Flash Marriage To My Ruthless Professor

Allison stood frozen in the center of the Lee Group lobby.

Trevor was standing right next to the front reception desk.

He was wearing a cheap, poorly fitted navy blue suit. He was holding a crumpled resume in his hand.

Trevor turned his head and saw her. His eyes lit up with a desperate, manic energy.

"Allie!" Trevor shouted, his voice echoing off the high marble ceiling.

He sprinted across the lobby toward her, completely ignoring the shocked stares of the corporate employees.

Allison felt her blood boil. Pure, unadulterated rage flooded her veins.

"Get out of this building right now," Allison hissed, keeping her voice low but lethal.

Trevor didn't stop. He lunged forward and grabbed the sleeve of her expensive wool coat. His grip was tight and desperate.

"You have to get me an interview here, Allie," Trevor begged, his eyes wide. "I know you have connections. You owe me for the years I wasted with you!"

Allison tried to yank her arm away, but he held on tighter.

"Let go of me," Allison demanded, her chest heaving.

"If you don't help me," Trevor yelled, his voice rising to a hysterical pitch, "I will stand right here and tell everyone in this lobby about your disgusting fake marriage!"

The two massive security guards stationed by the doors heard the commotion. They immediately grabbed their radios and began walking swiftly toward them.

Allison didn't hesitate. She looked directly at the head guard.

"This man is trespassing and harassing me," Allison ordered, her voice ringing with absolute authority. "Throw him out of the building."

The guards moved in fast.

They grabbed Trevor by both arms. They lifted him almost entirely off the floor.

Trevor thrashed wildly like a caught fish.

"You bitch!" Trevor screamed, his face turning bright red.

As he struggled, the cheap fabric of his suit jacket caught on the guard's radio clip. The sleeve ripped open with a loud, ugly tearing sound.

The guards dragged him backward through the revolving doors and tossed him onto the cold concrete sidewalk.

Allison stood in the lobby, breathing hard.

She looked down at her watch. Her stomach dropped to her knees.

That disgusting encounter had cost her exactly ten minutes.

She sprinted out of the building and ran to the edge of the curb. She waved her arm frantically, desperate to hail a cab.

A yellow Ford taxi screeched to a halt in front of her.

She threw the door open, dove into the backseat, and slammed the door shut.

"Columbia University, Morningside campus! Step on it!" she yelled, pulling a fifty-dollar bill from her wallet and waving it at the plexiglass divider.

The driver looked at her through the rearview mirror and sighed heavily.

He pointed a thick finger at the windshield.

"Look ahead, lady," the driver grumbled.

Allison looked. Fifth Avenue was a sea of glowing red brake lights.

There was a massive, multi-car pileup blocking all three lanes. The traffic was completely paralyzed.

The cab crawled forward at a torturous, agonizing pace. It moved inches per minute.

Allison stared at the digital clock on the dashboard.

It flipped to 2:05 PM.

A wave of pure despair crashed over her. She was officially late. She was going to fail the class on the first day.

Her hands shook as she pulled out her phone.

She opened the browser and logged into the encrypted, underground Columbia student mutual aid forum.

Her fingers flew across the keyboard. She created a new post in the emergency bounty section.

URGENT: Need a stand-in for Advanced Finance Seminar right now. $100 Venmo immediately. Must answer roll call.

She hit post and stared at the screen, her heart hammering against her ribs.

Three agonizing minutes later, a notification popped up.

A business school junior named Mike accepted the job.

Allison quickly typed out her student ID number and her exact assigned seat number in the lecture hall. She hit send and prayed to any god that would listen that this desperate plan would work.

Miles away, inside the massive, amphitheater-style classroom at Columbia, the air was freezing cold.

Elliot Dillard stood behind the heavy wooden podium.

His face was a mask of pure ice. His dark eyes scanned the rows of terrified students.

He held his Montblanc pen in his right hand. He looked down at the printed roster.

He began the roll call. His voice was deep, resonant, and completely devoid of warmth.

"Allison Lee," Elliot called out, his eyes not leaving the paper.

In the back row, Mike, a large guy wearing a backward baseball cap, cleared his throat.

"Here," Mike grunted in a deep, undeniably masculine voice.

Elliot stopped.

His hand froze on the paper.

He slowly lifted his head. His eyes locked onto Mike with the precision of a sniper laser.

The entire classroom held its collective breath.

"Well, Ms. Lee," Elliot said, his voice dropping an octave, dripping with dangerous sarcasm. "Since you are present, please stand up and explain the mathematical flaws in the Black-Scholes option pricing model when applied to extreme market volatility."

Mike's face drained of all color. His legs shook as he slowly stood up.

He opened his mouth, but only pathetic, stuttering sounds came out. He couldn't name a single financial term.

Elliot stared at him for five agonizing seconds.

"It appears 'Ms. Lee' is exceptionally unprepared for today's session," Elliot noted, his voice dripping with icy condescension. "Sit down. This unexcused absence will be officially recorded as a zero."

Mike's face burned with humiliation. He didn't sit. Instead, he grabbed his backpack and practically ran out of the room, his head hung in shame.

Elliot looked back down at the roster.

He pressed the nib of his pen against the paper. He drew a massive, brutal red 'X' right next to the name Allison Lee.

Back in the taxi, Allison's phone vibrated.

It was a Venmo refund notification from Mike, followed by a text: Bro, your professor is a psycho. I got kicked out. Sorry.

Allison dropped her head against the cold window glass. She closed her eyes.

A second later, her email app chimed.

She opened it. It was a message from the university server.

Sender: E. Dillard.

Subject: Mandatory Meeting.

Message: My office. Tomorrow morning. 8:00 AM sharp.

Allison stared at the screen, feeling physically sick. She had to face the tyrant tomorrow. But worse, she had to face her husband tonight.