Flash Marriage To The Secret Zillionaire

Blaire pushed her weight against the heavy glass door of the midtown Manhattan cafe. The biting chill of the early autumn wind was instantly severed, replaced by a wall of artificial heat that blasted her face. She frowned, her skin prickling under her thin coat.

Deep in her pocket, her phone vibrated violently. The screen flashed with her mother's name-Sharon. It was the sixth back-to-back call. Blaire sucked in a sharp breath, her lungs tight, and pressed the volume button to silence the buzzing.

She scanned the room. Her eyes cut through the crowded booths, searching for the specific marker her blind date had mentioned in his text: a red rose.

In the far corner, right next to a fogged-up window, her gaze locked onto a man. He had a heavy, protruding stomach and a cheap plastic red rose shoved unceremoniously into a water glass.

Blaire adjusted the strap of her purse, her low heels clicking against the hardwood floor as she approached. She pulled out the chair opposite him. The man looked up. His greasy eyes immediately dragged up and down her body, stripping her down in a way that made bile rise in the back of her throat.

"Mitch Kowalski," he announced, not bothering to stand.

Before Blaire could even settle her weight into the chair, Mitch snapped his fingers in the air, waving down a passing waitress with arrogant entitlement. He ordered the cheapest black coffee on the menu for himself.

The waitress turned her notepad toward Blaire. "And for you, miss?"

"She doesn't need anything," Mitch interrupted, his tone flat.

Blaire's jaw locked. The muscles in her face went rigid. She looked directly at the waitress. "I'll have a vanilla latte. And here is my card." She pulled her credit card from her wallet and handed it over, her movements sharp and deliberate.

Mitch stared at the plastic card in the waitress's hand. He curled his upper lip in a sneer. "Suit yourself."

He leaned forward, resting his thick forearms on the table. Without missing a beat, he launched into a loud, boastful monologue about his job. He bragged about making sixty thousand dollars a year, emphasizing the word "high-income" as if he were a Wall Street tycoon.

"When we get married," Mitch continued, his voice dripping with condescending charity, "you'll need to quit your little retail job. I need a wife at home, preparing for pregnancy."

Blaire bit the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted copper. She fought the overwhelming urge to roll her eyes. The waitress returned and set the hot latte down. Blaire wrapped her cold fingers around the ceramic mug, taking a slow sip. She stared at him, hoping her absolute silence would kill the conversation.

It didn't. Mitch took her silence as submission. He reached into his briefcase and slapped a few sheets of stapled paper onto the table.

"This is a draft of our prenup," he stated. "You need to waive any rights to my used Ford Focus."