Oops... I Married the Wrong Billionaire

2

If someone had told Ava Carter twenty-four hours ago that she would be standing in the private elevator of a glass tower holding a battered duffel bag and a box of cold leftover penne, she would have recommended they seek professional help.

Yet here she was.

The elevator doors glided open without a sound, revealing a living room that looked less like a home and more like an art museum designed by someone who hated joy. Floor-to-ceiling glass overlooked the city skyline. Dark hardwood stretched across a space so massive it had an echo. Every surface was polished black marble, brush-finished steel, or aggressive shades of charcoal.

There were no framed photos. No throw blankets. Not even a stray mug on the counter.

Ava stepped out, her squeaky three-year-old flats making a wet shuck-shuck sound against the pristine floorboards. Behind her, Lucas Ashford walked in carrying his own pristine leather briefcase, completely unbothered by the fact that he had just brought a total stranger into his home.

"Guest suite is down the east hallway," Lucas said, not even looking at her as he unbuttoned his suit jacket and hung it on a sleek, invisible wall hook. "Third door on the left."

Ava didn't move. She dropped her duffel bag right in the middle of the foyer. It hit the floor with a heavy, dusty thud, her overstuffed canvas tote tumbling over beside it.

Lucas stopped mid-step. His gaze drifted slowly down to the floor, staring at her mismatched luggage as if it were an active chemical spill.

"What is that?" he asked.

"That is my luggage," Ava said, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as she glared at him. "It contains my clothes, my toiletries, and my dignity. Though honestly, the dignity stayed in the parking garage."

"It's blocking the foyer."

"It's on the floor, Lucas. Floors are made for putting things on."

"Storage spaces are made for putting things in," Lucas corrected, his voice infuriatingly calm. He walked over, picked up her tote bag by its woven strap with two fingers, and set it neatly on a low leather bench against the wall. "The foyer remains clear."

Ava stared at him, her jaw practically hitting her chest. "Did you just move my bag?"

"I relocated it."

"I have been in this apartment for forty-five seconds!" Ava yelled, throwing her hands up. "Forty-five seconds, and you are already regulating where my tote bag lives?"

"Rules maintain order, Ms. Carter."

"My name is Ava!" she snapped, marching toward the kitchen island. "And I am not a tenant! I am a legal hostage of the state municipal court system! There is a difference!"

Before Lucas could respond, the sharp, frantic ring of Ava’s phone cut through the quiet. She yanked it out of her pocket. The screen flashed ETHAN.

She pressed answer instantly, pulling the phone to her ear. "Ethan love? Are you okay?"

"Ava," Ethan’s voice came through the speaker, so laced with panic he sounded like he was hyperventilating into a paper bag. "She brought four trunks. Four, Ava. And she hasn't touched the floor since she walked in!"

In the background, a sharp, cultured voice echoed through the speaker. "Mr. Brooks, why is your refrigerator making that noise?"

"Because it's running, Ms. Sinclair!" Ethan yelled back into his apartment, before dropping his voice back into a desperate whisper to Ava. "She asked me if the couch was sanitized! I bought that couch brand new from IKEA three years ago!"

Ava squeezed her eyes shut, her heart aching for him. "Ethan, breathe. Just... give her a towel and let her unpack."

"She brought her own silk sheets, Ava! She's currently re-making my bed because she said my thread count gave her a rash!"

"Ethan, I love you, but I am currently standing in a dark glass box with a man who just gave my handbag an eviction notice," Ava said defensively. "We're going to survive this. Ninety days. Just hold on."

"I don't think my refrigerator is going to survive ninety days under her scrutiny," Ethan groaned, before the line went dead.

Ava lowered her phone, letting out a long, shuddering breath. When she looked up, Lucas was standing on the other side of the marble island, watching her with his hands tucked casually into his trouser pockets.

"Your fiancé seems overwhelmed," Lucas observed deadpan.

"He is not used to dealing with people who view middle-class appliances as personal insults," Ava shot back, pulling a dining chair back with entirely too much force and sitting down. "Unlike you two, Ethan and I actually built a normal life. We had plans. We were looking at a fixer-upper condo in the west district next week."

"Then I suggest he focuses on surviving Victoria's standards," Lucas said coolly. He reached into his briefcase, pulled out a bound white document, and slid it across the smooth marble counter toward her.

Ava squinted at the cover page.

PENTHOUSE HOUSEHOLD GUIDELINES & SECURITY PROTOCOLS.

She picked it up, flipping through the neatly typed pages. "What is this?"

"A standard cohabitation agreement," Lucas replied. "Drafted by my legal team on the drive over. Section One covers quiet hours. Section Two outlines security access. Section Three explicitly forbids public statements regarding the Ashford Group or our legal status."

Ava stared at the pages, then looked up at him. "Section Four: No personal items left in common areas for longer than sixty minutes. Are you insane?"

"It maintains a standard presentation," Lucas said. "I frequently host executive board members here."

"Well, you're hosting an architect from the east side now!" Ava declared. She reached into her bag, pulled out a thick red Sharpie, unbuttoned the cap with her teeth, and began aggressively uncaring lines directly through his attorneys' carefully drafted paragraphs.

Lucas’s eyes narrowed by a millimeter. "What are you doing?"

"Amending the lease," she said, scribbling furiously on the paper.

She slammed the document back onto the counter. Lucas picked it up, inspecting her bright red handwriting.

1. Ava touches whatever she wants.

2. Lucas does not move Ava’s handbag.

3. No military-grade schedules.

4. Do not talk to me before my second cup of coffee.

5. Absolutely no alphabetizing anything.

Lucas paused on the final line, his brow furrowing slightly. "Why no alphabetizing?"

"Because I have eyes, Lucas," Ava said, crossing her arms and leaning back in the chair.

"That isn't a logical explanation."

"It is when I am looking at you," she retorted flatly. "You look like the kind of person who alphabetizes his socks by fabric weight. I will not live in a filing cabinet."

Lucas stared at her red scribbles for a long, silent moment. For a second, Ava thought he was going to call his lawyers and have her forcibly removed. Instead, he simply capped his own pen, set the paper aside, and picked up his briefcase.

"Dinner is catered at seven," Lucas said, turning toward the hallway. "Do not burn the kitchen down trying to heat up your pasta."

"I know how to use a microwave, you human spreadsheet!" Ava yelled after his retreating back.

He didn't answer. The heavy oak door of his private study closed with a quiet, expensive click.

Ava slumped forward, resting her forehead against the cool marble counter. Her phone buzzed against the stone.

She reached for it blindly, expecting another panicked text from Ethan. But when she opened her notifications, it wasn't Ethan.

It was a news alert from the city’s largest tabloid outlet.

BOMBSHELL AT THE REGISTRY: BILLIONAIRE LUCAS ASHFORD SECRETLY MARRIED TO UNKNOWN ARCHITECT.

Beneath the headline was a high-resolution scan of their official marriage certificate, complete with her name, her age, and a magnified photo of her face pulled directly from her professional website.

Ava’s breath hitched in her throat. Below the article, the comment section was already scrolling at a terrifying speed, filled with thousands of messages labeling her a scammer, a gold digger, and an opportunistic fraud.

The exhaustion hit her all at once, cold and heavy.

She stared at her name printed beside Lucas Ashford’s on the glowing screen, realizing that the quiet, simple life she had built was officially gone.