Married To The Fake Broke Billionaire

They stood before a bored-looking clerk, reciting vows they didn't mean in a monotone voice. The words felt like ashes in Althea's mouth.

"I now pronounce you husband and wife," the clerk said, stamping a document with a heavy thud. He slid the thin piece of paper, their marriage certificate, across the counter with a practiced, weary smile. "Congratulations."

Darion made no move to take it. Althea snatched it up, folding it quickly and shoving it into the depths of her canvas bag. A transaction completed.

She turned and walked away from the counter without looking at him, her worn sneakers squeaking on the polished linoleum floor. She pushed through the heavy revolving doors of City Hall and back out into the bright, unforgiving Manhattan sunlight.

"Althea."

His voice stopped her at the top of the steps. She turned, shielding her eyes against the glare. He stood a few feet away, a tall, dark silhouette against the building's grand facade.

"To make this convincing for my grandfather, you'll need to move in with me," he stated. It wasn't a request.

Her whole body tensed. "That wasn't part of the deal."

Her eyes flickered past him to the black Mercedes waiting at the curb. That's when she saw it. A small detail she'd missed before. On the chrome frame around the license plate, there was a tiny, embossed logo for "Gotham Executive Rentals."

A rental.

Everything clicked into place with a sickening certainty. The small, unimpressive investment firm on his business card. The obsessively detailed, paranoid prenuptial agreement designed to protect assets he probably didn't even have. The desperate need for her to move in.

He wasn't a wealthy man trying to appease his family. He was broke. He was a fraud, renting a fancy car and probably a fancy apartment, drowning in debt, and he wanted her to help pay for it.

She took a step back, crossing her arms over her chest. A protective barrier. "No," she said, her voice firm. "I'm not moving in with you."

"The agreement is for you to act as my wife."

"The agreement is for me to provide a marriage certificate, which I have," she shot back, her anger rising. "It says nothing about cohabitation."

His eyes darkened. The air around them seemed to drop ten degrees, the pressure of his presence becoming almost a physical force. He took a step toward her, closing the distance. "I am paying an exorbitant amount of money for your grandfather's care. You will hold up your end of the bargain."

The mention of the money felt like a slap. "I'll consider it a loan," she snapped, her pride stinging. "I'll pay you back. Every single cent, with interest." The words were reckless, impossible, but she didn't care. "I have to be near my grandfather. I'm not moving into some stranger's apartment."

He looked at her, at the fierce, cornered-animal look in her eyes. A muscle twitched in his jaw. He brought a hand to his temple, pressing his fingers against the skin as if warding off a headache. He looked tired of the argument, tired of her.

With a sound of disgust, he reached into his pocket and pulled out another business card. He scribbled a number on the back and tossed it at her.

It fluttered in the air and landed near the toe of her sneaker.

"Pray you never have a reason to use that," he said, his voice laced with ice.

He turned and strode down the steps to the waiting car. Leo held the door, and Darion disappeared inside, the door slamming shut with a final, definitive thud.

The Mercedes pulled away from the curb, merging seamlessly into the flow of traffic and leaving behind a faint smell of gasoline.

Althea bent down and picked up the card. His private cell number. She shoved it into a side pocket of her bag without a second thought.

Her own phone buzzed. A text from her food truck's produce supplier. INVOICE 34A7 OVERDUE. PLEASE REMIT PAYMENT.

She took a deep, shaky breath of the polluted city air, the reality of her situation crashing back down on her. She slapped her cheeks lightly, forcing herself to focus. She was still Althea Beaumont. She still had a grandfather to care for and a business to run.

She turned her back on City Hall and walked toward the nearest subway entrance, a dark square hole in the pavement. A gust of wind swirled up from the tunnels, kicking up dust and a discarded newspaper.

She descended the steps, disappearing into the crowded, noisy darkness below.