The Trillionaire's Bargain

The bass thumped through my chest as I pushed deeper into the crowded bar, the smell of cheap cologne and spilled beer making my stomach turn. My hands trembled—not from the alcohol I hadn't touched, but from the weight of the decision I'd made three hours ago.

Run away. Get married. Anyone but Harold Blackstone.

The thought of that seventy-year-old man's wrinkled hands on me made my skin crawl. My father's words echoed in my mind: "The merger depends on this marriage, Sophia. Don't be selfish."

Selfish. Right. Because wanting to marry someone who didn't smell like mothballs and have liver spots was selfish.

I scanned the bar desperately. I needed someone—anyone—who looked decent enough to convince a courthouse clerk we were a real couple. My eyes swept past the usual suspects: drunk college boys, middle-aged men with wedding rings, and—

There.

Sitting alone at the far end of the bar was possibly the most beautiful man I'd ever seen. Dark hair that looked like he'd run his fingers through it, sharp jawline, and eyes that seemed to see right through the chaos around him. He wore a simple black t-shirt and jeans that had definitely seen better days, but somehow he made it look effortless.

Perfect. He looked broke enough to need the money I was about to offer.

I smoothed down my designer dress—probably worth more than his monthly rent—and walked over, my heels clicking against the sticky floor.

"Excuse me," I said, sliding onto the stool next to him.

He turned, and I nearly lost my nerve. Up close, his eyes were an impossible shade of green, and there was something about the way he looked at me—like he was amused by some private joke.

"Can I help you?" His voice was smooth, with just a hint of roughness that made my pulse skip.

"Actually, yes." I took a deep breath. "This is going to sound crazy, but I need you to marry me."

He blinked once, slowly, then took a sip of what looked like expensive whiskey. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Marry me. Tonight. I'll pay you fifty thousand dollars."

The bartender, who'd been pretending not to listen, nearly dropped the glass he was cleaning.

The stranger—God, I didn't even know his name—set down his drink and turned to face me fully. "You're serious."

"Dead serious." I pulled out my phone and showed him my banking app. "Look, I know this is insane, but I'm desperate. My family is trying to force me into an arranged marriage with a man old enough to be my grandfather. If I'm already married, they can't make me do it."

He studied my face for a long moment, and I fought the urge to fidget under his gaze. There was something unsettling about how calm he was, like this kind of thing happened to him every day.

"Fifty thousand," he repeated.

"Cash. Tonight. All you have to do is sign some papers and pretend to be my husband for a few weeks until I figure out my next move."

"And after that?"

"Quickest divorce in Nevada history."

He was quiet for so long I started to panic. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe I should have gone with plan B—which, admittedly, I hadn't thought of yet.

"What's your name?" he asked finally.

"Sophia. Sophia Chen."

"Well, Sophia Chen," he said, extending his hand, "I'm Marcus. Marcus Rivera."

I shook his hand, surprised by how warm and steady it was. "So you'll do it?"

A slow smile spread across his face, and something fluttered in my chest that had nothing to do with relief.

"Why not? But I have one condition."

My heart sank. "What?"

"We do this properly. No courthouse at midnight, no Elvis impersonator. If we're getting married, we're getting married."

I stared at him. "You want a real wedding?"

"I want a real marriage license. Everything legal and binding. If you're going to use me to escape your family, I want to make sure it actually works."

Smart. I hadn't expected that from someone who looked like he lived paycheck to paycheck.

"Fine. But we do it tomorrow morning. First thing."

"Deal." He finished his drink and stood up. "I assume you have somewhere we can stay tonight? Separately, of course."

I hadn't thought that far ahead. "I... I have an apartment. It's small, but there's a couch."

"Lead the way, Mrs. Rivera."

The name sent an unexpected thrill through me. Mrs. Rivera. It had a nice ring to it.

An hour later, I was unlocking the door to my tiny studio apartment, very aware of Marcus behind me. I'd never brought a man here before—it was my sanctuary, my escape from the Chen family mansion and all its suffocating expectations.

"Sorry about the mess," I mumbled, though the place was spotless. Nervous habit.

Marcus stepped inside and looked around, taking in the secondhand furniture and the kitchen that was barely big enough for one person. His expression was unreadable.

"It's nice," he said, and he sounded like he meant it. "Cozy."

I watched him examine my ancient coffee maker with the kind of fascination most people reserved for museum pieces.

"How does this work?" he asked, poking at the buttons like they might bite him.

"You've never used a coffee maker before?"

He looked embarrassed. "I usually just... buy coffee. Out."

Right. Probably couldn't afford a decent coffee maker. I felt a pang of guilt about how much I was planning to spend on coffee pods this month.

"Here, let me show you." I moved to stand next to him, very aware of how he seemed to take up all the space in my small kitchen. "You put the water here, coffee here, and press this button."

He nodded seriously, like I was explaining rocket science. "Got it."

There was something endearing about how lost he looked. Most of the men I knew could barely be bothered to learn my last name, let alone how my appliances worked.

"The bathroom's through there," I said, pointing to the only other door in the apartment. "Towels are in the closet. I'll grab you some blankets for the couch."

"Thank you." He caught my wrist gently as I passed. "Sophia? Are you sure about this? Once we sign those papers tomorrow, there's no going back."

I looked down at his hand on my wrist, then up at his face. In the soft light of my apartment, he looked younger, more vulnerable somehow. But his eyes were still sharp, still seeing too much.

"I'm sure," I said. "Are you?"

His thumb brushed across my pulse point, and I wondered if he could feel how fast my heart was beating.

"Ask me tomorrow," he said, releasing my wrist.

As I lay in bed an hour later, listening to Marcus move around my living room, I wondered what the hell I'd gotten myself into. In less than twelve hours, I'd be married to a complete stranger.

But anything was better than Harold Blackstone.

Anything.