On The Day I Was Abandoned, I Married A Mysterious Billionaire

Kathrine POV:

"Sorry for the delay. Damian Sharpe. I'm with her."

He stood beside me at the counter, his tall frame instantly commanding the space. Up close, his cologne was cedarwood and winter air, clean and completely without sweetness.

The clerk looked up, her hand pausing over the ink stamp. Her eyes darted between his platinum cufflinks and the cold line of his jaw. "Mr. Sharpe... of course. Let me prepare the registry."

My head was spinning. Only two minutes ago, he had looked at me with clear confusion. Yet here he was, stepping into the appointment as if this had been arranged for weeks.

Before I could speak, my clutch vibrated violently. Molly was calling from her own number now.

I tried to tap the red button, but my thumb slipped on the glass and clipped the speakerphone instead.

Molly's shrill voice cut through the quiet hall. "What's wrong, sis? Are you hiding in some corner crying? I told you Earl would never choose you. You're too demanding and too boring. Who would ever want a woman like you?"

The clerk winced, looking down at her paperwork. A couple two windows down turned to stare.

Heat crept up my neck. I reached for the screen, but Damian reached past my shoulder. His long thumb tapped the glass, ending the call instantly.

The room went silent.

He didn't look at the onlookers. He looked down at me, his pale blue eyes steady.

"She has poor judgment," he said quietly.

"I... thank you," I whispered.

Damian raised two fingers toward the younger man in a dark suit standing behind him. "Ian. Speak with the clerk. Give us three minutes."

"Right away, Mr. Sharpe," the assistant replied, stepping smoothly in front of the counter.

Damian placed a light, firm hand near my lower back, guiding me toward a recessed stone archway away from the main walkway.

"Why did you do that?" I asked, leaning back against the marble to steady my legs. "You don't know me. You could find dozens of women with a single phone call."

"Women who come through family introductions arrive with parents who want board seats and financial favors," Damian said plainly. "You have a problem of pride. I have a practical problem with family expectations. A marriage certificate solves both."

"This is completely wild," I said, looking up at him.

"It is entirely practical," he replied. "You need a husband so your stepsister does not get the satisfaction of your public humiliation. And I need a marriage on record to stop my relatives from scheduling blind dates every Tuesday."

He checked his dark wristwatch. "We have three minutes left. You can walk out of that door as someone who was left behind, or you can walk out as Mrs. Sharpe."

The sting of Molly's laughter echoed in my thoughts, alongside the image of Earl peeling that apple without looking up.

A quiet resolve flared in my chest.

I looked Damian in the eye. "What are the rules?"

A faint trace of a smile touched the corner of his scar. "Name yours first."