Married to the CEO by Morning

The black Maybach idled smoothly at the base of the wide stone steps of Manhattan City Hall.

The driver hurried to open the door. Christian stepped out first, the midday sun glinting off his dark hair as he casually buttoned his suit jacket.

Elenor followed, her legs feeling like lead. She was wearing a white, vintage Chanel tweed suit that Christian's assistant had somehow procured within an hour.

The bright autumn sunlight stung her eyes. She instinctively raised a hand to shield her face.

Christian turned back. He held out his hand, his large palm facing upward, waiting.

Elenor stared at his hand for a fraction of a second before placing her icy fingers into his.

His hand clamped down instantly, his grip firm and unyielding, as if anchoring her to the earth. He led her up the steps.

Passersby turned their heads, their eyes lingering on the striking couple, assuming they were just another pair of wealthy elites tying the knot.

They pushed through the heavy brass doors. The chaotic noise of the crowded lobby hit Elenor, making her stomach churn with sudden panic.

She slowed her pace, an overwhelming urge to run seizing her muscles.

Christian felt the resistance in her arm. He stopped and tilted his head, leaning down until his lips were inches from her ear.

"If you back out now," he warned, his voice a lethal whisper, "the breach of contract penalty is fifty million dollars."

Elenor glared at him, her jaw clenching. "I wasn't going to run," she hissed through her teeth.

A team of high-powered lawyers in sharp suits was already waiting for them near the clerk's office. They efficiently handed Christian a stack of expedited paperwork.

They bypassed the massive line of waiting couples and were ushered directly into a private office. A senior city clerk sat behind a heavy desk, offering them a warm, practiced smile.

The clerk began to process the application. The solemn legality of the process bounced off the wood-paneled walls, making the reality of the situation crash down on Elenor.

She was binding herself to a stranger. A ruthless billionaire who was using her to appease his board of directors.

"Do you, Christian Porter, swear the information on this marriage license application is true and correct?"

"I do," Christian answered instantly. There was zero hesitation in his deep voice.

He turned his head, his dark eyes locking onto Elenor with a heavy, suffocating weight.

"And do you, Elenor Gould..."

Hearing her birth name echo in the room was a stark reminder; Deann Benson had never bothered with the paperwork to legally change her last name, another small, cruel proof that she was never truly a part of their family. Elenor's throat closed up. The silence in the small room stretched, thick and unbearable.

Christian's thumb pressed hard into the back of her hand, a silent, commanding pressure.

Elenor squeezed her eyes shut, drew in a shaky breath, and forced the words past her lips. "I do."

"Excellent," the clerk declared cheerfully, stamping the document with a heavy seal. "By the State of New York, your marriage license is hereby issued. Please remember, the mandatory twenty-four-hour waiting period must pass before you can have the actual ceremony."

Elenor stiffened her spine. She expected Christian to simply take the document and leave.

Instead, Christian reached up, his large hands framing her face. He tilted her head up and crashed his mouth down onto hers.

It wasn't a fake kiss. It was deep, consuming, and aggressively possessive.

His scent, his heat, his sheer physical dominance completely overwhelmed her senses. Elenor's knees weakened, her hands instinctively grabbing his lapels to stay upright.

After what felt like an eternity, Christian pulled back just enough to break the seal. His thumb dragged slowly across her swollen lower lip.

"You are mine now," he rasped, his voice so low only she could hear it.

Elenor's heart hammered violently against her ribs. She saw a flash of dark, terrifying obsession in his eyes that made her breath hitch.

Before she could process it, the clerk slid the crisp, stamped marriage license across the desk.