Flash Marriage To The Secret Zillionaire

Blaire pushed her weight against the heavy glass door of the midtown Manhattan cafe. The biting chill of the early autumn wind was instantly severed, replaced by a wall of artificial heat that blasted her face. She frowned, her skin prickling under her thin coat. Deep in her pocket, her phone vibrated violently. The screen flashed with her mother's name-Sharon. It was the sixth back-to-back call. Blaire sucked in a sharp breath, her lungs tight, and pressed the volume button to silence the buzzing. She scanned the room. Her eyes cut through the crowded booths, searching for the specific marker her blind date had mentioned in his text: a red rose. In the far corner, right next to a fogged-up window, her gaze locked onto a man. He had a heavy, protruding stomach and a cheap plastic red rose shoved unceremoniously into a water glass. Blaire adjusted the strap of her purse, her low heels clicking against the hardwood floor as she approached. She pulled out the chair opposite him. The man looked up. His greasy eyes immediately dragged up and down her body, stripping her down in a way that made bile rise in the back of her throat. "Mitch Kowalski," he announced, not bothering to stand. Before Blaire could even settle her weight into the chair, Mitch snapped his fingers in the air, waving down a passing waitress with arrogant entitlement. He ordered the cheapest black coffee on the menu for himself. The waitress turned her notepad toward Blaire. "And for you, miss?" "She doesn't need anything," Mitch interrupted, his tone flat. Blaire's jaw locked. The muscles in her face went rigid. She looked directly at the waitress. "I'll have a vanilla latte. And here is my card." She pulled her credit card from her wallet and handed it over, her movements sharp and deliberate. Mitch stared at the plastic card in the waitress's hand. He curled his upper lip in a sneer. "Suit yourself." He leaned forward, resting his thick forearms on the table. Without missing a beat, he launched into a loud, boastful monologue about his job. He bragged about making sixty thousand dollars a year, emphasizing the word "high-income" as if he were a Wall Street tycoon. "When we get married," Mitch continued, his voice dripping with condescending charity, "you'll need to quit your little retail job. I need a wife at home, preparing for pregnancy." Blaire bit the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted copper. She fought the overwhelming urge to roll her eyes. The waitress returned and set the hot latte down. Blaire wrapped her cold fingers around the ceramic mug, taking a slow sip. She stared at him, hoping her absolute silence would kill the conversation. It didn't. Mitch took her silence as submission. He reached into his briefcase and slapped a few sheets of stapled paper onto the table. "This is a draft of our prenup," he stated. "You need to waive any rights to my used Ford Focus." Blaire stared at the papers. Her chest tightened, restricting her oxygen. "And," Mitch added, tapping the paper with a thick finger, "you'll use your pre-marital savings to cover all our daily living expenses. My salary needs to be freed up for my investments." The blood drained from Blaire's face, only to rush back in a hot, furious wave. Her fingers gripped the coffee mug so tightly her knuckles turned stark white. The fuse on her patience burned out completely. She slammed the heavy ceramic mug down onto the table. The sharp crack echoed through the cafe. The ambient jazz music seemed to pause. Heads turned from the neighboring booths, eyes locking onto their table. Blaire leaned forward, her voice ice-cold and brutally fluent. "You want me to quit my job, pay for your groceries, and sign away a used Ford Focus?" She stood up, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. She looked down at Mitch, whose face was rapidly turning the color of a bruised plum. "A man who forces a woman to split the bill for a cup of coffee," Blaire said, her voice carrying clearly across the silent room, "doesn't deserve to use the word 'investment'." Mitch's face twisted in humiliated rage. He shoved his chair back and lunged upward, his thick hand reaching out to grab her wrist. Blaire's reflexes kicked in. She sidestepped sharply. Mitch's hand grabbed nothing but air. His momentum carried him forward, his chest slamming into the table. The water glass tipped over, sending the plastic red rose and freezing water splashing all over his crotch. A suppressed wave of laughter erupted from the surrounding tables. Mitch stood there, dripping wet and completely pathetic. He pointed a trembling finger at Blaire's face and started screaming obscenities. Blaire let out a short, breathy laugh. She grabbed her purse, didn't spare him a single backward glance, and marched straight toward the exit. Two booths away, hidden in a secluded alcove, an elderly woman wearing a discreet but incredibly expensive pearl necklace gently set her porcelain teacup down on its saucer. The Brewer Matriarch's eyes gleamed with intense satisfaction. Beside her, the massive man in the black suit gently tapped a sleek, discreet directional microphone resting on the table, which had perfectly amplified every word of the disastrous date into her earpiece. She had heard every insult, and watched every second of Blaire's decisive counterattack. The old woman tilted her head slightly toward the massive man in a black suit sitting rigidly beside her. "Find out everything about that girl," she whispered. "Immediately." Blaire pushed through the heavy doors and practically ran out onto the sidewalk. The cold Manhattan wind hit her flushed cheeks, cooling the angry heat radiating from her skin. She exhaled a long, shaky breath, her chest rising and falling heavily. Her phone vibrated again. A text from Sharon lit up the screen: How is it going? Mitch is a great catch! Blaire ground her back teeth together. Her thumbs flew across the keyboard, hitting the screen with aggressive force. He is an absolute bastard. The date is over! She hit send, shoved the phone deep into her purse, and turned her body toward the subway station. At that exact moment, a sleek, pitch-black Rolls-Royce Phantom glided silently around the street corner, passing mere inches from her. The tinted rear window was rolled down halfway. Inside, Jude Brewer sat in the shadows, his head bowed as he reviewed a stack of legal documents. His sharp, cold profile was briefly illuminated by the streetlights before fading back into the darkness of the luxury car. Blaire didn't notice the vehicle. She kept her eyes straight ahead, marching toward the subway entrance, completely unaware that the gears of her fate had already begun to turn.