My Fake Bankrupt Husband Is A Tycoon

Ethan turns down a narrow, empty alleyway adjacent to City Hall.

A black, armored Maybach 62S sits idling in the shadows. The rear door swings open. His executive assistant, K. Jennings, stands at attention.

Jennings takes the unbranded suit jacket Ethan strips off and tosses it directly into a nearby dumpster.

Ethan slides into the plush leather backseat of the Maybach. He loosens his tie, rolling his shoulders. The suffocating disguise of a middle-class worker falls away, replaced by the terrifying aura of the man who controls the Patterson Empire.

He pulls the marriage license from his pocket. He snaps a high-resolution photo with his phone and sends it to a contact labeled Eleanor.

Ten seconds later, the phone rings.

"You actually did it!" Eleanor's voice crackles through the speaker, breathless with laughter. "The heir to the Patterson fortune, married in a dingy City Hall!"

Ethan rubs his temples. "It's a piece of paper, Grandmother. It buys you peace of mind for your surgery. I am annulling it tomorrow."

"We'll see about that," Eleanor hums. "Bring the future Mrs. Patterson to the New York estate. I want to meet her."

"Goodbye, Grandmother." Ethan hangs up. He tosses the phone onto the seat. He looks at Jennings in the rearview mirror. "Run a full background check on Grace Glover. I want everything."

The subway ride to the Old City district takes forty minutes.

I walk down the cobblestone street toward Blooming Grace, the small flower shop I pour my soul into. I live in the tiny attic above it. It's my only safe haven.

I pull my keys from my bag. Before I can insert them into the lock, a screech of tires makes me jump.

A beat-up truck slams to a halt by the curb. Doris jumps out. Two massive men follow her-distant cousins from the Vaughan side of the family.

Doris kicks the glass door of the shop. It rattles violently.

"You little runaway whore!" Doris screams, pointing a thick finger at my face.

I back up quickly, retreating behind the wooden cash register counter. My hand drops below the counter, my fingers wrapping tightly around the cold metal handle of my heavy gardening shears.

Doris storms inside, her eyes darting to my hands. She sees the plastic ring.

"Where is Clarnce's ring?" she demands, her face turning purple. "He gave me twenty thousand dollars for you! You give me that money right now, or you're coming with us!"

"I don't have his money," I say, my voice shaking but my grip on the shears tightening. "And you can't force me to go anywhere. I'm married."

Doris pauses. Then, she throws her head back and barks out a harsh laugh. "Married? You expect me to believe that?"

I reach into my bag with my left hand. I pull out the marriage license and slam it onto the counter. The gold seal catches the light.

Doris stares at the paper. She reads the names. Her face drains of color, then flushes with a rage so intense she looks demonic. The realization that her twenty-thousand-dollar payday is gone snaps the last thread of her sanity.

"Smash it," Doris snarls.

She grabs a heavy ceramic pot holding a rare orchid and hurls it at the floor.

The ceramic shatters. Dirt explodes across the hardwood.

"No!" I scream, lunging forward.

One of the cousins shoves me hard in the chest. I stumble backward, crashing into a display shelf.

The two men tear through the shop. They flip tables. They stomp on the delicate roses I spent weeks cultivating. Glass vases explode against the walls. Water and crushed petals cover the floor in a slippery, tragic mess.

I scramble to the corner, throwing my body over a tray of succulents that belong to my sister, Eloise. A falling glass vase clips my hand.

A sharp pain slices across the back of my hand. Warm blood instantly wells up, dripping onto the green leaves of the succulents. I bite my lip so hard I taste copper. Tears of pure hatred blur my vision.

Outside, Greta, the owner of the convenience store next door, peers through the window. Her eyes go wide. She immediately pulls out her phone and dials 911. The two men are massive, their menacing postures silencing the few onlookers who had started to gather at the door, making it clear no one is to interfere.

Doris grabs a handful of my hair, yanking my head back.

"You call that bastard you married," Doris spits in my face. "You tell him he owes me twenty grand, or I will burn this place to the ground with you in it."

The wail of police sirens pierces the air. Red and blue lights flash against the broken glass of my shop.