Flash Marriage To The Secret Tycoon

The atmosphere inside the top-floor boardroom of the Vaughan Group was suffocating. The massive oval mahogany table was surrounded by a dozen high-level executives, all sitting rigidly in their leather chairs, terrified to make a sound.

Bronson sat at the head of the table. His face was a mask of dark, freezing anger. He held a heavy, silver fountain pen in his right hand, spinning it slowly between his long fingers.

His dark eyes were locked onto the terrified Finance Director standing by the projector screen.

"You're telling me," Bronson said, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper, "that a three-million-dollar discrepancy in the logistics budget is a 'minor rounding error'?"

The Finance Director broke out in a cold sweat. He opened his mouth, stuttering over his words.

Suddenly, the dead silence of the room was shattered by a loud, aggressive buzzing.

Bronson's private cell phone, sitting face-up on the polished wood next to his notepad, was vibrating violently. The custom ringtone assigned exclusively to Eleanor Vaughan echoed off the glass walls.

Every executive at the table collectively held their breath.

Bronson's jaw tightened. He raised his left hand, signaling the Finance Director to stop talking. He picked up the phone and pressed the green answer button.

Before he could even speak, Eleanor's furious screaming blasted through the earpiece.

"Are you out of your mind? !" Eleanor shrieked.

The volume was so loud that Bronson physically winced. He pulled the phone two inches away from his ear.

"Did you actually block your own wife's phone number on your first day of marriage?" Eleanor demanded.

Bronson froze. His brain rapidly scanned the events of the morning. He remembered sitting in a pre-market meeting, feeling his phone buzz. He had glanced down, saw a long block of text from an unsaved number, assumed it was a persistent corporate spy or a real estate spammer, and immediately hit 'Block'.

A sharp prickle of awkwardness hit the back of his neck. He cleared his throat quietly.

"I didn't know it was her," Bronson said, keeping his voice low to prevent the executives from hearing. "I thought it was spam."

"I don't care what you thought!" Eleanor yelled. "You unblock her right now, and you send her a proper apology, or I am driving down to that office to embarrass you in front of your entire board!"

Bronson rubbed his thumb hard against his temple. The headache was returning.

"Fine. I'll handle it," Bronson said flatly, and hung up the phone.

He ignored the twelve pairs of eyes staring at him. He unlocked his screen, navigated to his blocked contacts list, and removed the ten-digit number.

The blocked message instantly populated in his inbox. He read Kathern's polite inquiry about dinner.

A wave of irrational annoyance washed over him. He tapped the text box. His thumbs hovered over the keyboard. He typed out a sentence, deleted it, and typed another. Finally, he settled on the most sterile response possible.

Sorry. Thought it was a spam text. I have a business dinner tonight. Do not buy food for me.

He hit send and tossed the phone back onto the table.

Across the city, Kathern was sitting on the edge of the mattress when her phone chimed.

She picked it up and read the dry, robotic apology. She let out a loud scoff and rolled her eyes so hard they hurt.

She knew he was lying. He didn't think it was spam; he just wanted to establish dominance. But Kathern wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of a fight.

She quickly typed her response: No problem, Mr. Bronson. Work hard, take care of your health.

Five seconds later, the screen on Bronson's phone lit up.

He glanced down and read the message. His eyes narrowed into dangerous slits.

Her polite response, so contrary to what he expected, only solidified his suspicion. He stared at the screen, his mind calculating the angles. This wasn't the natural reaction of an insulted woman; it felt entirely like the calculated move of a manipulator playing the long game, carefully trying to appear innocent and accommodating to lower his defenses.

Bronson let out a cold sneer. He pressed the power button, turning the screen completely black. He looked up, his eyes harder and colder than before.

"Continue," Bronson ordered the Finance Director. The temperature in the room plummeted again.