The shrill beep of the alarm clock sliced through the morning silence. Debora walked out of the bedroom, her stomach churning with residual nausea.
Jameson was already sitting on the edge of the sofa, shrugging into his suit jacket. His face was a mask of stone.
Their eyes met for a fraction of a second. The air in the room was thick with the toxic fallout of last night's disaster.
"Get dressed," Jameson ordered, his voice devoid of any inflection. "You have five minutes. We're going to City Hall to sign the papers."
Debora didn't argue. She turned around, went back into the bedroom, and pulled on a simple, cheap white sundress. It was the closest thing she had to a wedding outfit.
They walked down to the car in total silence. The drive across the Brooklyn Bridge was agonizing. The morning traffic was at a standstill, and the heavy, suffocating tension inside the Chevy made Debora's chest tight. She twisted the fabric of her skirt around her fingers, staring blankly out the window.
When they arrived at the downtown Manhattan City Hall, they joined a long line of couples. Women in white dresses held bouquets; men in sharp suits smiled at their brides.
Debora and Jameson stood a foot apart, their cold, rigid posture making them look like strangers waiting for a bus.
When they finally reached the counter, the clerk slid a marriage license across the laminate surface. "Do you both enter into this union willingly?" the clerk asked, sounding bored.
Debora picked up the pen. Her hand shook slightly. She took a deep breath, pressing the tip to the paper, and signed her name on the designated line.
She passed the pen to Jameson. He didn't hesitate. He pulled out a meticulously forged driver's license and social security card that Pierce had prepared the night before. The documents bore the name Jameson King, but every piece of background data, address, and photo linked perfectly to his airtight, middle-class alias. He slapped the flawless fake ID on the counter, gripped the pen, and scrawled a signature with aggressive, sharp strokes.
The clerk stamped the paper with a heavy metal seal. "Congratulations. You're married."
Debora walked out of the heavy glass doors into the blinding sunlight. She looked down at the thin piece of paper in her hand. She was legally bound to a man who hated her.
Across the plaza, Pierce stood near a hot dog stand, dressed in casual clothes. He gave Jameson a subtle nod, confirming that the expedited background checks and the suppression of Jameson's true financial status had been handled.
Jameson looked away from Pierce. "It's done," he said coldly to Debora. "I'm going to the office."
He started walking toward the car.
Debora stopped. Her eyes caught a bright neon sign across the street: Instant Photo Booth - Wedding Specials.
Her hand instinctively went to her stomach. A fierce, sudden maternal instinct gripped her heart. She needed proof. She needed a physical record that this child was conceived and carried within a marriage, no matter how fake it was.
"Wait," Debora called out, her voice trembling.
Jameson stopped. He turned around, his brow furrowed in deep irritation. "What now?"
Debora pointed a shaking finger at the cheap photo booth across the street. "Can we... can we just take one picture? Please. Just one."
Jameson followed her gaze. He looked at the peeling paint on the booth and the tacky plastic flowers taped to the side. His upper lip curled in absolute disgust.
"No," Jameson snapped. "I don't have time for your childish games."
He turned his back on her and kept walking.
Debora stood frozen on the sidewalk. She bit her lower lip so hard she tasted blood. Her eyes burned, but she refused to let the tears fall. She didn't chase him.
Jameson reached the car and pulled the handle. He glanced over his shoulder.
Debora was standing exactly where he left her. The wind whipped the hem of her cheap white dress around her thin legs. She looked incredibly small, fragile, and utterly defeated under the harsh sun.
A sudden image of her bent over the sink last night, pale and shaking, flashed in his mind. A strange, sharp ache hit the center of his chest.
Jameson cursed violently under his breath. He slammed the car door shut and stalked back across the concrete.
He stopped in front of her, grabbing her wrist. "You have exactly ten minutes," he growled.
Debora's head snapped up. The crushing disappointment in her eyes vanished, replaced by a bright, stunning spark of relief. The corners of her mouth tipped up into a small, genuine smile.
Jameson's heart skipped a beat. The breath caught in his throat. He looked away instantly, his jaw clenching tight as he dragged her across the street toward the booth.
