My Fake Bankrupt Husband Is A Tycoon

The heavy glass door of the diner refuses to budge.

My palms slide against the grease-stained metal. My lungs burn. I need air. I need the freezing Philadelphia winter, but the diner is a suffocating trap of fried bacon and cheap bleach.

Before I can throw my weight against the door again, thick fingers dig into my bicep. The nails pierce through my thin sweater, scraping my skin.

"Where do you think you're going, Grace?"

My mother's voice is a jagged blade. Doris yanks me backward with a force that makes my neck snap. She shoves me into the cracked vinyl booth. The springs groan under my weight.

Across the table, Clarnce leans forward. The stench of his cheap cologne hits the back of my throat, thick and nauseating. He smiles, revealing a row of yellowed teeth.

"Don't be shy, Gracie," Clarnce says.

He reaches across the sticky table. His thick, calloused hand clamps over my jaw. His fingers press into my cheeks, hard enough to grind my teeth against the inside of my mouth. A whimper tears from my throat.

"Let go of me," I choke out, my voice trembling. "I am not marrying a man with two domestic violence charges."

Doris slams her hand on the table. The salt shaker rattles. She digs into her oversized purse and pulls out a ring. The diamond is small, cloudy, and set in cheap, tarnished metal. She shoves it across the table.

"You will put this on, and you will go to City Hall with your cousin right now," Doris hisses, her face turning a mottled red. "Do you know how much money he gave me? You ungrateful little bitch."

People in the surrounding booths are staring. I can feel their eyes crawling over my skin. Doris notices the audience and immediately changes her tune. She throws her hands in the air and lets out a loud, theatrical wail.

"My own daughter!" she cries out to the diner. "Leaving her poor mother to starve! Refusing to help her family!"

The walls of the diner close in on me. My heart hammers against my ribs so violently I think it might crack my sternum. I grip the strap of my canvas bag until my knuckles turn white. I can't breathe. I can't marry him. I will die if I marry him.

A waitress approaches our booth, carrying a tray with two mugs of scalding black coffee. She looks nervous, her eyes darting between Clarnce's grip on my face and my mother's fake tears.

This is it.

I jerk my body to the side, pretending to struggle against Clarnce's hold. As I twist, I slam my elbow hard into the edge of the waitress's tray.

The tray tips. The mugs slide.

Scalding black coffee cascades directly into Clarnce's lap.

He unleashes a sound that is half-scream, half-roar. His hand flies off my face as he jumps up, knocking his knees against the table. The booth shakes. Doris shrieks, grabbing a handful of cheap napkins and frantically dabbing at his soaked jeans.

Chaos erupts.

I don't hesitate. I grab my canvas bag, spin around, and sprint toward the narrow hallway leading to the kitchen.

"Hey! You can't go back there!" a cook yells as I push past him.

I ignore him. I shove open the heavy metal back door and burst into the freezing alley.

The winter air hits my lungs like shattered glass. I don't stop. I run. I run until my legs burn and my throat tastes like copper. I sprint past dumpsters, down three dark blocks, my boots slipping on the icy pavement.

I finally stop at the corner of Rittenhouse Square. I lean against a cold streetlamp, my chest heaving. My hands are shaking so badly I can barely unlock my phone. I open the contract marriage app. The blue dot shows my arranged partner, Ethan, is already at the location.

I wipe the sweat from my forehead and try to smooth my tangled hair. A nondescript, black Ford sedan pulls up to the curb. The passenger window rolls down.

The man behind the wheel has a profile carved from granite. His jawline is sharp, his dark hair perfectly styled. He wears a suit that has no visible logos, but the fabric looks expensive. He frowns, his dark eyes scanning my ragged breathing, my cheap coat, and the sheer terror written all over my face.

"Grace Glover?" His voice is a low, deep rumble that vibrates in my chest.

I nod, swallowing hard. I pull open the heavy car door and slide into the passenger seat.

The heat of the car wraps around me. The interior smells like expensive cedarwood and clean linen. It doesn't match the cheap Ford badge on the steering wheel.

Ethan turns his head. His eyes are cold, calculating. "I'll be upfront," he says, adjusting his cuff. "I'm only here because my sick grandmother won't stop nagging me. I need a wife on paper. Today."

My breath catches. I look out the window.

Less than fifty feet away, at the end of the block, Clarnce is stomping down the sidewalk. His face is purple with rage. He is looking for me.

Panic seizes my throat. I lunge across the center console, grabbing Ethan's forearm. His muscles are rock-hard beneath the suit jacket. He flinches, leaning back against his seat, his eyes narrowing at my sudden invasion of his space.

"Do you have your driver's license and social security card on you?" I ask, my words rushing out in a frantic breath.

Ethan stares at me, his jaw ticking. "Yes."

"Take me to City Hall," I beg, my voice cracking. "Let's get married, right now. If you find me annoying or for any other reason, we can get divorced the day after we get married, so let's get married today. I won't cause you any trouble!"

Ethan looks past my shoulder, spotting the massive, angry man scanning the street. He looks back at me. A muscle feathers in his cheek.

"Put your seatbelt on," he says.