My Fake Bankrupt Husband Is A Tycoon

The red and blue lights fade from the street. The silence inside the shop is deafening, broken only by the sound of glass crunching under my boots.

The adrenaline leaves my body in a sudden rush. My knees buckle.

I look at the crushed roses, the shattered pots, the dirt smeared across the floor. This shop was my life. It was my only income. And the tiny attic upstairs was my only home.

A sob tears from my throat. I drop to my knees, my hands hovering over the broken pieces of a ceramic pot. I try to push the pieces together, but my fingers are shaking too badly. The sharp edge of a shard slices into my index finger.

Before the blood can even pool, a strong hand grips my wrist.

Ethan pulls me up. His grip is firm, hauling me away from the dangerous debris.

"Stop," he commands.

He glances around the wrecked shop, spots a first-aid kit under the counter, and pulls a sterile wipe from it. He wipes the fresh blood from my finger.

"I'm sorry," I choke out, tears spilling over my eyelashes. "I'm such a burden. You helped me, and now look at this. I don't even have a place to sleep tonight. The attic is a crime scene."

Ethan's hand pauses. He looks at my tears. A strange, uncomfortable tightness grips his chest. He thinks of his massive, empty estate in New York. He thinks of the penthouse in Center City Philadelphia that he rarely uses.

He clears his throat. His voice is stiff. "We are legally married. You can stay with me."

I look up, wiping my eyes with the back of my good hand. "But we're annulling it tomorrow. I can't impose. I'll find a cheap motel."

Ethan's jaw tightens. He remembers my lie about his finances.

"Hotels are expensive," he lies, his face perfectly blank. "And as you told your mother, I have massive credit card debt. I can't afford to pay for a room for you. Just come to my place."

A small, watery laugh escapes my lips. The tension in my chest eases. "Okay. Thank you, Ethan."

Ethan turns away. He pulls out his phone and rapidly texts Jennings: Buy a standard, middle-class apartment in Center City. Fully furnished. I need the keys in five minutes.

Five minutes later, Ethan walks back into the shop. He helps me dig my small suitcase out from under a fallen shelf. We pack my ledger and a few changes of clothes.

He takes the suitcase from my hand. We walk out, and I lock the broken door behind me.

We get into the Ford. Ethan drives toward Center City. The car is quiet. I lean my head against the cold window, exhaustion pulling at my eyelids.

The car parks in front of an older, brick townhouse building. We take a creaky elevator to the third floor. Ethan pulls a shiny new key from his pocket and unlocks the door.

The apartment is small but warm. The furniture is basic IKEA. There is a small kitchen and a cozy living room.

"This is nice," I say, genuinely impressed. "It feels very... lived in."

Ethan looks at the cheap fabric sofa. He suppresses a physical shudder of disgust. His bespoke suits cost more than this entire room.

I open my mouth to thank him again, but my phone vibrates violently in my pocket.

It's a text from my sister, Eloise. Gracie, please help. Boss is forcing me to work a double shift. I can't pick up Rosie from daycare. They close in an hour.

Panic spikes in my veins. I grab my coat.

"I have to go," I tell Ethan, rushing toward the door. "My sister is stuck at work. I have to get my niece."

Ethan frowns. "I'll drive you."

"No!" I say quickly. "You've done enough today. Gas is expensive, and you need to save money. I'll take the subway."

Before he can argue, I grab the spare key off the counter and run out the door.

Ethan stands in the middle of the cheap living room. He watches from the window as I sprint down the street toward the subway station.

He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. He walks into the small kitchen and opens the fridge. It is packed with groceries. Jennings works fast.

Ethan stares at the raw vegetables and meat. A massive headache begins to throb behind his eyes.