Flash Marriage To The Secret Billionaire CEO

The first few days of her marriage were quiet. Erin moved her things into the Greenpoint apartment, trying to inject some of her own personality into its sterile perfection. She hung her art on the walls, stacked her books on the shelves, and filled the empty fridge. She sent Harmon a text, her first. I've moved in. The apartment is beautiful. Thank you. His reply came hours later, a timestamp from a different continent. Welcome home. Fog in London. Flight delayed. Over the next week, the texts became a routine. Short, impersonal updates from around the world. Landed in Paris. 24-hour layover in Dubai. Pre-flight check in Tokyo. They were like reports from a ghost. A ghost who, once a week, deposited a sum of money into their joint account that was perfectly consistent with an AeroLux senior captain's salary. A strange sort of acceptance settled over Erin. This was her marriage. A safe, stable, and profoundly lonely arrangement with a man who was rarely there. It was better than being alone, she told herself. It was. She threw herself into her work. Their design studio, Urban Aesthetics, had landed the biggest client of their career: Seraphina Monroe, a notorious Upper East Side socialite. "I don't get it," Tessa said, scrolling through Seraphina's intimidatingly perfect Instagram feed. "How did she even find us?" Their assistant, Zoe, chimed in from her desk. "She said she was referred by Genevieve Laurent." Erin and Tessa stared at each other. Genevieve Laurent was an Oscar-winning actress, a Hollywood legend. They had never met her, never worked with anyone in her circle. "Must have been that feature in Architectural Digest," Tessa mused, though she didn't sound convinced. Erin accepted it as another piece of bizarre good luck in a life that had suddenly become full of it. She didn't know that Genevieve Laurent was a flagship star of Chandler Entertainment, or that the referral had been personally arranged by Clyde Curry. She worked late for three nights in a row, perfecting the design proposal. She was so consumed by floor plans and fabric swatches that she almost forgot she was a married woman. This marriage, she decided, was a transaction. He needed a wife to fulfill a promise, and in return, she got a beautiful apartment and financial stability. It was a deal. It was nearly 2 a.m. when she finally dragged her exhausted body home. She unlocked the door to 15B, expecting the usual silence and darkness. Instead, she smelled it. A faint, clean scent of expensive aftershave. Her heart seized. On the arm of the sofa, a man's suit jacket was draped carelessly. It wasn't hers. Her hand tightened around her keys, the metal edges digging into her palm. Someone was in the apartment. She crept toward the bedroom, her every nerve ending on fire. The door was slightly ajar. Through the crack, she saw a tall silhouette standing by the window, his back to her. He was on the phone. It was Harmon. He was home. His voice was different from the one she remembered. It was colder, sharper, laced with an unmistakable, ruthless authority. "...the acquisition needs to be finalized by Friday. I don't care what methods you have to use." He ended the call, the silence that followed ringing in her ears.