Flash Marriage To The Mysterious Doctor

The piercing shriek of her alarm clock dragged Alexa from a fitful sleep on the couch. Her arm, pinned beneath her body all night, was a numb, tingling mess. She'd fallen asleep holding her phone, Donovan Beasley's name glowing on the screen.

She stumbled into the bathroom, the cheap linoleum cold under her bare feet. After a scalding hot shower that did little to wake her, she took his business card and locked it in the back of her desk drawer, a desperate attempt to put the insane proposal out of her mind. If she didn't think about it, maybe it wasn't real.

The L train to Manhattan was packed, a suffocating metal tube of damp coats and sour breath. She squeezed into a corner, put in her earbuds, and cranked up the volume, trying to drown out the reality of her life. The daily grind, the endless commute, the feeling of being a cog in a massive, uncaring machine—it was all becoming unbearable.

Emerging from the Wall Street station, the cold morning air was a welcome shock to her system. She took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and walked into the gleaming glass and steel tower that housed Sterling Trust & Capital.

In the elevator, a colleague, Leo, tried to make small talk. "Tough night, Hood?"

Alexa just pointed to her headphones and gave him a tight, dismissive smile.

Her cubicle was exactly as she'd left it: a chaotic pile of financial reports for the Steele account. Mr. Steele was a new, high-value client, and the pressure to get his portfolio structured was immense. She sighed, loosening the top button of her blouse, and powered on her computer.

She ran the initial data through her proprietary analysis model. The computer whirred, struggling under the sheer volume of information. She tapped an impatient rhythm on her desk with a pen, her stomach already churning with a familiar mix of coffee and anxiety.

Finally, the results populated the screen. A single cell glowed a violent, angry red. A capital shortfall. Not a small one, either. A massive, eight-figure black hole.

Her blood ran cold.

She started pulling the raw data, cross-referencing every invoice, every wire transfer, every tax filing. It took her two hours, but then she found it. A series of invoices with doctored tax identification numbers. It wasn't an error. It was fraud. Deliberate, blatant fraud.

A wave of nausea washed over her.

She grabbed her phone and dialed Mr. Steele's direct line. His secretary tried to block her, a well-practiced dance of deflection and delay.

"Put him on the phone now," Alexa said, her voice low and dangerous. "Or my next call is to the SEC."

A moment later, Steele's booming, arrogant voice was on the line. He denied everything, his tone dripping with condescension. "Listen, little girl, you're a junior analyst. You've probably just punched a number in wrong. Why don't you go get some coffee and let the big boys handle the numbers."

Alexa's hand tightened on the receiver. "On invoice 74-B, the tax ID for the shell corporation in Delaware is invalid. The same goes for invoices 81-C and 92-A. The funds were never invested. They were wired to an offshore account in the Caymans."

The line went dead silent. For a full ten seconds, the only sound was the hum of the office. Then, with a furious curse, Steele slammed the phone down.

The dial tone buzzed in her ear. Alexa threw her pen onto the desk in a fit of rage. It bounced off a stack of papers and clattered against her coffee mug.

The sound attracted her supervisor, a balding, perpetually stressed man named Mark. He walked over, his face already pale. "What was that?"

"Steele is cooking the books," Alexa said flatly.

Mark's eyes darted around the office. "Alexa, listen to me. Steele is a friend of the CEO. This is his flagship account. Whatever you think you found, you need to make it disappear. Find a way to make the numbers work. Do you understand me?"

The implication was clear. Falsify the report. Become an accessory.

"No," Alexa said, her voice shaking with anger. "I won't. That's a federal offense."

Mark's face turned a blotchy red. "You're making a big mistake, Hood. A career-ending mistake." He turned and stormed off, leaving her completely alone in a sea of cubicles.

She felt a wave of dizziness, the walls of her small workspace closing in on her. She pushed back her chair and fled to the restroom, splashing cold water on her face. She stared at her reflection in the mirror-the dark circles under her eyes, the faint lines of stress around her mouth. This was her life. Underpaid, overworked, and now, being asked to commit a crime to protect some rich crook.

Donovan Beasley's offer echoed in her mind. Are you happy with that? Drowning?

No. She wasn't.

She walked back to her desk, her steps firm and resolute. She bypassed Mark entirely. She compiled all the fraudulent data, encrypted the file, and wrote a concise, factual email. She attached the file and sent it directly to Robert in the compliance department.

The moment she hit send, a profound sense of both terror and relief washed over her. She slumped back in her chair, her body trembling. The stress had settled in her stomach, a tight, painful knot.

The rest of the day passed in a haze. People avoided her desk. Mark wouldn't even look at her. By six o'clock, the office was nearly empty. But Alexa stayed, opening a new spreadsheet, determined to build an airtight case file that compliance couldn't ignore. She would work all night if she had to.

At nine-thirty, her phone lit up on the desk. A text from an unknown number.

"How is the consideration coming along?"

Her breath hitched. It was him. Donovan.

She didn't reply. She flipped the phone face down and forced her eyes back to the glowing screen of her monitor, back to the endless rows of numbers.

At eleven o'clock, Alexa finally finished. She saved the final report, the evidence chain now complete and undeniable. As she clicked the mouse, the pain in her stomach sharpened, making her gasp and double over in her chair.

She shut down her computer, the silence of the empty office pressing in on her. She picked up her phone and looked at his message again. Her defenses, worn down by the long, brutal day, finally crumbled.

With a deep, shuddering breath, she typed her reply.

"We need to talk about the specific terms."

The soft chime of the sent message echoed in the cavernous room. It felt like a death sentence and a pardon, all at once.

Alexa packed her bag and left the building. The night wind on Wall Street was cold and sharp. She pulled her coat tighter around herself, knowing, with absolute certainty, that her life had just gone completely off the rails.

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