Wrong contract marriage, right husband

The winter sun glared off the gray pavement outside the marriage bureau, forcing me to squint as we walked down the concrete steps.

It was done.

My eyes scanned the document, but the words were a blur.

The only things I could focus on were the official gold seal, and the beautiful, clear word at the top: Married. The other details, his scrawled signature... all faded into the background.

My goal was achieved.

"It's done," I murmured softly, almost to myself.

He stood beside me, steady and tall. He checked his phone, a slight frown touching his brow.

"I need to go meet my... lawyer," he paused, then said, "I'll have the keys to my place messengered to you this afternoon."

I looked up at him, suddenly realizing just how incredibly handsome he was. "I'm not moving in yet. I have arrangements to make. I need to pack my things."

He nodded slowly, not pushing me.

He seemed to instinctively understand that I needed some space to systematically dismantle my old life before I could step into this unfamiliar new one.

"As you wish," he said softly. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek, matte black business card. There was no company name on it, no job title, just a phone number stamped in silver foil, with the initials AS in the center.

I frowned as I took the card. "AS? For... Julian?"

"It's a family nickname," he said evenly. "Alexander. 'Julian' is a tabloid moniker I'm actively trying to shake off."

I accepted the explanation. It made perfect sense. If he was trying to rebrand himself for his trust managers, dropping a ridiculous "party boy" nickname was step one.

"Okay, Alexander."

He raised a hand, and a yellow cab immediately pulled over. He opened the door for me, using his hand to shield the roof frame so I wouldn't bump my head.

"Call me," he said. The tone sounded like a command, but his eyes were incredibly gentle.

I nodded and slid into the cab. As it drove away, I looked back at him through the rear window. He stood like a dark, immovable statue amidst the bustling city, watching me until the cab turned the corner.

I faced forward, adrenaline spiking my heart rate.

Step One: Complete.

Step Two: Scorched Earth.

I pulled out my phone. Opened Instagram: Blocked. Opened WhatsApp: Blocked. Opened iMessage: Blocked.

I systematically erased Liam Thorne from my digital life.

Then, I made a call.

It rang twice before Beatrice picked up.

"Hello?" My mother's voice carried a hint of smugness. "Are you ready to accept Mr. Henderson's invitation? He is very eager to inspect his new investment."

"I'm married," I announced.

Dead silence on the other end of the line. Absolutely dead silence.

Then, "What? To whom?"

"A businessman," I said. "The certificate is filed with the city. Release the Vance Trust immediately."

"You ungrateful little brat!" Beatrice shrieked. "Who is he? Did you just pick up some broke waiter? I'm having it annulled! I'll have him investigated!"

"He comes from old money, and I don't need yours," I bluffed, praying the rumors of Julian Hayes' bankruptcy were exaggerated. "I expect the deed to the Vance-Hampton estate transferred to my name by tomorrow morning."

"Chloe is spending the summer there!" Beatrice protested fiercely. "She’s already planning her engagement party with Liam there! You can't do this!"

Chloe. Liam.

I gripped the phone, feeling a sharp pang in my chest. For the genuine heart I had wasted on him.

"That is my father's house," I cut her off, my voice terrifyingly low. "The house is in the trust. Transfer the deed, or my lawyers will audit the Mercer family accounts by noon tomorrow."

The line fell dead silent again. A heavy, suffocating threat hung in the air. The Mercer family lived lavishly, but everyone in their inner circle knew Arthur Mercer's finances were highly questionable. If they were audited, the consequences would be disastrous.

"Fine," Beatrice spat the word like poison. "Take the house. But don't expect another dime from me, you useless woman."

"I don't want your money. I just want what's mine." With that, I hung up.

A rush of adrenaline surged through my veins, feeling just like oxygen.

"Where to, miss?" the cab driver asked, eyeing me in the rearview mirror.

"Upper West Side," I said. "The Thorne Penthouse."

I had to go back into the lion's den. I had to pack my things.

When I arrived at Liam's building, the doorman tipped his hat to me. He looked at me with sad, pitying eyes. He had definitely seen the articles online.

I took the private elevator up and stepped into the sprawling penthouse. It was eerily quiet. Liam hadn't returned from his fake San Francisco trip yet.

I went straight to the guest room. I didn't cry, and I didn't scream.

I just got to work. I pulled my suitcase from the closet and packed my clothes, my architecture books, and my sketchpads. I stripped the expensive sheets I had bought with my own money.

The only photo of me and Liam together, I cut perfectly in half with scissors, and took my half with me.

I wasn't going to leave him a single thing that belonged to me.

I walked over to the massive marble kitchen island and dropped the penthouse keys onto the counter.

I looked down at my left hand. It was bare. I realized I had forgotten to buy a cheap ring to help sell this farce.

"Fake husband, fake marriage," I muttered to myself.

Downstairs, I hailed another cab. "The Plaza Hotel," I told the driver.

As the yellow cab pulled away from the curb and merged into traffic, a black SUV with heavily tinted windows pulled up to the building's entrance. Two burly men stepped out—Liam's private security, sent back early to sweep the apartment before his arrival.

I missed them by a mere thirty seconds. I watched the building fade into the distance through the rear window.

I was temporarily homeless. But for the first time in my life, I was free.