Flash Marriage To The Vengeful CEO

Darrell's face was inches from hers. The smell of his expensive mint breath mints mixed with the garbage in the alley made Debora's stomach violently heave. She turned her face away, disgusted. Then, gathering every ounce of strength she had, she planted both hands on his chest and shoved him hard. Darrell wasn't expecting the resistance. He stumbled backward, his expensive suit jacket scraping against the dirty brick wall. He looked at the dust on his sleeve, his face twisting with rage. "You stupid bitch," he spat. "Look at you. You're nothing. You're a used-up ex-con. You'll rot in the gutter while I marry into the Lennox family." Debora smoothed down her cheap skirt. She straightened her spine, refusing to cower. She looked him dead in the eye, her lips curling into a cold sneer. "I might have a record," Debora said, her voice dripping with venom, "but at least I'm a legally married woman now. I'm not a pathetic parasite sucking the blood out of a rich woman to survive." Darrell froze. Then he threw his head back and laughed-a loud, ugly sound that echoed in the alley. "Married? Who the hell would marry fresh garbage out of a cell?" He took a step toward her, his eyes gleaming with malicious challenge. "Call him, then. If you have a husband, call the blind idiot right now. Let's see him." A reckless, defiant surge of adrenaline flooded Debora's veins. She reached into her purse and pulled out her cheap smartphone, the screen spider-webbed with cracks. She took a shaky breath, unlocked the screen, and tapped the only new contact she had saved last night. Jameson. She pressed the call button. The dial tone rang out, loud and clear in the quiet alley. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Meanwhile, miles away in the heart of Manhattan, the atmosphere inside the glass-walled boardroom of King Consolidated was suffocating. Jameson sat at the head of the long mahogany table. His face was a mask of pure ice. A senior vice president was sweating profusely, stammering through a disastrous quarterly financial report. The air pressure in the room was so low that none of the twenty executives dared to breathe too loudly. Suddenly, a sharp, generic, and incredibly loud ringtone shattered the dead silence. Every executive flinched. Eyes darted around the table in sheer terror, wondering whose career was about to end for forgetting to silence their phone. Jameson's brow furrowed. He looked down at the table. The sound was coming from the burner phone sitting inches from his left hand-the phone he had bought specifically for his fake identity. The screen lit up with a name: Debora. A flash of absolute shock crossed Jameson's eyes. Standing behind him, Pierce watched in horror as Jameson, instead of declining the call, reached out. His large finger hit the green button, but his thumb accidentally grazed the speaker icon. Debora's voice blasted through the boardroom's state-of-the-art acoustic system. It was high-pitched, overly sweet, and laced with a fake, trembling pout. "Honey... Hubby, when are you getting off work to pick me up?" Boom. The boardroom effectively detonated. Twenty of Wall Street's most ruthless predators turned to stone, their jaws practically hitting the mahogany table. Jameson's entire body went rigid. A violent surge of anger burned up his neck, causing the veins at his temples to throb dangerously. His knuckles turned stark white as he gripped the armrest, completely infuriated by the audacity of this woman. He snatched the phone off the table, his thumb violently jabbing the screen to turn off the speaker. He pressed the phone to his ear. His jaw was clenched so tight his teeth ground together. "What the hell are you doing?" he asked, his voice dropping to a lethal, vibrating whisper. In the alley, Debora heard the deep, dangerous rumble of his voice. It gave her the exact ammunition she needed. She raised her voice, making sure Darrell heard every word. "Hubby, there's a creep bothering me. He said you must be blind to marry me." Darrell stared at Debora. He heard the deep male voice on the other end. His arrogant smirk faltered, replaced by a dark scowl. He scoffed, adjusting his glasses, and turned around, walking briskly back into the boutique. Seeing Darrell retreat, the adrenaline instantly drained from Debora's body. Her shoulders slumped. She spoke quickly into the receiver. "Never mind. Sorry to bother you." She hung up. In the boardroom, Jameson listened to the dial tone. His face was darker than a thundercloud. He slowly lowered the phone. He looked up. Twenty pairs of eyes immediately snapped down to stare intensely at their blank notepads. Jameson slammed the financial folder shut. The sound cracked like a whip. "Meeting postponed. Redo the entire report," he ordered, his voice devoid of any emotion. He stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor, and strode out of the glass doors. "Pierce," Jameson barked as he walked toward his private elevator. "Get the car. Now. I'm going back to Brooklyn."