Flash Marriage To My Secret Tycoon

The smell of hospital antiseptic woke Alayna. Fluorescent lights glowed above, illuminating a private suite.

She shifted slightly, wincing at the dull ache in her ribs. Raising a hand, she touched the neat gauze taped over her brow and glanced at the hospital wristband: Smith, Alayna — Room 402.

Before she could piece together the crash, the door opened.

Mitchell Smith stepped inside, immaculate in a tailored charcoal suit. He didn't ask how she was. He checked his gold watch, then leveled a cold, impatient glare at the bed.

"Do you have any idea what you've done?" Mitchell said, his voice low and tight. "Jordon called me. He told me you made a scene in his penthouse and assaulted your own assistant over some ridiculous jealous fit. Now the girl is in urgent care with a sprained wrist. If the press gets wind of an assault charge, our stock takes a hit before market open. Our entire alliance with the Harris family is on the line."

Alayna looked at her father. "He was in bed with her, Father. In the home we were supposed to move into next month."

Mitchell snapped his fingers dismissively. "Men in his position have their distractions. It's an inconvenience, not grounds to blow up an alliance. Legal is drafting the girl's non-disclosure agreement. You are going to sign the settlement, apologize to Jordon, and the wedding proceeds next month."

"I am not paying off the woman who slept with my fiancé," Alayna said, her voice dropping to a freezing calm. "And I will not marry Jordon Harris."

Mitchell's expression hardened into pure corporate malice. "Then you leave me no choice. Clara's estate trust names me as sole executor while you're under the family umbrella. If you don't fix this by five o'clock, I will freeze every operating account tied to your name—your agency's payroll, your credit lines, your savings. You won't have the cash to keep your doors open tomorrow morning."

Alayna stared right back at him. "Go ahead and freeze them. But I will not be traded away to save your balance sheet."

Mitchell offered a thin, bitter sneer. "You'll be calling me within forty-eight hours."

He turned on his heel and walked out, letting the door swing shut with a muffled thud.

The room fell quiet. The adrenaline drained from Alayna's system, leaving her empty. She leaned back against the pillows, closing her eyes as a slow, steady tear tracked down her cheek. In less than twenty-four hours, she had lost her fiancé, her business support, and her family.

A soft knock sounded at the door.

The man from the storm stepped inside.

He had changed into a clean, faded canvas jacket over a dark t-shirt. He moved with a quiet, grounded presence, carrying a paper cup of black coffee.

He set the cup on the bedside table and pulled a clean napkin from his pocket, holding it out to her.

Alayna took it, dabbing her eyes. "Thank you... for last night. I didn't even catch your name."

He pulled a chair over and sat down, resting his forearms on his knees. "Cruz Clayton. I work in construction."

His voice was a deep, steady rumble. Up close, his dark eyes held a calm, unshakeable stillness that felt remarkably foreign to the high-society world she had grown up in.

Alayna looked at his large, calloused hands—the hands that had cut her free from a burning wreck without hesitation.

Suddenly, an obscure detail from her mother's trust document surfaced in her mind.

Mitchell had control over Clara's estate only as long as Alayna remained an unmarried dependent under the original family umbrella. The moment she entered a legal marriage outside the family's veto, Mitchell's status as sole executor terminated automatically.

Mitchell thought he had backed her into a corner. Jordon assumed she had nowhere left to turn.

She looked at the quiet man sitting beside her.

"Cruz... are you married?"

Cruz paused. In the depths of his dark eyes, a faint, unreadable stillness flickered, but his expression gave away nothing.

"No," he replied evenly.

Alayna took a quiet breath, holding his gaze. "Marry me. One year. Strictly a business arrangement on paper. I need a legal spouse to protect my mother's estate from my father, and I will pay you five thousand dollars a month plus all living expenses. At the end of twelve months, we file an amicable divorce and walk away clean."

She braced herself for him to laugh, balk at the absurdity, or walk out the door. A normal working man would think she had lost her mind.

Instead, Cruz simply looked at her. For thirty quiet seconds, the only sound in the private room was the low hum of the air conditioner. His dark eyes remained completely steady, holding hers with a calm, heavy gravity that made her pulse quicken. He didn't ask about the money. He didn't blink.

Finally, he gave a single, measured nod.

"Deal."