Marrying The Broke Billionaire In Disguise

The bell above the door of "Second Chance" thrift store jingled loudly. The air inside smelled of dust, mothballs, and old perfume. Racks of brightly colored, discarded clothing were crammed together so tightly it was hard to walk. Flora stood by the men's section, pulling out shirts and checking the collars for fraying. Josiah stood beside her. He reached out and pinched the sleeve of a bright blue shirt. The cheap polyester fabric scraped against his fingertips. His skin literally crawled. He dropped the sleeve as if it had burned him. He thought of his closet in Manhattan. Rows of custom-tailored Savile Row suits made of vicuña wool and silk. The contrast made his jaw ache from clenching it so hard. "Try this one," Flora said, handing him a faded plaid button-down. Josiah took it. His thumb brushed against a tiny, yellowed stain near the third button. His stomach churned. Brenda, the store clerk with bright pink lipstick, waddled over. She took one look at Josiah's sharp jawline and piercing eyes and gasped. "Honey, you hit the jackpot," Brenda said to Flora, winking. "He looks like a movie star." Josiah forced his lips into a stiff, agonizing smile. He took the shirt and walked into the cramped fitting room. He stripped off his wet clothes from yesterday and pulled the plaid shirt over his shoulders. He looked in the scratched mirror. He looked ridiculous. He felt a deep, unfamiliar sense of humiliation. Outside the store, a black SUV idled by the curb. Grant Holloway sat in the driver's seat. He rolled down the window, holding his phone up. He zoomed in on the thrift store window. He watched Josiah Vance-the man who had humiliated him in the hospital-standing in a pile of garbage clothing. A vicious, ugly smirk twisted Grant's face. Grant snapped five photos in rapid succession. He opened a private messaging group called Brooklyn Elite and uploaded the pictures. Look at the trash Flora married. Can't even afford a new shirt, Grant typed. He hit send, his chest swelling with dark satisfaction. Inside the store, Josiah stepped out of the fitting room. The cheap fabric clung to his broad shoulders. Even in a worn-out plaid shirt, his posture was rigidly straight, his aura screaming old money. He looked like a billionaire doing a magazine photoshoot in a vintage store. Flora's eyes widened. "It looks really good on you." Josiah looked at her bright, genuine smile. The tight knot of disgust in his chest loosened slightly. They walked to the counter. Flora pulled a small canvas pouch from her purse. She unzipped it and started pulling out quarters and dimes. Clink. Clink. Clink. The sound of the coins hitting the glass counter echoed in Josiah's ears. Every metallic clink felt like a hammer striking his ribs. He stood there, a man worth a trillion dollars, watching his wife count pennies to buy him a stained shirt. A wave of intense self-loathing washed over him. They walked out of the store. Flora carried the plastic bag, humming softly. They stepped off the curb. A silver Mercedes suddenly accelerated, swerving intentionally toward a massive puddle of muddy rainwater near the gutter. Josiah's peripheral vision caught the sudden, aggressive movement of the vehicle. His reflexes were shockingly fast, honed by years of anticipation and high-stakes pressure. He grabbed Flora's waist, his grip firm and unyielding, yanking her hard against his solid chest, and spun them around just in time. A massive wave of filthy, brown water splashed over Josiah's back, soaking the new plaid shirt and his jeans. Flora crashed into his solid chest. She smelled the rain, and beneath it, a faint, clean scent of cedar and expensive soap that didn't belong in Brooklyn. The Mercedes slammed on its brakes. The tinted window rolled down. Grant leaned out, laughing loudly. He whistled. "Nice shower, loser!" Flora's blood boiled. She ripped herself out of Josiah's arms, her hands balling into tight fists. She took a step toward the car. Josiah's hand clamped down on her shoulder. His grip was like a steel vice. He looked at Grant. Josiah's eyes were completely dead. It was the look of an apex predator staring at a piece of meat. Grant's laughter died in his throat. A sudden, inexplicable chill ran down his spine. He slammed his foot on the gas and sped away. Flora pulled a tissue from her pocket and frantically wiped the mud off Josiah's back. Her eyes were red with angry tears. "I'm so sorry," she whispered. Josiah turned around. He reached out and gently wiped a drop of muddy water from her cheek. "It's just dirt, Flora," Josiah said softly. "It washes off." Flora looked up at him, her heart doing a painful, heavy thud against her ribs. They walked back to the apartment. As Josiah stepped through the door, he glanced up at the street camera mounted on the corner pole. He knew Grant had taken photos. He wanted Grant to spread them. He wanted the whole city to think he was weak. Because when the trap finally snapped shut, Grant Holloway wouldn't even see it coming.