100 DAYS FLASH MARRIAGE TO THE BILLIONAIRE CEO

Chapter 1: The Weight of Eight Years The scent hit Elena Adams before the sight did. Pricey cologne, sharp and woody, unmistakably Mark’s, mixed with something cheap and cloying—a vanilla perfume that didn’t belong in his office. The combination turned her stomach even before her mind fully processed what her eyes were seeing. She stood in the doorway of Mark’s private office, breathless, her fingers tightening around the velvet box in her hand. Two first-class tickets to the Maldives rested safely inside her coat pocket. She had checked twice before leaving the hospital, as if they might disappear if she didn’t keep reassuring herself they were real. Eight years of waiting had taught her to be cautious even with hope. Her cheeks were flushed, not from the walk, but from excitement. Eight years. Since her first day of medical school. Since late-night study sessions fueled by instant noodles and shared exhaustion. Since promises whispered in library corners and cramped apartments. Since she had chosen patience over pressure, understanding over demands, believing love would bloom when the timing was right. Mark hadn’t proposed. So she would. Elena took a step inside. The room wasn’t romantic. There were no flowers. No candlelight. No trace of the future she had imagined during countless overnight shifts. Mark was pinned against his desk, his tie loosened, his shirt collar rumpled. His assistant draped over him like a cheap vine, her manicured hands gripping his shoulders, her mouth pressed greedily against his neck. Her skirt was hiked too high. Her laughter, sharp and mocking, rang through the room, bouncing off the polished walls. The sound of Elena’s handbag hitting the floor cut through it all. Silence crashed down. Mark jerked back as if electrocuted, his eyes widening. The assistant froze, then gasped, scrambling away in a panic. She fled the room, heels clutched in her hands, not bothering to look back. “Elena!” Mark blurted, fumbling to straighten his tie. “It’s not what it looks like!” The words came automatically. Lazy. Insulting in their predictability. Elena stood very still. She didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. She didn’t collapse into hysterics like she once feared she would if this moment ever came. Instead, a strange calm settled over her, heavy and dangerous. “Eight years, Mark,” she said quietly. Her voice trembled—not with sadness, but with rage so concentrated it threatened to burn through her chest. Mark exhaled sharply, irritation replacing his initial shock. “Elena, be reasonable.” There it was, that familiar tone. The one he used whenever she worked late, missed dinner, or chose her career over his convenience. “You’re always at the hospital,” he continued, his voice slipping into something patronizing. “You smell like antiseptic and death half the time. Tiffany… she understands the lifestyle I need.” Antiseptic. The word landed like a slap. Elena’s gaze dropped slowly to her handbag on the floor. It was a heavy leather tote, worn at the edges from years of use. Inside were three thick medical journals, her diagnostic kit, and the tools of a woman who saved lives for a living. A bag that had been with her through endless shifts, emergency calls, and moments when she had held a stranger’s heart beating between her fingers. She picked it up. Mark frowned. “Elena, let’s talk about—” She didn’t let him finish. The bag swung through the air with the force of eight wasted years behind it. WHACK. The sound was solid. Mark cried out, staggering back as the bag connected with the side of his head. Elena didn’t stop. She swung again and again until her arm ached and his hands were raised defensively, his face twisted in fear. “You don’t get to talk about my work like that,” she shouted. “You don’t get to reduce me to a smell after everything I’ve done for you!” She reached into her coat, pulled out the tickets, and ripped them in half. The sound of tearing paper was sharp and final. She threw the pieces at his feet. “Happy Valentine’s Day.” Then she turned and walked out. The rain was pouring by the time Elena reached the parking lot. Cold droplets soaked through her hair and coat as she climbed into her modest sedan, her hands shaking as she started the engine. The city lights blurred through the windshield as the tears she had refused to shed in his office finally spilled free. She drove without direction. Without thought. Her chest ached as memories replayed themselves—every night she had waited up for him, every bill she had quietly covered, every excuse she had accepted because she loved him. The traffic light ahead turned red. Elena didn’t see it. A flash of crimson burst from a private driveway to her right. She slammed on the brakes. The tires skidded helplessly against the wet asphalt. CRUNCH. The sound of metal and carbon fiber colliding was deafening. The impact threw her forward as the airbags deployed, stealing her breath. For a moment, the world went white. Then silence. Elena forced her eyes open, her training kicking in despite the shock. “Okay,” she whispered hoarsely. “Focus.” She checked herself quickly—arms, legs, chest. Pain radiated through her shoulders, but nothing felt broken. Her heart was racing, but steady. She pushed the door open and stepped out into the rain. That was when she saw it. A crimson Ferrari. Low-slung, sleek, devastatingly expensive. The front end was damaged—not destroyed, but ruined enough that Elena knew instinctively the repair would be astronomical. Her stomach dropped. “Oh no,” she breathed. The Ferrari’s driver’s door opened. A man stepped out. He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a charcoal suit that looked untouched by the rain. Water slid off him as if it had no claim over him. His face was sharp and coldly handsome, his dark eyes piercing and terrifyingly calm as they settled on her. Elena’s pulse stuttered. She didn’t know his name. She didn’t know who he was. But she knew power when she felt it. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I didn’t see the light. Are you hurt?” He didn’t answer right away. His gaze swept over her—soaked hair, pale face, the medical bag hanging from her shoulder. “Do you have any idea,” he said finally, his voice low and even, “what you’ve just done?” Elena swallowed and glanced back at the wreckage. “I’ll pay for the damages,” she said, forcing the words out. “I have insurance—” “This car is one of five in the world,” he interrupted coolly, stepping closer. “Custom build. Limited series.” He named a number. Elena felt the blood drain from her face. “That’s… impossible,” she whispered. “That’s more than I make in years.” “Then you should have been watching the road.” Panic clawed up her throat. She thought of her parents’ debts, her sister’s endless demands, a life already stretched too thin. Something inside her snapped. “I don’t have that kind of money,” she said hoarsely. “I work at a federal hospital. I save lives. I don’t even have three thousand in my savings!” “Then we have a problem,” he replied. “And I don’t like problems.” Rain soaked them both as he studied her with unsettling intensity. “How will you settle this?” Elena laughed—a sharp, hysterical sound that surprised even herself. “I don’t have a dime,” she snapped. “Unless you want to marry me to settle the debt, I have nothing to give you! So go ahead. Sue me!” The words spilled out reckless and bitter, born of heartbreak and exhaustion. Silence fell. The man tilted his head slightly, rain dripping from his lashes. His gaze lingered on her face, sharp and assessing, as if she were a puzzle he hadn’t expected to encounter tonight. “Marriage,” he repeated thoughtfully. “I was being sarcastic!” Elena shot back. “I wasn’t.” He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. “I happen to need a wife,” he said calmly, “to block an arranged marriage. You need three million dollars. It’s efficient.” Headlights flared behind him as a black Maybach rolled to a stop beside the curb. He pulled a sleek black card from his pocket and slipped it into her lab coat without asking her name. “My lawyer will find you,” he said. “Don’t bother hiding.” He paused, his gaze locking onto hers one last time. “See you soon.” Then he turned and disappeared into the car, leaving Elena standing alone in the rain, clutching a card with a name embossed in silver. Lucian Thorne. Elena stared after the retreating taillights, her heart pounding. She had come out tonight to propose. Instead, she had just promised her life to a stranger. And somehow, she knew. Nothing would ever be the same again.