Flash Marriage To The Vengeful CEO

Debora lugged the heavy canvas bag down the cracked sidewalk, struggling to keep up with Jameson's long strides. He stopped beside a dark gray Chevrolet Malibu parked on the curb. He pressed the key fob. The headlights flashed. He opened the driver's side door and slid in without a word. Debora stood awkwardly by the passenger door for a second. She took a deep breath, pulled the handle, and climbed inside, dropping her bag by her feet. The interior of the car smelled like cedar and expensive leather, a scent that felt entirely too rich for a standard sedan. Jameson started the engine. He pulled the car away from the curb, leaving the decaying suburban street behind. The silence in the car was thick and suffocating. Debora gripped the seatbelt across her chest, watching the blurred trees pass by the window. Her stomach churned with a mixture of morning sickness and pure anxiety. "Where are we going?" she finally asked, her voice cracking slightly. Jameson kept his eyes locked on the road. "My apartment. In Brooklyn." An hour later, the Chevy turned into a slightly rundown but clean neighborhood in Brooklyn. Jameson parked the car in front of a weathered red brick apartment building. He killed the engine and stepped out. Debora followed him into the building. They stepped into a cramped elevator that groaned and rattled as it carried them to the third floor. Jameson walked to the end of the hallway and shoved a key into the lock. He pushed the door open and stepped aside. Debora walked in. It was a standard one-bedroom apartment. The furniture was minimal, generic, and completely devoid of any personal touches. It looked like a showroom, not a home. Jameson pointed to the only closed door in the short hallway. "That's your bedroom. I'll take the couch." Debora blinked, surprised by the arrangement. A small fraction of the tension in her chest loosened. She looked at him, her eyes softening with genuine gratitude. "Thank you. Really." Jameson stared at her grateful expression. A muscle feathered in his jaw. A dark, violent irritation flared in his chest, warring with the disgust he felt looking at her. "I have to go back to the office," he said, his voice hard and clipped. He grabbed the coat he had just taken off, turned around, and walked out. The door slammed shut behind him. Debora stood alone in the quiet living room. She placed her hand over her stomach, feeling the slight firmness there. She took a deep breath. She was going to make this work. She had to. Down on the street, Jameson didn't walk toward the Chevy. He turned the corner and stepped into a narrow, shadowed alleyway behind the brick building. A sleek, black Maybach was idling in the shadows. A man in a sharp suit stood by the rear door. As Jameson approached the car, the posture of a middle-class analyst vanished. His shoulders squared, and the terrifying, commanding aura of the CEO of King Consolidated radiated from him. His assistant, Pierce, opened the door. Jameson slid into the plush leather seat and immediately yanked his tie loose. Pierce handed him a tablet. "Sir, your schedule has been cleared for the morning. The background for the Brooklyn apartment is fully established in the system." Jameson swiped a finger across the screen, his eyes cold. "Cut off any access she might have to high-end social circles. Monitor her phone. Monitor her movements." He looked out the tinted window at the top floor of the red brick building. His eyes darkened with a venomous hatred. "She destroyed everything that mattered in my life," he whispered, the words laced with poison, his mind flashing to the twisted metal and shattered glass of that horrific night. "I'm going to make her suffocate in her own despair, inch by painful inch." The Maybach glided silently out of the alley, disappearing into the glittering lights of Manhattan. Back in the apartment, Debora unzipped her bag. She hung her few clothes in the empty closet. She walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge. It was completely empty. She touched her thin wallet in her pocket. She needed money. She needed to buy food for the baby. Tomorrow, she would go out and find a job. She took a hot shower, the water washing away the grime of her foster parents' house. She climbed into the unfamiliar bed. Her body was exhausted, but for the first time in months, she felt a fragile sense of safety. She closed her eyes and let sleep pull her under.