Darrell's face was inches from hers. The smell of his expensive mint breath mints mixed with the garbage in the alley made Debora's stomach violently heave.

She turned her face away, disgusted. Then, gathering every ounce of strength she had, she planted both hands on his chest and shoved him hard.

Darrell wasn't expecting the resistance. He stumbled backward, his expensive suit jacket scraping against the dirty brick wall.

He looked at the dust on his sleeve, his face twisting with rage. "You stupid bitch," he spat. "Look at you. You're nothing. You're a used-up ex-con. You'll rot in the gutter while I marry into the Lennox family."

Debora smoothed down her cheap skirt. She straightened her spine, refusing to cower. She looked him dead in the eye, her lips curling into a cold sneer.

"I might have a record," Debora said, her voice dripping with venom, "but at least I'm a legally married woman now. I'm not a pathetic parasite sucking the blood out of a rich woman to survive."

Darrell froze. Then he threw his head back and laughed-a loud, ugly sound that echoed in the alley. "Married? Who the hell would marry fresh garbage out of a cell?"

He took a step toward her, his eyes gleaming with malicious challenge. "Call him, then. If you have a husband, call the blind idiot right now. Let's see him."

A reckless, defiant surge of adrenaline flooded Debora's veins. She reached into her purse and pulled out her cheap smartphone, the screen spider-webbed with cracks.

She took a shaky breath, unlocked the screen, and tapped the only new contact she had saved last night.

Jameson.

She pressed the call button. The dial tone rang out, loud and clear in the quiet alley. Her heart hammered against her ribs.

Meanwhile, miles away in the heart of Manhattan, the atmosphere inside the glass-walled boardroom of King Consolidated was suffocating.

Jameson sat at the head of the long mahogany table. His face was a mask of pure ice. A senior vice president was sweating profusely, stammering through a disastrous quarterly financial report.

The air pressure in the room was so low that none of the twenty executives dared to breathe too loudly.

Suddenly, a sharp, generic, and incredibly loud ringtone shattered the dead silence.

Every executive flinched. Eyes darted around the table in sheer terror, wondering whose career was about to end for forgetting to silence their phone.

Jameson's brow furrowed. He looked down at the table. The sound was coming from the burner phone sitting inches from his left hand-the phone he had bought specifically for his fake identity.

The screen lit up with a name: Debora.

A flash of absolute shock crossed Jameson's eyes.

Standing behind him, Pierce watched in horror as Jameson, instead of declining the call, reached out. His large finger hit the green button, but his thumb accidentally grazed the speaker icon.

Debora's voice blasted through the boardroom's state-of-the-art acoustic system. It was high-pitched, overly sweet, and laced with a fake, trembling pout.

"Honey... Hubby, when are you getting off work to pick me up?"

Boom.

The boardroom effectively detonated. Twenty of Wall Street's most ruthless predators turned to stone, their jaws practically hitting the mahogany table.

Jameson's entire body went rigid. A violent surge of anger burned up his neck, causing the veins at his temples to throb dangerously. His knuckles turned stark white as he gripped the armrest, completely infuriated by the audacity of this woman. He snatched the phone off the table, his thumb violently jabbing the screen to turn off the speaker.

He pressed the phone to his ear. His jaw was clenched so tight his teeth ground together. "What the hell are you doing?" he asked, his voice dropping to a lethal, vibrating whisper.

In the alley, Debora heard the deep, dangerous rumble of his voice. It gave her the exact ammunition she needed. She raised her voice, making sure Darrell heard every word.

"Hubby, there's a creep bothering me. He said you must be blind to marry me."

Darrell stared at Debora. He heard the deep male voice on the other end. His arrogant smirk faltered, replaced by a dark scowl. He scoffed, adjusting his glasses, and turned around, walking briskly back into the boutique.

Seeing Darrell retreat, the adrenaline instantly drained from Debora's body. Her shoulders slumped. She spoke quickly into the receiver. "Never mind. Sorry to bother you."

She hung up.

In the boardroom, Jameson listened to the dial tone. His face was darker than a thundercloud.

He slowly lowered the phone. He looked up. Twenty pairs of eyes immediately snapped down to stare intensely at their blank notepads.

Jameson slammed the financial folder shut. The sound cracked like a whip. "Meeting postponed. Redo the entire report," he ordered, his voice devoid of any emotion.

He stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor, and strode out of the glass doors.

"Pierce," Jameson barked as he walked toward his private elevator. "Get the car. Now. I'm going back to Brooklyn."

Jameson stepped out of the cramped elevator, the muscles in his back tight with rage. He stalked down the dim hallway of the Brooklyn apartment building and shoved his key into the lock.

He pushed the door open so hard it slammed against the wall with a loud bang.

The living room was empty. Jameson ripped his tie from his neck and threw it onto the sofa. He was about to call her name when the bedroom door clicked open.

Debora stepped out. She was wearing an oversized, faded t-shirt. Her hair was damp around the edges, and her eyes were slightly red, as if she had just washed her face.

She froze when she saw him standing there, chest heaving. Her hands immediately flew to her stomach, her fingers twisting into the hem of her shirt. She looked guilty.

Jameson didn't hesitate. He closed the distance between them in three long strides, backing her up until her hips hit the edge of the kitchen counter. There was nowhere left to run.

He planted both hands on the marble countertop, caging her in. He leaned down, his face inches from hers, his broad chest practically brushing against her.

"What was that little stunt today?" Jameson demanded, his voice a low, vibrating threat. "Who gave you permission to call me that?"

Debora shrank back against the counter, her heart hammering against her ribs. His physical presence was overwhelming. "I... I ran into someone I know. Someone bad. I just needed him to back off."

Jameson let out a harsh, mocking laugh. He lifted his hand, his long fingers wrapping around her jaw, forcing her to look up into his icy eyes.

"You want to play the loving wife to your friends?" he sneered. "Then maybe I should start collecting my husbandly rights."

Before Debora could process his words, Jameson dipped his head and crushed his mouth against hers.

It wasn't a kiss; it was a punishment. It was hard, demanding, and entirely consuming.

Debora's eyes flew wide open. The scent of cedar and aggressive, dark pheromones invaded her senses. Her brain short-circuited.

Jameson's large hand slid from her jaw down to her waist, his palm burning hot through the thin cotton of her t-shirt. His grip tightened, pulling her flush against his hard body. There was a raw, undeniable hunger in his touch that terrified her.

Her body reacted instantly. Not with desire, but with a violent, biological rejection.

A massive wave of nausea rolled up from her stomach, hitting the back of her throat. The morning sickness, triggered by the sudden adrenaline and his overwhelming scent, was uncontrollable.

Debora shoved both hands against his solid chest, pushing him with all her might. She slapped a hand over her mouth.

Jameson stumbled back half a step, his eyes flashing with shock and immediate fury. He opened his mouth to yell at her.

Debora didn't look at him. She bent over, a dry heave racking her small frame. She pushed past him, practically sprinting across the living room.

She slammed the bathroom door shut behind her.

A second later, the violent sound of her retching echoed through the thin walls, followed by the rush of the sink faucet.

Jameson stood frozen in the kitchen. The heat in his veins turned to ice. His face went pale, and then a dark, ugly flush of humiliation crept up his neck.

He looked at his hands. He remembered the sheer panic in her eyes, the way she had pushed him away like he was a disease.

His ego, the pride of a man who commanded empires, took a brutal hit. She was disgusted by him. A second later, that humiliation morphed into a seething, irrational rage. He had come here to break her, to torture her for what she had done, so why did he care about the murderer's reaction? This sudden, inexplicable sting of rejection made him feel out of control, and that loss of control only fueled his hatred for her even more.

Jameson marched over to the bathroom door. He hit the wood with the side of his fist. "Don't play games with me, Debora," he warned, his voice dripping with venom.

Inside the bathroom, Debora slumped against the sink. She splashed cold water into her mouth, tears of physical exertion leaking from her eyes. She gripped her stomach, too weak to speak, terrified he would figure out the truth.

When no answer came, Jameson kicked the plastic trash can in the hallway. It clattered against the wall.

He stormed into the living room, yanked a spare blanket out of the closet, and threw it onto the sofa. He lay down in his clothes, staring at the cracked ceiling in the dark. His jaw ached from clenching it. He swore to himself he would break her completely.

The shrill beep of the alarm clock sliced through the morning silence. Debora walked out of the bedroom, her stomach churning with residual nausea.

Jameson was already sitting on the edge of the sofa, shrugging into his suit jacket. His face was a mask of stone.

Their eyes met for a fraction of a second. The air in the room was thick with the toxic fallout of last night's disaster.

"Get dressed," Jameson ordered, his voice devoid of any inflection. "You have five minutes. We're going to City Hall to sign the papers."

Debora didn't argue. She turned around, went back into the bedroom, and pulled on a simple, cheap white sundress. It was the closest thing she had to a wedding outfit.

They walked down to the car in total silence. The drive across the Brooklyn Bridge was agonizing. The morning traffic was at a standstill, and the heavy, suffocating tension inside the Chevy made Debora's chest tight. She twisted the fabric of her skirt around her fingers, staring blankly out the window.

When they arrived at the downtown Manhattan City Hall, they joined a long line of couples. Women in white dresses held bouquets; men in sharp suits smiled at their brides.

Debora and Jameson stood a foot apart, their cold, rigid posture making them look like strangers waiting for a bus.

When they finally reached the counter, the clerk slid a marriage license across the laminate surface. "Do you both enter into this union willingly?" the clerk asked, sounding bored.

Debora picked up the pen. Her hand shook slightly. She took a deep breath, pressing the tip to the paper, and signed her name on the designated line.

She passed the pen to Jameson. He didn't hesitate. He pulled out a meticulously forged driver's license and social security card that Pierce had prepared the night before. The documents bore the name Jameson King, but every piece of background data, address, and photo linked perfectly to his airtight, middle-class alias. He slapped the flawless fake ID on the counter, gripped the pen, and scrawled a signature with aggressive, sharp strokes.

The clerk stamped the paper with a heavy metal seal. "Congratulations. You're married."

Debora walked out of the heavy glass doors into the blinding sunlight. She looked down at the thin piece of paper in her hand. She was legally bound to a man who hated her.

Across the plaza, Pierce stood near a hot dog stand, dressed in casual clothes. He gave Jameson a subtle nod, confirming that the expedited background checks and the suppression of Jameson's true financial status had been handled.

Jameson looked away from Pierce. "It's done," he said coldly to Debora. "I'm going to the office."

He started walking toward the car.

Debora stopped. Her eyes caught a bright neon sign across the street: Instant Photo Booth - Wedding Specials.

Her hand instinctively went to her stomach. A fierce, sudden maternal instinct gripped her heart. She needed proof. She needed a physical record that this child was conceived and carried within a marriage, no matter how fake it was.

"Wait," Debora called out, her voice trembling.

Jameson stopped. He turned around, his brow furrowed in deep irritation. "What now?"

Debora pointed a shaking finger at the cheap photo booth across the street. "Can we... can we just take one picture? Please. Just one."

Jameson followed her gaze. He looked at the peeling paint on the booth and the tacky plastic flowers taped to the side. His upper lip curled in absolute disgust.

"No," Jameson snapped. "I don't have time for your childish games."

He turned his back on her and kept walking.

Debora stood frozen on the sidewalk. She bit her lower lip so hard she tasted blood. Her eyes burned, but she refused to let the tears fall. She didn't chase him.

Jameson reached the car and pulled the handle. He glanced over his shoulder.

Debora was standing exactly where he left her. The wind whipped the hem of her cheap white dress around her thin legs. She looked incredibly small, fragile, and utterly defeated under the harsh sun.

A sudden image of her bent over the sink last night, pale and shaking, flashed in his mind. A strange, sharp ache hit the center of his chest.

Jameson cursed violently under his breath. He slammed the car door shut and stalked back across the concrete.

He stopped in front of her, grabbing her wrist. "You have exactly ten minutes," he growled.

Debora's head snapped up. The crushing disappointment in her eyes vanished, replaced by a bright, stunning spark of relief. The corners of her mouth tipped up into a small, genuine smile.

Jameson's heart skipped a beat. The breath caught in his throat. He looked away instantly, his jaw clenching tight as he dragged her across the street toward the booth.