Fake Marriage Ruined, She Married The Tycoon

"I just need the joint filing status confirmed, please."

Christi pushed the heavy manila envelope across the polished marble counter. It slid under the gap of the bulletproof glass. She offered a polite, practiced smile to the clerk sitting on the other side.

Officer Doyle didn't smile back. He pulled the thick stack of W-2 forms and the Rivera family trust yield certificates from the envelope. His fingers moved mechanically over his keyboard, entering her Social Security Number into the federal tax database for the annual cross-check.

A harsh, flat error tone beeped from his computer speakers.

Doyle frowned. He hit the enter key again. The red glow from the monitor cast a harsh shadow across Christi's face.

"Ma'am, there's no legal marriage record on file for you and Jensen Rivera," Doyle said. His voice was completely monotone, a stark contrast to the sudden ringing in Christi's ears.

Her chest tightened. The air left her lungs in a rush. "That's impossible. We had a massive ceremony in the Hamptons five years ago. There was a priest. Hundreds of guests."

Doyle turned the heavy monitor around to face her. He tapped a thick finger against the screen. "Single," he read aloud. "Without a signed marriage license filed with the state, any religious ceremony is legally void. You are not married."

Christi's breathing stopped. Her brain forcefully replayed a memory from five years ago. Jensen, standing in his tailored suit, smiling warmly as he took the marriage certificate from her hands. *Let me handle the mailing, babe. It's safer for the family trust.*

A violent wave of nausea hit her stomach. She gripped the edge of the cold marble counter to keep her knees from buckling. Five years. She had spent five years in the Rivera family as nothing more than a high-end, legally unprotected companion.

Her phone vibrated violently in her trench coat pocket. The buzzing against her hip broke through the static in her brain. She pulled it out. The screen flashed with the name of her editor-in-chief, Arthur Finch.

She forced air into her lungs and answered. "Arthur-"

"Get to the Upper East Side. The Pierre Hotel. Now," Arthur barked. "There's a multi-car crash outside. I need photos before the police clear the scene."

"Arthur, I have a personal emergency. I can't-"

"You want to keep your health insurance, Christi? You go. Now." The line went dead.

Christi stood frozen for a second. Her fingers were numb. She turned and walked out of Boston City Hall. The early autumn rain of Boston slammed into her face, freezing and sharp. She raised her hand, flagged down a yellow cab, and headed straight for the train station.

Three hours later, the rain outside the Upper East Side was even worse.

Christi stood outside The Pierre Hotel, her waterproof windbreaker soaked through. She wore bulky safety goggles to keep the rain out of her eyes, clutching her telephoto camera. She shoved her way through the aggressive crowd of paparazzi pressing against the