Flash Marriage To The Ruthless Surgeon

The City Hall parking lot was mostly empty. Graham parked the Volvo in a spot close to the entrance and turned off the engine. He didn't move to get out. He just sat there, his hands resting on the steering wheel. "Jaimie," he said. "Get out of the car." His voice wasn't harsh. It wasn't gentle either. It was just a flat statement of fact, like he was telling her the time or the weather. She opened the door and stepped out into the humid morning air. The sun was trying to break through the clouds, but it offered no warmth. She felt hollowed out, like a shell that had been washed up on the shore. Graham walked beside her, his tall frame casting a long shadow over her. They walked up the concrete steps and through the heavy glass doors. The lobby smelled like floor wax and old paper. The marriage license bureau was on the second floor. They walked down a long, quiet hallway and pushed through a swinging door into a small, fluorescent-lit office. A middle-aged woman with greying hair and thick glasses sat behind the counter. She looked up as they approached, her expression bored and efficient. "Application for a marriage license," Graham said, placing his driver's license on the counter. The woman took the license and glanced at it. Then she glanced up at Graham, her expression neutral, before looking back down at the license and beginning to type on her computer. Jaimie noticed the look. She filed it away in the back of her mind, a tiny puzzle piece that didn't fit, but she was too numb to care. "IDs and Social Security numbers," the woman said, not looking up. Jaimie fumbled in her purse and handed over her ID. The woman typed for a few more minutes, then pushed a clipboard and a pen across the counter. "Fill this out. Both of you." Jaimie took the clipboard. Her hands were shaking so badly the paper rattled. She tried to write her name, but the letters came out as a jagged scrawl. The pen slipped, leaving a long, ugly streak across the page. She couldn't do it. She couldn't even sign her own name. A warm hand covered hers. Graham's fingers wrapped around her trembling hand, steadying it. His palm was dry and warm, his grip firm and unyielding. He guided her hand across the paper, forcing her to write "Jaimie Stuart" in a clear, legible script. It felt like he was branding her. Like he was carving his ownership into her skin. He let go of her hand, took the pen, and signed his own name with quick, confident strokes. "The ceremony room is down the hall," the woman said, stamping the paper. "You need a witness. I can get someone from the office." "That won't be necessary," Graham said. "We'll use the standby witness." They walked down the hall to a small, austere room with a wooden podium and a few rows of chairs. A bored-looking man in a cheap suit stood by the podium, holding a binder. Graham placed the license on the podium. The man opened the binder and began reading from the script, his voice monotonous and flat. "Do you, Graham Lawson, take Jaimie Stuart to be your lawfully wedded wife?" "I do." His voice was clear, strong, and without a hint of hesitation. The man turned to Jaimie. "Do you, Jaimie Stuart, take Graham Lawson to be your lawfully wedded husband?" The words caught in her throat. The room was spinning. She saw Gerry's sneering face. She saw her father's disappointed eyes. She saw the warehouse in the photograph. "Jaimie," Graham whispered. He was standing right behind her, his breath warm on her ear. "Think about your PhD." The words were a knife, slipping between her ribs and piercing her heart. The last bit of resistance crumbled. "Yes," she said, the word barely audible. The man nodded, signed the paper, and handed it to Graham. "Congratulations." Graham took the marriage certificate. He didn't hand it to Jaimie. He didn't even look at it. He simply folded it into a neat square and slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket, close to his heart. It was done. In less than thirty minutes, she had sold her freedom. They walked out of City Hall. The sun was too bright, stinging her eyes. She felt like she was walking underwater, every movement slow and heavy. "I have a surgery this afternoon," Graham said as they got back into the car. "I'll drop you off at the apartment. And Jaimie..." She didn't look at him. "About Gerry. I'll take care of it." He didn't say anything else. He drove her to the apartment, pulled up to the curb, and unlocked the doors. She got out without a word and walked up the stairs to her apartment. She locked the door behind her, went straight to her bedroom, and collapsed onto the bed. She pulled the covers over her head, trying to hide from the world, trying to pretend the last twelve hours hadn't happened. Her phone buzzed. She pulled it out from under the pillow. It was a text from Graham. No words. Just a photo. It was a picture of the marriage certificate. Her signature next to his. A permanent, undeniable record of her surrender.