Married To The Undercover Billionaire Boss

Ayla's fingers cramped around the small paper ticket. The number 42 was smeared from the sweat pooling in her palms.

She stood on the sidewalk outside New York City Hall, her chest rising and falling in shallow, rapid jerks. The cold wind bit through her thin cotton dress, but she couldn't feel it. All she felt was the suffocating panic tightening her throat.

Her phone vibrated against her thigh.

Ayla pulled it out. The screen lit up with a text from her sister-in-law, Brenda.

"Vinnie is expecting you at eight tonight. Don't even think about running. You owe us."

Ayla stared at the words. Her stomach rolled with a violent wave of nausea. She slammed the phone face-down onto the wooden bench next to her. Her fingernails dug so deeply into her palms that the skin nearly broke. She was not going back. She would rather die than let them sell her to a street thug.

A harsh screech of tires tore through the street noise.

A beat-up Ford sedan slammed to a halt at the curb. Thick black smoke sputtered from the exhaust pipe, sending a cloud of ash into the air. Ayla coughed, waving her hand in front of her face.

The driver's door groaned open with a sickening metallic crunch.

A man stepped out. He wore a faded, cheap denim jacket that looked like it had been washed a hundred times. But the clothes didn't match the body. He was massive. His shoulders were broad, and his presence immediately sucked the oxygen out of the space around him.

Drake narrowed his dark eyes. His gaze cut through the dusty air and locked onto Ayla. She looked small, standing there in her plain dress. He took a step toward her, his long legs eating up the distance.

Ayla's spine stiffened. She took a cautious step back. The man's aura was suffocating, heavy with a dark intensity that terrified her.

"Are you... Phillip Moran's son?" she asked, her voice trembling.

Drake shoved one hand into his pocket. He slouched his shoulders, deliberately hiding his perfect posture.

"Yeah. That's me," he grunted. He forced a thick Brooklyn drawl into his words, burying the crisp, educated cadence of a Wall Street billionaire.

Ayla let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. Her shoulders dropped. She immediately reached into her canvas tote bag and pulled out two sheets of printed paper. She shoved them toward his chest.

"Here. The agreement," she said, her eyes wide and desperate.

Drake took the thin papers. His eyes scanned the cheap, poorly formatted text. He had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing. It was a pathetic excuse for a legal document. He raised an eyebrow, playing dumb.

"What is this?" he asked, making his voice sound slow and confused.

Ayla thought he didn't understand the big words. Her expression softened into a patient, gentle look.

"It just says that our finances stay separate," she explained softly. "I won't