Flash Marriage with the Billionaire CEO

"Never again will I attend one of these elite matchmaking galas," Emily Sullivan muttered under her breath, her heels clicking sharply against the deserted pavement. Twilight had deepened into an inky darkness, the empty suburban road amplifying her unease. She quickened her pace when the rumble of an engine shattered the silence. Before she could turn, a coarse hand clamped a chloroform-soaked cloth over her mouth. As consciousness slipped away, her final thought crystallized around her mother's frail form in the oncology ward. Three miles back, the black van's occupants failed to notice the crimson Ferrari tailing them until its headlights flashed ominously through their rearview mirror. "Lose him!" barked the scar-faced leader. The driver swerved onto a service road, tires screeching, but the sports car maintained precise pursuit—close enough to threaten, distant enough to evade retaliation. Inside the Ferrari, Alexander Grant's gloved fingers tightened on the steering wheel as his phone lit up. "Status?" His baritone held the calm of a man accustomed to command. "Roadblock set at Maple Crossing, Mr. Grant," replied Uncle Martin through the car's speaker system. "Police will intercept in ninety seconds." "Have extraction team ready." Alexander's sculpted lips curved, moonlight glinting off his platinum Rolex. The evening had taken an unexpectedly entertaining turn. Earlier, he'd attended the charity bachelor auction on a whim, intrigued by the brunette who'd vanished before he could approach her. Now fate had delivered her into his hands through more dramatic means. By midnight, Emily stirred on a Chesterfield sofa in a soundproofed penthouse. Neon lights from the city below painted stripes across Alexander's silhouette as he observed her awakening—Armani suit tailored to perfection, icy blue eyes dissecting her every tremor. "On your feet," he ordered. Behind him, a broad-shouldered man in a Tom Ford suit flinched. "The rest of you—out. Martin stays." Emily bit her tongue until the metallic tang of blood grounded her. Years of hospital vigils had taught her this: vulnerability was a luxury she couldn't afford. She met his gaze unflinching, cataloguing exits—reinforced steel door, floor-to-ceiling bulletproof glass, security keypad blinking red. Amusement flickered across Alexander's patrician features. "She thinks we're the kidnappers, Martin." "Understandable, sir," the silver-haired advisor adjusted his rimless glasses. "Given the circumstances of her awakening." The billionaire circled Emily like a panther assessing prey. "You owe me a debt, Miss Sullivan. My team intercepted those traffickers before they reached the docks." Her knuckles whitened against the sofa's leather. "I'll repay whatever medical costs—" "Your mother's stage four glioblastoma treatment," he interrupted, pulling a hospital report from his inner pocket. "Fifty-three thousand monthly for experimental immunotherapy. Penn State's bursary barely covers her morphine drip." The air left Emily's lungs. How had he accessed her private records? "I propose an arrangement." Alexander tossed a contract onto the coffee table, gold cufflinks catching the light. "Live-in assistant. Discretion guaranteed. Healthcare provisions included under Grant Enterprises' executive package." "Assistant?" Her laugh bordered on hysterical. "You pluck women off streets to file your memos?" His palm slammed against the wall beside her head, cologne notes of sandalwood and danger enveloping her. "I require someone unafraid to speak truth to power. You glared at a roomful of billionaires tonight like they were cockroaches." A smirk tugged his lips. "That spine of yours might prove... diverting." Emily's nails dug crescents into her palms. The contract's embossed lettering blurred—full medical coverage, debt clearance, private suite. Her mother's labored breathing echoed in memory. "Twenty-four months," she countered hoarsely. "With full university leave for finals." Alexander's thumb brushed her jawline, electric and intrusive. "Eighteen. And you'll address me as Mr. Grant." As Martin discreetly exited, Emily understood two truths: this man held power like others held breath, and somewhere beneath his diamond-hard exterior pulsed a secret that might destroy them both.