Oops... I Married the Wrong Billionaire

3

By six o’clock the following morning, Ava learned two very specific things.

First, Lucas Ashford’s high-rise floor-to-ceiling windows were double-paned and soundproof, but they did nothing to hide the fact that four news helicopters were currently hovering over the building like giant metallic mosquitoes.

Second, the internet had managed to construct an entire cinematic universe around her life in less than twelve hours.

Ava sat at the kitchen island in a pair of oversized gray sweatpants and a faded college t-shirt, staring blankly at her phone screen. Her coffee had gone cold twenty minutes ago.

"According to The City Gazette," Ava said aloud to the empty kitchen, her voice flat, "I spent the last six years cultivating a fake relationship with an associate analyst purely to use him as a smoke screen while I targeted you."

She scrolled down with a slow, agonizing flick of her thumb.

"Oh, this one’s creative. The Daily Wire thinks I hired a criminal hacking syndicate to infiltrate the municipal registry server. Apparently, I am a criminal mastermind." She looked over her mug at the hallway entrance. "Honestly, I’m flattered. Yesterday I couldn't find my car keys for twenty minutes because they were in my mouth, but today I’m a digital terrorist."

Lucas walked into the kitchen wearing a crisp white dress shirt, his dark silk tie loosely draped around his collar, unknotted. He didn't look like a man who had slept. He looked like a man who had spent the night reviewing stock tickers and litigation risk assessments.

He walked past her, pulled a pristine white ceramic mug from a hidden cabinet, and placed it beneath the Italian espresso machine.

"Ignore the press," Lucas said deadpan. The machine whirred to life, dispensing a precise shot of dark liquid. "They thrive on speculative outrage."

"Ignore them?" Ava echoed, sitting up straight. "Lucas, my high school algebra teacher just posted a video on t****k claiming she always knew I was destined for moral bankruptcy because I failed quadratic equations!"

"Stock for the Ashford Group dropped four point two percent at market open," Lucas replied, taking a slow sip of his espresso. "Your high school teacher’s opinion on quadratic equations has not impacted our capital liquidity. Yours shouldn't either."

Ava stared at him. "Do you have an actual heart in your chest, or is it just a little brass gear that turns whenever money moves?"

Lucas turned his head, his dark eyes meeting hers with absolute, unyielding composure. "I have a board of directors convening at nine o'clock to discuss whether my personal life is a liability to a four-billion-dollar development fund. I don't have the luxury of worrying about TikTok."

Ava opened her mouth to shoot back a fiery reply, but her phone suddenly vibrated violently in her hand. The screen flashed with an incoming call from ARTHUR - OFFICE.

Her defensive posture melted away instantly. The sarcastic edge in her voice evaporated, replaced by a cold, sudden drop in her stomach. Arthur was the principal partner at her architecture firm—and the man who had hired her straight out of graduate school.

She answered, pressing the phone to her ear. "Arthur? Hi. I am so sorry about all of this, I—"

"Ava," Arthur’s voice was strained, heavy with a terrible, reluctant quiet. "Have you seen the morning corporate updates?"

Ava’s fingers tightened around the phone. "No. What happened?"

"The Vanguard Group just pulled their funding for the Westside Cultural Center project," Arthur said softly. "They called my office twenty minutes ago. They said they cannot have their commercial brand linked to a firm employing the individual at the center of the Ashford family controversy."

Ava felt the room tilt slightly. The Westside project was her baby. She had spent fourteen months drafting the structural blueprints, staying up until three in the morning calculating load-bearing specs and natural lighting angles. It was the project that was supposed to secure her senior partnership.

"Arthur, no," Ava whispered, her voice cracking slightly despite her best efforts. "That project is mine. I built those designs from scratch. The registry mistake has nothing to do with my structural calculations!"

"I know that, Ava. And I know you," Arthur sighed, looking deeply pained through the speaker. "But Vanguard doesn't care. They want a clean slate. I’m... I’m going to have to place you on administrative leave. Effective immediately."

Silence stretched across the marble kitchen.

"Administrative leave," Ava repeated softly.

"Take some time off. Let the legal teams handle this mess. Once the annulment goes through and the press moves on, we’ll talk."

"Right," Ava said, staring at a small scratch on the glass of her phone screen. "Sure. Thanks, Arthur."

She ended the call.

She sat completely still. Her hands were shaking slightly, so she pulled them beneath the edge of the island, clasping them tightly in her lap. Her career—the only thing she had built entirely on her own merit, without family money, without shortcuts, without anyone’s help—had just been swept out from under her in less than sixty seconds.

Across the counter, the quiet hum of the espresso machine faded.

Lucas was watching her. The deadpan, dismissive air he usually carried had shifted into a quiet, sharp focus. He had heard every word.

"The Vanguard Group," Lucas said slowly, his voice dropping into a lower register. "Their primary commercial division is a subsidiary of Meridian Capital."

"I don't care who owns them," Ava said quietly, refusing to look up at him. "It doesn't matter."

"It does matter," Lucas said. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and tapped the screen. "I know the managing director at Meridian. One phone call, and I can have Vanguard reinstate your position on the Westside project by noon."

Ava’s head snapped up.

Her eyes were blazing, but not with gratitude. They were sharp, furious, and fiercely protective of her pride.

"Don't you dare," she said, her voice trembling with restraint.

Lucas paused, his thumb hovering over his screen. "I am offering to resolve a problem caused by my family's public visibility."

"You think that solves it?" Ava asked, standing up so fast her chair scraped loudly against the floor. "You think you can just wave your little billionaire wand, buy off my client, and make everything okay?"

"It restores your project," Lucas said logically. "It neutralizes the financial damage."

"It makes me a charity case!" Ava shouted, her chest heaving as weeks of built-up frustration finally boiled over. "If you do that, then every single tabloid headline out there becomes true! They’ll say I couldn't win the project on my own, so my rich temporary husband had to buy it for me! I spent seven years in university and five years working eighty-hour weeks to earn my seat at that drafting table, Lucas! I built my career! I will not have you turning it into a corporate handout!"

Lucas stood unmoving on the other side of the counter. He didn't interrupt her. He didn't raise his voice. But his eyes searched her face, taking in the fierce, unyielding pride in her expression—the absolute refusal to break, even when her life was burning down around her.

Slowly, Lucas lowered his phone. He slipped it back into his trouser pocket.

"Problems are typically solved with resources, Ms. Carter," he said softly.

"Well, I am not a problem to be solved with your bank account," Ava spat out, wiping a single, traitorous tear from her cheek before it could fall. "I am going to get my career back my way. Not yours."

Before Lucas could respond, the private elevator chimed sharply in the foyer. The indicator light flashed red as security overrode the floor lock.

The doors slid open with a heavy hiss.

A woman stepped out. She was in her late fifties, wearing a sharp charcoal skirt suit, her silver hair pulled back into an immaculate, unforgiving bun. Her posture was razor-straight, and her eyes swept across the penthouse like a commander inspecting a battlefield.

Behind her stood two high-powered corporate attorneys carrying leather briefcases.

Eleanor Ashford, Lucas’ mother, had arrived. And she did not look like a woman who came to negotiate.