Married To The Fake Mad Billionaire

The rain did not fall; it attacked.

Francisqui Noel's lungs burned as she sprinted down the dark alley behind the private club. Her right heel snapped with a sickening crack. She slammed into the wet brick wall, sliding down until her knees hit the pavement.

Her chest heaved. Cold water plastered her hair to her face.

Two black Escalades rolled into the alley. They made no sound. The blinding high beams pinned her against the wall like a bug under a microscope.

The doors opened. Three men in dark suits stepped out into the downpour. The man in the front, Vance, pressed two fingers to his earpiece.

"The boss wants it done now," Vance said. His voice cut through the sound of the rain. "I don't care who she is."

Francisqui pushed herself up. Her stomach dropped. She needed to explain that she was just leaving a client meeting. She opened her mouth.

Nothing came out.

Her throat locked. The familiar, suffocating paralysis of Selective Mutism clamped down on her vocal cords. Her jaw trembled, but her voice was dead.

Vance stepped closer. His eyes scanned her soaked, high-end clothes. He recognized the subtle tension in her posture, the way she didn't immediately scream like a normal civilian would.

Francisqui raised a shaking hand. She held up five fingers. Give me five minutes. I have five hundred dollars in my purse.

Vance stared at her hand. His eyes narrowed into slits. He tapped his earpiece, his voice dropping to a cautious, tactical murmur. "She's not afraid of us, and she's throwing up hand signals. Five fingers. Run a facial recognition scan immediately. She might be a scout from a rival firm, or an operative signaling a five-man backup team. Proceed with extreme caution."

Francisqui's eyes went wide. Her heart slammed against her ribs. She shook her head frantically, pressing her back harder against the bricks.

A second man grabbed her from behind. A cloth soaked in ether clamped over her nose and mouth. The chemical burned her sinuses. Her vision blurred, turning the headlights into long, white streaks before the world went completely black.

Her skull throbbed.

Francisqui opened her eyes. The bright lights of a penthouse suite stabbed her retinas. She was lying on a massive Italian leather sofa. Her wet clothes were gone, replaced by an oversized silk men's button-down shirt.

A loud crash made her flinch.

She pulled her knees to her chest. Across the room, Burleigh Livingston sat in a custom wheelchair facing a massive flat-screen monitor. A team of stern-faced SEC lawyers and federal trust regulators stared back at him through the live video feed. He swung a metal golf club into a Ming vase. Porcelain shattered, spraying across the hardwood floor.

"Traitors," Burleigh muttered. His eyes were hollow, manic. "The SEC thinks they can audit me? I'll bury them."

A sharp piece of porcelain flew across the room and sliced Francisqui's cheek. A drop of warm blood rolled down her jaw. She bit the