her attention back to her lesson plan, completely unaware that she had just digitally excommunicated her new husband.
On the other side of the country, in a glass-walled conference room overlooking the Pacific Ocean, Garrison Strickland was not paying attention to the quarterly projections being presented. He was looking at his phone.
He'd sent a simple message ten minutes ago.
Hope the first day is going well.
It was casual. A simple check-in. But the message status beneath it was a small, sharp shock.
Message Sent. Delivery Failed.
He frowned. A network issue, probably. He exited the messaging app and dialed her number.
The call didn't even ring. It went straight to a cold, automated voice. The number you have dialed has been blocked.
The words hung in the air, nonsensical.
Blocked.
He had been blocked.
The polished calm he wore like a second skin cracked. He lowered the phone, his knuckles white as he gripped it. Married for less than forty-eight hours, and she had blocked him.
Pierce, sitting next to him, noticed the shift in his cousin's demeanor. The air around Garrison had dropped twenty degrees. "Everything okay?" he whispered.
Garrison's voice was dangerously quiet. "My wife just blocked me."
Pierce's eyes widened. A slow, incredulous grin spread across his face. He stifled a laugh, which quickly died under the force of Garrison's icy glare.
Garrison's first thought was not anger. It was a cold, sharp spike of fear. She was in trouble. Dozier. Her family had gotten to her, taken her phone, cut her off.
He stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. "Excuse me," he said to the room, his voice a low command. He walked out onto the adjoining balcony, the sea breeze doing nothing to cool the sudden heat under his skin.
He made a call. "Get me a location on Finley Bailey's phone. Now. And have our team check the security footage at that address. I want to know she's safe."
The information came back a few minutes later. Her phone signal was stable, located inside the "Bright Minds" building. The street cam footage, grainy but clear, showed her through the front window, standing in front of a classroom, talking and gesturing. She looked fine. She looked... happy.
She wasn't in danger.
Which meant she had blocked him. On purpose.
The relief was immediately replaced by a wave of cold fury, followed by a deeply unfamiliar feeling: confusion. Why? Had she found something out? Impossible. His tracks were covered. Was it because he'd refused her offer to pay rent? Was she that proud? Was this her way of ending the agreement?
The feeling of not knowing, of being cut off and unable to control the situation, was intolerable. He, a man who could move markets with a word, was being ghosted by a college student he'd just married.
He paced the balcony, the absurdity of it all crashing down on him. He couldn't call her. He couldn't text her.
There was only one option. One deeply, profoundly humiliating option.
He took a deep breath and dialed Margo Finch. He pitched his voice to sound like "Gary"-a little uncertain, a little embarrassed.
"Margo, hi, it's Gary Strickland. I know this is a strange request, but I seem to have... misplaced Finley's number. My phone's been acting up. Could you possibly send it to me again?"
There was a surprised silence on the other end. "Of course, Gary. One moment."
His phone buzzed with the number he already knew by heart. He hung up, his jaw tight with irritation. He handed his phone to Pierce.
"Send a text from your phone. A number she won't recognize."
Pierce typed, trying to keep a straight face.
Finley was erasing the whiteboard when her phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number.
Finley, this is Gary. It seems I'm blocked. Is everything alright?
Finley froze. Gary. Garrison.
Blocked?
Her blood ran cold. Oh, no.
Her fingers flew as she opened her settings, went to her block list. There, nestled between two numbers flagged as "Spam Risk," was his.
She had deleted her husband.
A hot wave of mortification washed over her. She felt like the world's biggest idiot. She quickly unblocked the number and typed a frantic reply.
Oh my god! Garrison, I am so, so sorry! I thought you were a spam call! I was cleaning out my phone. I didn't do it on purpose!
In California, Garrison watched the message appear on Pierce's screen. He read it, and the tight knot of anger and confusion in his chest loosened, then dissolved into something that felt dangerously like amusement.
He took his phone back and replied from his own number.
It's fine. I'm just glad you weren't trying to get rid of me on day two.
The message came through on Finley's phone. The hint of teasing in the words, the playful undertone, made her cheeks burn. It was the most un-businesslike thing he'd said yet.
And as she stood there, flustered and embarrassed, her phone rang again.
The screen displayed a name that made all the warmth drain from her body.
Dozier.
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7.4
I single-handedly saved my family's corporate empire from a hostile takeover, securing our market share for the next decade.
But my grandfather didn't see me as a hero. He saw me as a flawed piece of inventory.
To calm the board and fix the reputation I supposedly ruined, he forced me into an arranged marriage, auctioning me off to the highest bidder.
Desperate, I turned to my childhood friend, Egnacio, the only person who ever promised to protect me.
But instead of saving me, he publicly humiliated me. He used my desperation as a networking opportunity, pitching my arranged marriage as a business deal to a ruthless private equity king named Dexter Mathews.
Later that night, I caught Egnacio holding my cruel cousin in his arms.
"What man wants to be with a woman who looks at you like she's planning a hostile takeover?"
Hearing him mock my pain shattered the last bit of hope I had.
I realized I was never family to them. I was just a sharp knife, used to cut down their enemies and then traded for cash before I got dull.
The heartbreak vanished, replaced by a cold, violent rage.
I didn't break, and I didn't run.
Instead, I got into the back of Dexter Mathews's car. He had watched my family tear me apart, but he didn't see a broken pawn. He saw a queen.
And together, we were going to burn their entire empire to the ground.
7.3
Eloise was the untouchable Brandt family heiress, just one audition away from landing a lead movie role and escaping her golden cage.
But overnight, her family's empire completely collapsed.
With her father dying of heart failure, her mother forced her to beg the only man who could save them: Christian Clarke.
Christian was the ruthless billionaire who had publicly humiliated Eloise in college, ripping up her love letter in front of a laughing crowd.
Now, he tossed a fifty-million-dollar acquisition contract on the table.
"What exactly is the Brandt heiress putting up for sale today?"
To secure her father's medical care, Eloise was forced to sign a suffocating marriage contract, selling herself as a corporate tax shield.
He moved her into his freezing penthouse and treated her like a purchased asset. He mocked her attempts to cook him dinner, yet pinned her against the wall with punishing, possessive kisses whenever she tried to pull away.
Eloise's pride was entirely shattered.
She didn't understand why he was doing this. If he hated her so much and only wanted revenge, why did his touch carry such an agonizing, desperate heat?
Determined to survive, she went to her final audition and miraculously won the lead role, crying tears of joy because she had finally earned something on her own.
She had no idea that the cold-blooded monster sleeping beside her had just secretly threatened to destroy all of Hollywood to give it to her.
9.4
Six years ago, Breanna was shoved into a pitch-black hotel suite by her own uncle.
She was forced to endure a brutal night with a drugged stranger just to keep her grandmother's ventilator running.
Nine months later, she gave birth in a cold underground clinic.
But her uncle immediately snatched the crying newborn from her trembling hands, coldly announcing the baby had died.
For six years, Breanna lived in agonizing grief, working as a lowly hotel cleaner just to survive.
But a cruel setup threw her directly into the path of Elliot Finch, the arrogant billionaire from that dark night.
He did not recognize the woman whose life he had completely ruined.
Instead, he looked at her like she was rotting garbage, had his guards drag her into a wet alley, and mercilessly got her fired.
"If I ever see your face again, I will make sure you cannot get a job cleaning toilets."
Breanna was suffocating from the injustice, stripped of her dignity and her family's only lifeline.
Yet, when she instinctively protected a traumatized little boy from bullies, she discovered he was Elliot's son.
The boy clung to her neck, crying and desperately begging his father to let her stay.
But Elliot just threw a massive check at her chest, violently accusing her of brainwashing a sick child for a meal ticket.
Looking at the toxic disgust in his eyes, something inside Breanna finally broke.
She picked up the check, ripped the millions into tiny shreds, and let them rain down on his expensive shoes.
"Keep your dirty money."
She turned her back on the crying boy and the stunned billionaire, deciding she would no longer be their victim.
9.7
For three years, I was the dutiful wife of billionaire Ervin Valdez.
On our third wedding anniversary, he came home smelling of his mistress's perfume, pinned me down, and brutally mocked me.
His mistress, Sylvia, had even sent me a fake ultrasound report to force me out of the picture.
In Ervin's eyes, I was just a vicious, calculating liar who used a pregnancy to trap him into marriage.
He didn't care that I had actually lost that baby, nor did he know the trauma of my gambling father selling me to a dark club where I was assaulted by a stranger.
When I finally handed him the signed divorce papers, giving up all assets, and left the penthouse with nothing but an old suitcase, he just sneered.
"She is playing a game of hard to get. She won't last three days before she comes crying back."
He froze all my bank accounts, let his mistress humiliate me in public, and waited coldly for me to starve and beg.
He thought my entire existence relied on his wealth, completely confident that I would inevitably surrender to his control.
But he was wrong.
I calmly opened my old laptop, bypassed the complex encryptions, and looked at the dozens of unread emails from top-tier global brands begging for my return.
I resurrected my hidden identity as the legendary jewelry designer "R," and walked straight into the top design firm in Manhattan.
"It is time to find myself again."
7.6
I am the illegitimate, mute daughter of the wealthy Owen family, kept hidden in the attic like a shameful secret.
To save his failing company, my father decided to sell me off to a repulsive, predatory investor named Grossman.
At the family dinner, Grossman's sweaty hands roamed my bare legs while my half-sister Kaleigh intentionally spilled red wine on my dress, laughing as she watched me suffer.
When I grabbed a steak knife to defend myself, my father slammed his fist on the table.
"Sit down, or I will cut off the maintenance payments for your mother's grave."
My stepmother and sister sneered, treating me like a piece of meat meant to be sacrificed for their luxury. I was starved, locked away, and treated worse than a stray dog, all while my family paraded their high-society status to the world.
I couldn't understand why they hated me so deeply, or who really ordered the hit that killed my mother twenty years ago. The police reports were buried, and I was entirely powerless, trapped in a house of monsters.
But they didn't know that the night before, I had accidentally stumbled into the secret life of Burleigh Livingston—the ruthless, supposedly paralyzed billionaire who was faking his madness.
When Burleigh suddenly crashed our family dinner and threw a limitless Black Card on the table to outbid Grossman and buy me for the night, I didn't hesitate.
I grabbed the handles of his wheelchair, accepted his twisted deal, and prepared to use the devil himself to tear my family apart.
9.6
To escape my sister-in-law selling me off to a local thug, I married a complete stranger I met at City Hall.
My new husband, Drake, claimed to be a broke Uber driver who could barely make rent.
He even made me sign a brutal ten-page prenup just to ensure I wouldn't take his rusted, beat-up Ford sedan if we ever divorced.
I thought I was just sharing a decaying Brooklyn apartment with a struggling man at the bottom of the ladder.
But things quickly stopped making sense.
When that local thug cornered me at a restaurant, my "weak" husband didn't cower.
Instead, he dismantled three massive mobsters in ten seconds with the terrifying, fluid speed of an apex predator.
"I used to be a human punching bag in an underground boxing gym to pay off debts."
I believed his excuse, until his supposedly homeless grandfather showed up at our door in a moth-eaten sweater, begging to sleep on our lumpy sofa.
Before going to sleep, the old man casually pressed a heavy, intricately engraved pocket watch into my hand as a wedding gift.
He claimed it was a cheap flea market find that didn't even keep time.
But the sheer weight of the solid rose gold and the flawless mechanical gears inside screamed otherwise.
Why did a destitute driver have the aura of a man who controlled empires?
And what kind of homeless old man casually hands over a priceless, museum-grade antique?
I had no idea the "broke driver" sleeping on my floor was actually a ruthless billionaire CEO, and I had just walked straight into his trap.