Flash Marriage To My Secret Tycoon

The driving rain soaked through Alayna's blouse within seconds. Her hands shook so violently she fumbled with the handle of her Porsche, stumbling inside and pulling the door shut against the howling wind.

Water dripped into her eyes. She pressed the ignition button, and the engine purred to life. Shifting into drive, she guided the car into the storm-slicked streets.

On the leather passenger seat, her phone lit up repeatedly.

JORDON (8 MISSED CALLS)

FATHER (5 MISSED CALLS)

The relentless buzzing grated on her frayed nerves. She reached across the console, trying to swipe the power toggle, but her wet fingers slipped. The phone bounced off her knee and slid beneath the pedals.

Alayna leaned down to reach for it.

Her eyes left the road for a single second.

Ahead, the traffic lights at the flooded intersection short-circuited into a dull, flashing yellow.

A heavy commercial flatbed truck barreled through the cross street, ignoring the caution lights. Its blinding high beams cut through the downpour, flooding the cabin in stark white light.

Alayna snapped upright and jerked the steering wheel hard to the right.

The tires hit standing water and hydroplaned. The Porsche spun across two lanes, tires shrieking, before slamming sideways into a reinforced concrete barrier.

The side airbags deployed with a concussive crack, punching the breath from her lungs.

Her head struck the frame, and the world went dark.

When consciousness returned, her head throbbed with a dull ache, and the locked seatbelt pressed painfully against her bruised ribs. A thin trickle of blood ran down her hairline.

Smoke poured from the buckled hood. The acrid stench of leaking radiator fluid and gasoline filled the air. Sparks popped along exposed wiring.

Alayna shoved her shoulder against the driver's door, but the crushed metal was wedged tight against the concrete barrier, trapping her inside the cabin.

Through the rain, the deep, guttural roar of a heavy motorcycle cut through the night.

A man in a dark canvas jacket slid his bike to a halt along the shoulder. He didn't hesitate. Moving with disciplined precision, he pulled a window punch from his pocket, shattered the driver-side glass, and cleared the shards with a gloved forearm.

The clean scent of rain, motor oil, and mint cut through the chemical smoke.

"Stay still," a low, gravelly voice instructed.

He reached inside, found the seatbelt locked under tension, and drew a combat knife from his belt. With one clean stroke, the strap parted.

Flames flared beneath the crumpled hood.

"Hold on to me."

His arms slid beneath her shoulders and knees, hauling her clear of the wreckage with steady, overwhelming strength. He pulled her against his chest and sprinted toward the sidewalk just as the fuel line ignited in a muted fireball.

The heat washed over them, but the man pivoted, shielding her completely with his broad frame.

Alayna rested against his jacket, the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart audible beneath the heavy canvas.

He carried her beneath the dry awning of a storefront and set her down gently, immediately stripping off his jacket to drape it over her shivering shoulders.

Taking out a phone, he dialed 911. His voice was calm, clipped, and precise as he gave their coordinates.

Alayna forced her eyes open.

Under the awning's pale light, she saw a faint scar cutting through his left eyebrow, resting above quiet, dark eyes. His features were sharply carved, shadowed by dark stubble.

Her lips parted, but only a strained breath came out.

He pocketed the phone, knelt beside her, and gently wiped the blood from her brow with the cuff of his sleeve.

"Stay with me," he said quietly, his grip on her cold hand solid and grounding. "Help is already on the way."

In the distance, the wail of sirens cut through the rain.

Reassured by the steady calm in his voice, Alayna let her head tilt back, slipping into unconsciousness.