Flash Marriage To The Secret Billionaire

Preston Finch tapped his gold watch against the wooden table, the sharp sound making the muscles in Kittie Ramos's neck pull tight.

"Three years," Preston said, his eyes dragging over the faded fabric of Kittie's trench coat like it was a stain on the floor. "That is the timeline. You close that little flower shop of yours, we move to my apartment in Manhattan, and we have two kids. I need a wife who understands her primary function."

Kittie stared at him. The half-eaten croissant on her plate suddenly looked like cardboard. A sour taste coated the back of her throat, and her stomach twisted into a hard, painful knot.

She pressed her thumb against her index finger, picking at the edge of her nail until it stung. This was her adoptive mother's idea of a perfect match. A Wall Street analyst who treated a first date like a corporate merger. Just this morning, her brother Miles had texted her, nagging her to reach out to his old college roommate, Connor, who was supposedly back in town working in tech somewhere nearby. Maybe I should have asked him for help with my shop's website instead of agreeing to this nightmare, she thought bitterly.

Preston pulled out his phone, shoving the screen into her face.

"Look at this view," he bragged, pointing to a sterile, high-rise living room. "You do not get this in Brooklyn. You people here lack ambition. I am offering you an upgrade."

Kittie took a slow, shallow breath. The air in the coffee shop felt too thick to pull into her lungs. She forced the corners of her mouth up, her facial muscles protesting the fake smile.

"Right," Kittie said, her voice tight. "An upgrade."

Preston leaned back, crossing his arms.

"To prove you can follow directions," he said, his tone dropping into a command. "My car is parked out front. A bird ruined the hood. Go ask the waiter for a wet towel and clean it off. Now."

The knot in Kittie's stomach snapped. The blood rushed to her ears, a loud, roaring sound that drowned out the soft jazz playing in the background.

Her hand moved before her brain fully processed the decision. She grabbed the plastic cup of iced Americano sitting between them. The condensation made her fingers wet and cold.

Preston was still talking, his mouth moving around words about a weekend in the Hamptons.

Kittie flipped her wrist.

The dark liquid, heavy with ice cubes, hit Preston squarely in the crotch of his custom-tailored suit pants.

Preston let out a high-pitched shriek. He jumped up so fast his chair tipped backward and slammed into the floor. The ice cubes bounced off his thighs and scattered across the hardwood.

The entire cafe went dead silent. The clinking of spoons and the low hum of conversation stopped.

Kittie pulled a paper napkin from the dispenser. She wiped the cold moisture off her fingers, her hands shaking slightly from the adrenaline dumping into her veins.