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 touch your money, and you won't touch mine. We live together, but we are independent."

Drake stared down at her clear, earnest eyes. A strange sensation flickered in his chest. He hated gold diggers. He hated this entire arrangement his father had forced on him. But looking at her, that hatred paused for a fraction of a second.

He needed to test her. He needed to see her run.

"Look, lady," Drake said roughly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I drive for Uber. And I just got blacklisted by a corporate account. I barely make enough to eat. I might not even make rent next month. You sure you want to tie yourself to a broke loser?"

Ayla didn't flinch. She didn't step back. Instead, she lifted her chin.

"I have a job," she said firmly. "I'm a teacher. I get a steady paycheck. I can cover half the bills. If you fall short, I can cover more."

The words hit Drake like a physical blow. His jaw clenched. He stared at her, searching for the lie in her eyes. There was none. A dark, complicated glint flashed in his pupils.

He pulled a cheap plastic pen from his pocket and scribbled his name on the bottom line.

They walked into City Hall side by side. The building was packed. The air smelled like cheap perfume and body odor. Drake's skin crawled. His stomach twisted with somatic disgust. He was used to sterile, private penthouses, not this sweaty cattle call.

A heavy-set woman shoved past them, her elbow slamming hard into Drake's ribs.

A sudden spike of irritation flared in Drake's chest. He turned, a sharp curse forming on his lips, ready to snap at the careless woman. But he caught Ayla looking at him with wide, apologetic eyes. He swallowed the insult, forcing himself to just let out a heavy, annoyed sigh instead. He rubbed his ribs, playing the part of an exhausted driver who didn't have the energy for a fight.

Ayla took his sleeve and guided him to the correct window.

"Do you have your ID ready?" she asked, treating him like one of her elementary students.

Drake blinked. No one had spoken to him like that since he was a child. It was bizarre.

The clerk behind the glass looked bored. "Do you both enter this marriage willingly?"

Drake looked at Ayla's hands. Her knuckles were bone-white from gripping the counter so hard.

"I do," Drake said. His voice was a low, steady rumble.

"I do," Ayla echoed. Her voice shook, but the absolute finality in her tone was unmistakable. She was severing her past.

The heavy metal stamp slammed down on the paper. The sound echoed in Ayla's ears. Two thin marriage certificates were slid across the counter. They were legally bound.

Ayla picked up her copy. Her eyes burned with unshed tears. She let out a long, shaky exhale. The crushing weight on her chest finally lifted. She was safe.

Drake stared at his copy. The corner of his mouth twitched into a cold, hidden smirk. The charade to get his old man off his back had officially begun.

They turned to leave the lobby. As they walked toward the glass doors, Drake's peripheral vision caught a flash of a discreet black sedan idling across the street. It wasn't the usual Maybach, but Drake knew his father's stealth vehicles. Drake instantly changed his posture. He hunched his shoulders forward, making himself look defeated and small.

The back window of the sedan rolled down just enough to reveal Phillip Moran's stern face. Ayla recognized the older man immediately. He was the one who had set this up. She guided Drake out the doors and toward the curb, stopping a respectful distance away.

"Mr. Moran," Ayla said politely, holding up the certificate so he could see it through the gap in the window. "We did it."

Phillip nodded in satisfaction, though his eyes scanned his son's pathetic, faded clothes with suppressed irritation. Then, his face hardened into a mask of absolute authority.

"Good. Now, you two will move in together immediately," Phillip's voice carried sharply from the cracked window, leaving no room for argument. "I won't have my son living on the streets while married. You live under one roof, or the deal is off."

Ayla's eyes widened in shock. Her heart skipped a beat. She turned her head, looking up at Drake for help.

Drake ground his back teeth together. He glared at his father, reading the silent threat in the old man's eyes. He had planned to dump her in a hotel and leave. Now, his father was forcing his hand.

Drake let out a heavy, fake sigh and shrugged his shoulders.

"Fine," Drake muttered, playing the defeated son. "We'll live together."