Flash Marriage: My Secret Billionaire Husband

Her phone screen lit up, and the name on it made her stomach tighten: Heath. Claire pressed the power button hard, and the screen went dark. The cold and merciless wind howled past the granite steps of New York City Hall—a feeling that fits the occasion.

A black sedan drove up to the roadside, its deep engine roaring through the city's noise. Her heart was pounding. Heath. He must have come here with her. This thought sent a chilling chill through her.

But the one who got out of the car was not Heath.

He was tall and wore a dark, impeccably tailored suit that seemed to absorb the faint light of dawn. His actions carried a calm and dignified aura, making the bustling sidewalks seem like his exclusive stage. He was a stranger, yet he radiated a dangerous silence that made Claire instinctively take half a step back.

He noticed. Of course, he noticed.

His eyes, deep as whiskey, met her gaze across the sidewalk. He stopped precisely three steps away—a distance that felt both safe and deliberate.

"Did you wait a long time?" His voice was deep, a rich baritone, with no trace of urban impatience.

Claire stiffly shook her head. "No. I just arrived. ”

Her gaze was drawn to the watch peeking out from beneath his sleeve. It's understated, but the intricate dial and the platinum glow suggest a price tag with too many zeros behind it—which doesn't quite match the image of a man who needs a contract marriage.

He followed her gaze, then calmly pulled down his sleeve to cover the Patek Philippe piece. "This is a pretty good imitation." The corner of his mouth twitched slightly. "Knockoff goods from Canal Street. The timing is astonishing. ”

This lie was so blatant, yet so calm, that it almost felt real. Almost.

They walked side by side into the grand and resonant hall, a silent and awkward pair. The air was filled with the smell of old paper and cheap coffee. At the security checkpoint, as he walked by, the metal detector screamed.

"Sir, the watch." A security guard who looked bored murmured as he spoke.

Julian's expression didn't change, but a trace of coldness flashed through his eyes. He unfastened his watch and handed it over. The moment the guard's fingers closed and he felt the weight of the watch, his usual coldness vanished, and his eyes widened in surprise. Julian met his gaze—calm and sharp, carrying a warning of "bear the consequences." The guard's mouth suddenly shut.

Claire had already passed security and turned around. "Is everything okay?"

She didn't see the security guard's reaction, only knew Julian was delayed.

"It's nothing." Julian took back his watch, put it back on his wrist, and followed her.

The hall was a chaotic sea of people. They took a number and waited by a marble pillar. The crowd surged, and a man staggering back suddenly bumped into Claire.

Before she could catch her breath, an arm reached out and wrapped his arm around her shoulder. Julian pulled her tightly against his chest, shielding her from the impact. In that instant, her world was left with only the solid barrier of his body and the sharp, crisp scent of cedarwood—and something else, a cold, metallic smell like rain falling on stone.

Her cheek pressed against the fine wool of his suit. Warmth rose on her cheeks. "Thank you." She muttered softly and pushed him away.

"There are a lot of people." He said only that one sentence, and his hand slipped off her shoulder. His fingers curled slightly, as if still savoring her touch.

A shrill voice came from the speaker, calling out their number: B-47.

They walked toward the window, where a scratched piece of acrylic separated them from a clerk whose eyes were tired and a thick pile of documents was in front of them. "ID." She said without even looking up.

Julian reached for his wallet. When he pulled his wallet out of his chest pocket, Claire caught sight of something: black, incredibly smooth—that was a corner of an American Express Centurion card. He saw her watching, and with a move so fast it didn't seem like an accident, he covered the card with his license and slid it under the glass.

The clerk processed their information, and the seal dropped with a bureaucratic 'thud' of decisiveness. She pushed a piece of paper to them—a marriage application form.

Claire picked up the cheap ballpoint pen tied on the counter. The pen tip hovered above the signature bar. Now is the time. There is no turning back. Her hand trembled slightly. Is she really going to do this? Switching from one cage to another?

"The first payment will arrive next Tuesday." Julian whispered, a voice only she could hear. "For your mother's treatment."

Those words were like a scalpel, stabbing straight into her desperate heart. The image of her mother lying weakly in the hospital bed flashed through her mind. The hesitation disappeared. Her signature scribbled and angrily swiped across the paper.

Julian took the pen from her hand. His signature is the complete opposite of hers—smooth, confident, and completely controlled.

The clerk took the form, checked it once, and then slammed the embossing machine down with a loud "bang." The seal is stamped. Done.

"Alright." The clerk's tired voice carried a hint of mockery. "You can kiss the bride now."

Tension hung in the air. Claire's fingers clenched tightly into fists at her sides. A kiss? That's not part of the deal. The covenant is for financial and legal status, not ...... This one.

Julian leaned in closer. Claire's breath got stuck in her throat. She instinctively backed away, expecting a clumsy and perfunctory kiss. However, his lips brushed her cheek—a feather-light touch that ended before it even began. Warm, incredibly soft, leaving a burning mark on her skin.

She instinctively covered her cheek with her hand, her heart pounding wildly and staggering. He had already stepped back, standing at a safe distance, his dark eyes fixed on her with an elusive expression.

They took their certificates and stepped into the dazzling sunlight. Claire fumbled to take out her phone, her hand still trembling. She took a photo of the document and sent it to her best friend Kolo.

The phone immediately vibrated—an iMessage message.

Kolo: Oh my god. Don't tell me you married that bastard Heath. Followed by a long string of terrified emojis.

Claire's fingers quickly tapped across the screen: No. This is a contract. His name was Julian.

As she typed, Julian's phone vibrated. It was a sound different from ordinary telephones—a deep and persistent humming. He frowned—it was the first time he had ever shown that expression that day.

He answered the call, his body slightly turning away from her. "What is it?" His voice was like a sharp blade.

Claire could only catch fragments of his words, almost whispering. "I don't care what the terms are. The deal was canceled...... No, this is not negotiation. Fire him. Make sure his entire team is escorted out of the building within an hour. I want to cut off their access right now. ”

He hung up the phone. That shift was shocking—the cold, merciless commanding tone in his voice faded as quickly as it appeared. He turned back to face her, his expression once again becoming gentle, almost gentle.

"Work?" Claire tries to make her voice sound casual.

"Telemarketer." He lied fluently. "These people are very radical now."

They walked to the subway entrance. "My car is here." Claire is eager to escape the confusing atmosphere his presence brings. "Thank you...... Today. ”

"I can give you a ride." He suggested.

"This will hold you back." She said quickly.

"Then let me get you a car."

"No." Her tone was a bit too forceful. Thinking about how she was carefully counting every penny, while he had to pay for Uber, she felt something was off. "The subway is faster. I'm fine. ”

The atmosphere between the two grew tense. For a moment, she thought he would persist. But then he lightly—almost imperceptibly—nodded. "Alright. Be careful on the road, Claire. ”

He stood at the top of the stairs, forming a black silhouette under the bright sky, watching her descend into the echoing darkness at the station.

The moment her head disappeared from sight, his entire demeanor changed. The mask of refined and refined professionalism melted away, replaced by a cold, absolute aura of power. He turned around. The black sedan that had been parked across the street silently drove away. In its place was a bulletproof Maybach S680, shining like polished obsidian, gliding to the roadside.

An assistant dressed in a sharp suit jumped out of the car, opened the back door, and respectfully bowed his head.

Julian stepped into the car. With a soft "bang" from the heavy door, the world filled with cheap coffee and crowded halls vanished. He was home.