Married to my billionaire stranger.

I Do

Ch 2:I Do.

“Whenever you’re ready,” the officiator tells us tiredly, his voice telling me this is not his first nor twelfth wedding of today.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” I mutter, feeling my stomach knot. Is this what they call wedding blues? I tighten the hold on my flowers.

“I can’t believe this is happening!” Cassy yells to loud from behind me, fixing my white sparkly gown—it’s not nothing dramatic, just a simple but stunning silk slip that shimmered faintly in the soft light.

This was happening. Fast. Real.

I stand in front of this impossibly good-looking stranger, and I’m able to see his face—in bright light now.

I nod at the man on the altar, telling him I’m ready, ignoring the hammering of my heart.

The officiant glanced at the paperwork, then looked up with a practiced smile.

“Andrew Thorne, please repeat after me…”

Andrew. That was the name of the man I was marrying. The stranger who got me into this reckless act.

His voice is steady, deep, like velvet wrapped around a blade. I don’t even hear the words, just the sound of him, rolling over me. He says my name once, Sage Moreno, and it cuts straight through the haze.

I look at his eyes, they weren’t dark — they were absent. Like someone had turned out the lights in a skyscraper and left the building full of ghosts. What’s he thinking right now? What kind of man did I get myself entangled too? What exactly is he going to gain in this?

The chapel glows with gold light and white roses, expensive and perfect and far too pretty for the deal we’re making. It feels like I’ve crashed someone else’s wedding.

“Sage!” Cassy yells again from the pews, drunk tears glinting on her cheeks. Her voice ricochets off the marble. I shoot her a look. This place is way too quiet for her noise.

The officiant coughs politely.

I drag in a sharp breath. There’s a photographer. Less than a dozen people in suits—his people. And Cassy, slumped and grinning like she’s watching a rom-com instead of my life imploding. I want to run.

I drag in a sharp breath. An image of a distant memory—a wedding dress I once dreamed of wearing, not like this, not like this—blazes through the fog.

I bite my lip, fighting the sudden surge of regret that claws at my throat.

Then, with a voice steadier than I feel, I say, “I do.”

The officiant slid a sleek black folder across the altar. Inside was the marriage license—the real deal.

“Sign here,” he said, motioning to the line below his signature.

My hand trembled as I picked up the pen.

This wasn’t a joke anymore.

Andrew signed his name quickly, his dark eyes never leaving mine.

I hesitated for a second—then scribbled my signature. A man in a suit brought with him a box that contained the ring. A ring? I looked at the diamond, contemplating whether I should just run away with it. He handed me a ring for me to wear. I raised a questioning brow at him.

“For the photographer.” He explained plainly. I took it and wore it.

I could hear from the pew, I hear Cassy sniffle. Is she…crying?

It is official. I, Sage Moreno, am married to a man I met today.

For two million dollars.

After the ceremony, Andrew pulled out a leather folder and handed it to me—this time, the real contract.

“This spells out everything. You sign, you get half the money.” I flip through the dense legal jargon, my stomach sinking. God, how foolish am I? I didn’t even ask for terms. It’s all so cold and businesslike. A reality check in black ink.

“I’ll have some people take you and your friend to the hotel,” he says. No question, just command. “It’s too late for you to go home.”

I want to complain about him not asking me if I’m okay with it—but why wouldn’t I be? He was literally giving me a roof over my head.

I nod.

He starts to say something else, but his phone buzzes. Without apology, he turns and walks away, taking the call.

A silent staff member appears like a ghost, gesturing politely for us to follow.

I guess that’s our cue.

Cassy stumbles beside me, our hands linked. She hums a wedding march off-key while gripping her heels in one hand. “I want a hot tub and French fries,” she mutters as we enter the sleek black car waiting outside. I tap her palms in comfort. It’s funny how effortlessly she fits into all this luxury—as if she’s done it a hundred times. Like this is the kind of life meant for her.

The hotel is…stunning. Glittering chandeliers. White marble. A concierge who bows like we’re royalty. My brain’s too fried to register it. How rich is this man?

The suite is obscene—bedroom, living room, a view like a painting. Our bags are already here, though I don’t remember packing them.

Cassy makes a beeline for the minibar, popping a tiny bottle of champagne like she’s celebrating. I don’t stop her. Not tonight.

She flops onto the couch. “You just got married,” she giggles. “This is insane. Also—I love it for you.”

I laugh, hollow. “Yeah—say that again tomorrow when you’re sober.”

My dress is still on, my hair a mess of pins and curls. I walk into the bathroom and stare at myself. Married. That word lands with a strange weight. This was supposed to be a transaction. A business deal. But there was a ceremony, a signature, a kiss.

No—there wasn’t a kiss.

Thank God.

I hear a knock at the door and go to it.

It’s a hotel staff member holding a sealed envelope.

“For you, Mrs. Thorne,” he says.

I blink at the name about to tell her she’s in the wrong room—wait— it’s my name.

That’s me now. For now.

Inside is a black card key and a short note:

“This key is for the penthouse next door. If you need anything, send a message. —Andrew.”

My pulse flutters. He’s here.