My Flash Husband Is My Boss

My wedding was supposed to be in twelve hours. Now my fiancé was inside my cousin. I stood frozen at the doorway of our tiny Brooklyn apartment, holding two lattes, wearing my white silk robe with BRIDE written on the back in cheap rhinestones. Daniel didn't see me. He was too busy. Chloe was too busy, too. Chloe Monroe. My cousin. My maid of honor. My best friend since we were five. The girl who helped me pick this robe at Target. Her legs were wrapped around his waist. My bed. My sheets. The bed we bought together at IKEA. The two coffees slipped from my hands and hit the floor. That sound made Daniel turn. His face went completely white. "Elise?" Chloe didn't even rush. She just slowly pulled the sheet up and looked at me with a small, satisfied smirk. "Oh. You're early." Early. For my own apartment. I think I laughed. "Early? This is MY apartment." Daniel scrambled for his boxers. "Elise, it's not what you think — we were drunk, it was a mistake —" "A mistake?" I pointed at my wedding shoes lined up by the closet, ready for tomorrow at St. Patrick's Cathedral. "How long was this mistake? Since when, Daniel?" He couldn't answer. Chloe sighed like I was being dramatic. "Don't be like that, Elise. You and Daniel got boring. Five years? You work late, you're always tired. Someone had to —" "Shut up." My voice was so quiet, even I was surprised. I walked past them. Straight into our closet. I took out the dress. My wedding dress. Not a real Vera Wang, but the best dupe I could afford after six months of overtime as a Junior Architect in Queens. $3,500. I skipped lunches for this. White. Mermaid cut. Lace. The dress I was supposed to wear tomorrow at 10 AM. I dropped my robe right there, in front of them. I didn't care I was in my underwear. I put the dress on. Zipped it up myself, my hands shaking. "What are you doing?" Daniel asked, panicked. "I'm getting married," I said. I grabbed my veil and my cheap white heels and walked out. Barefoot. "ELISE! COME BACK HERE!" I slammed the door. Outside, New York was crying with me. It was pouring. Cold, brutal September rain. I was a bride, barefoot, running on Atlantic Avenue in a wedding dress dragging in puddles. People stopped to stare. An old lady shouted, "Are you okay, honey?" I wasn't okay. My phone exploded. Daniel: 23 missed calls. Chloe: "Come back, let's talk like adults." Mom: "Are you excited for tomorrow?" I turned my phone completely off. I walked until my feet bled. Until I saw the lights. VEGA GRAND HOTEL. Everyone in New York knows Vega Grand. Fifty-two floors of black glass and gold in Midtown Manhattan. The most expensive hotel in the city. One night costs more than my monthly rent. I only ever saw it in Architectural Digest. I went in. Soaking wet bride, veil stuck to my face, dress dripping on their marble floor. The doorman looked horrified. "Ma'am... do you need help?" "Bar," I choked out. "Where is the bar?" He pointed. The bar was on the 52nd floor. Top of Vega. Dark wood, black leather, floor-to-ceiling windows showing the whole rainy city. It was almost empty. Except for one man in the corner. He sat alone. Black shirt, sleeves rolled up, showing strong forearms. A glass of whiskey in front of him, untouched. He looked broke, but in a handsome way. Like a model who decided to try being homeless for a fashion shoot. Sharp jaw. Dark messy hair. Eyes that looked even more tired and angry than mine. He was looking at me. Not with pity. With curiosity. I walked straight to him. My wet dress left a trail on their carpet. "Rough night, Bride?" he asked. His voice was low, deep, American with a slight Italian edge. "Marry me," I said. He blinked. The bartender choked behind the bar. "Marry me," I repeated, my voice cracking. "Tomorrow at 10 AM. I have a slot at City Hall. I have a priest deposit. I have a dress. I just don't have a groom anymore." The man stared at me. Then he smiled. A slow, dangerous, devastatingly handsome smile. "You want to marry a stranger you met in a bar, in a wet wedding dress, at midnight?" "You look like you need a place to stay," I shot back, looking at his cheap shirt. "I have an apartment. Small. In Brooklyn. It has a leak. But it's free if you marry me. One year. Then we divorce. Clean." I was rambling. Desperate. He leaned back, studying me like a blueprint. "Okay," he said. "What?" "Okay, I'll marry you," he said. "I need a wife for a year, too. Landlord problem. A wife qualifies as co-signer. One year contract, then we split. You need a groom. I need a wife. Fair, Bride." It was insane. But his eyes were honest. And sad. Like mine. "What's your name?" I whispered. "Seth. Just Seth." "Elise Monroe. Just Elise who was supposed to get married tomorrow." He stood up. He was tall. At least 6'3". He took off his black jacket and placed it over my wet shoulders. It smelled like expensive rain. "Come on, Elise who was supposed to get married tomorrow. City Hall opens at 8 AM. If we get married at 10 AM, you still make it on time." "You... you're saying yes?" He looked at my bleeding feet, then picked me up. Bridal style. Like I weighed nothing. "I've done crazier things for less," he murmured. "Let's go get married, wife." My heart hammered against his chest. This was wrong. So wrong. But for the first time since I saw my fiancé inside my cousin, I felt safe. We spent the night in a 24-hour laundromat in Queens. He helped me dry my dress with a hairdryer. He bought me cheap slippers because my feet were bleeding. He didn't try to touch me. "You can still back out," he said at 4 AM. "Can you?" I asked. "No," he said honestly. "I really do need that co-signer." I laughed. "Then we're doing this." 10:07 AM. The Next Day. Manhattan City Hall. I did it. I, Elise Monroe, 26, Junior Architect, got married in a wrinkled wedding dress I dried with a hairdryer, to a man I met eight hours ago in a bar. He wore the same black shirt, but he had combed his hair. He had shaved. Too handsome to be jobless, but I was too numb to question it. The clerk looked bored. "Do you, Seth...?" She looked at his ID and her eyes widened. "Seth Alessandro Vega... do you take Elise Monroe to be your lawfully wedded wife?" Vega? Like Vega Grand Hotel? Like Vega Corporation? Nah. Common last name. Like Smith. "I do," Seth said, looking straight into my eyes. "And do you, Elise Monroe, take Seth Vega to be your husband?" "I do," my voice shook. "One year," he whispered as the clerk stamped the papers. "Then you're free." "One year," I repeated. We signed. The gold band he slipped on my finger was surprisingly heavy and real. We walked out of City Hall as Mr. and Mrs. Vega at exactly 10 AM. The same time I was supposed to marry Daniel. My phone, which I turned back on, exploded. Daniel: "Where are you? The priest is here!" I took a picture of my marriage certificate. Of my hand wearing a gold band, holding Seth's hand. And I sent it to Daniel and Chloe's group chat. Caption: Thanks for freeing up my schedule. Got married to someone better. Then I blocked them. Seth whistled. "Cold, wife. I like it." "Don't call me wife. It's just a contract." "Right. Just a contract." We took the Q train back to Brooklyn. A billionaire would never take the subway. Right? At my tiny apartment, Daniel's clothes were gone. Chloe's cheap perfume was still in the air. Seth rolled up his sleeves and started cleaning. He stripped the bedsheets that smelled like Chloe. "Leave it," I said, crying again. He pulled me into his chest. "Shh. You're home. I'm here now." I cried into his shirt that smelled like $500 cologne. How could a broke guy afford that? My eyes drifted down to his wrist. And I froze. On his wrist, half-hidden under his sleeve, was a watch. Not a Casio. Not a Fossil. A Patek Philippe Nautilus. Blue dial. I knew it because my boss had a magazine about watches. He said it cost $95,000 and you can't even buy it. You have to be invited. My broke, jobless husband was wearing a $95,000 watch. "Seth," I whispered, my blood turning to ice. "Who are you really?" He stiffened. His hand stopped. At that exact moment, his phone rang. The caller ID glowed on his cracked screen. VEGA CORP - BOARD CALL - EMERGENCY - MR. VEGA REQUIRED. My heart stopped. Vega Corporation. The biggest real estate empire in New York. The company that owned the hotel where we met. The company that owned half of Manhattan. The company I had a job interview with next Monday. My new husband, standing in my tiny Brooklyn apartment, getting an emergency call from the board. "Seth Alessandro Vega," I whispered. He closed his eyes. He answered, his voice no longer soft. It was cold. Deep. Commanding. "This is Vega," he said. "I'm coming to the Tower now." He hung up and looked at me. And I finally understood. I didn't marry a broke stranger. I married the billionaire heir of Vega Corporation. And on Monday, I was supposed to start as his Junior Architect. "Elise," he said quietly. "I can explain."