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.