The bass thumped through my chest as I pushed deeper into the crowded bar, the smell of cheap cologne and spilled beer making my stomach turn. My hands trembled—not from the alcohol I hadn't touched, but from the weight of the decision I'd made three hours ago.

Run away. Get married. Anyone but Harold Blackstone.

The thought of that seventy-year-old man's wrinkled hands on me made my skin crawl. My father's words echoed in my mind: "The merger depends on this marriage, Sophia. Don't be selfish."

Selfish. Right. Because wanting to marry someone who didn't smell like mothballs and have liver spots was selfish.

I scanned the bar desperately. I needed someone—anyone—who looked decent enough to convince a courthouse clerk we were a real couple. My eyes swept past the usual suspects: drunk college boys, middle-aged men with wedding rings, and—

There.

Sitting alone at the far end of the bar was possibly the most beautiful man I'd ever seen. Dark hair that looked like he'd run his fingers through it, sharp jawline, and eyes that seemed to see right through the chaos around him. He wore a simple black t-shirt and jeans that had definitely seen better days, but somehow he made it look effortless.

Perfect. He looked broke enough to need the money I was about to offer.

I smoothed down my designer dress—probably worth more than his monthly rent—and walked over, my heels clicking against the sticky floor.

"Excuse me," I said, sliding onto the stool next to him.

He turned, and I nearly lost my nerve. Up close, his eyes were an impossible shade of green, and there was something about the way he looked at me—like he was amused by some private joke.

"Can I help you?" His voice was smooth, with just a hint of roughness that made my pulse skip.

"Actually, yes." I took a deep breath. "This is going to sound crazy, but I need you to marry me."

He blinked once, slowly, then took a sip of what looked like expensive whiskey. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Marry me. Tonight. I'll pay you fifty thousand dollars."

The bartender, who'd been pretending not to listen, nearly dropped the glass he was cleaning.

The stranger—God, I didn't even know his name—set down his drink and turned to face me fully. "You're serious."

"Dead serious." I pulled out my phone and showed him my banking app. "Look, I know this is insane, but I'm desperate. My family is trying to force me into an arranged marriage with a man old enough to be my grandfather. If I'm already married, they can't make me do it."

He studied my face for a long moment, and I fought the urge to fidget under his gaze. There was something unsettling about how calm he was, like this kind of thing happened to him every day.

"Fifty thousand," he repeated.

"Cash. Tonight. All you have to do is sign some papers and pretend to be my husband for a few weeks until I figure out my next move."

"And after that?"

"Quickest divorce in Nevada history."

He was quiet for so long I started to panic. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe I should have gone with plan B—which, admittedly, I hadn't thought of yet.

"What's your name?" he asked finally.

"Sophia. Sophia Chen."

"Well, Sophia Chen," he said, extending his hand, "I'm Marcus. Marcus Rivera."

I shook his hand, surprised by how warm and steady it was. "So you'll do it?"

A slow smile spread across his face, and something fluttered in my chest that had nothing to do with relief.

"Why not? But I have one condition."

My heart sank. "What?"

"We do this properly. No courthouse at midnight, no Elvis impersonator. If we're getting married, we're getting married."

I stared at him. "You want a real wedding?"

"I want a real marriage license. Everything legal and binding. If you're going to use me to escape your family, I want to make sure it actually works."

Smart. I hadn't expected that from someone who looked like he lived paycheck to paycheck.

"Fine. But we do it tomorrow morning. First thing."

"Deal." He finished his drink and stood up. "I assume you have somewhere we can stay tonight? Separately, of course."

I hadn't thought that far ahead. "I... I have an apartment. It's small, but there's a couch."

"Lead the way, Mrs. Rivera."

The name sent an unexpected thrill through me. Mrs. Rivera. It had a nice ring to it.

An hour later, I was unlocking the door to my tiny studio apartment, very aware of Marcus behind me. I'd never brought a man here before—it was my sanctuary, my escape from the Chen family mansion and all its suffocating expectations.

"Sorry about the mess," I mumbled, though the place was spotless. Nervous habit.

Marcus stepped inside and looked around, taking in the secondhand furniture and the kitchen that was barely big enough for one person. His expression was unreadable.

"It's nice," he said, and he sounded like he meant it. "Cozy."

I watched him examine my ancient coffee maker with the kind of fascination most people reserved for museum pieces.

"How does this work?" he asked, poking at the buttons like they might bite him.

"You've never used a coffee maker before?"

He looked embarrassed. "I usually just... buy coffee. Out."

Right. Probably couldn't afford a decent coffee maker. I felt a pang of guilt about how much I was planning to spend on coffee pods this month.

"Here, let me show you." I moved to stand next to him, very aware of how he seemed to take up all the space in my small kitchen. "You put the water here, coffee here, and press this button."

He nodded seriously, like I was explaining rocket science. "Got it."

There was something endearing about how lost he looked. Most of the men I knew could barely be bothered to learn my last name, let alone how my appliances worked.

"The bathroom's through there," I said, pointing to the only other door in the apartment. "Towels are in the closet. I'll grab you some blankets for the couch."

"Thank you." He caught my wrist gently as I passed. "Sophia? Are you sure about this? Once we sign those papers tomorrow, there's no going back."

I looked down at his hand on my wrist, then up at his face. In the soft light of my apartment, he looked younger, more vulnerable somehow. But his eyes were still sharp, still seeing too much.

"I'm sure," I said. "Are you?"

His thumb brushed across my pulse point, and I wondered if he could feel how fast my heart was beating.

"Ask me tomorrow," he said, releasing my wrist.

As I lay in bed an hour later, listening to Marcus move around my living room, I wondered what the hell I'd gotten myself into. In less than twelve hours, I'd be married to a complete stranger.

But anything was better than Harold Blackstone.

Anything.

The Black Friday ads scattered across my coffee table looked like a war zone of red ink and highlighter marks. I'd been at this for two hours, cross-referencing prices and calculating discounts with the precision of a tax attorney. My notebook was filled with neat columns: "Target - Men's Jackets 40% off," "Macy's - Winter Coats Buy One Get One," "Nordstrom Rack - Designer Clearance."

Marcus emerged from the bathroom, hair still damp from his shower, wearing the same worn jeans and faded t-shirt he'd had on yesterday. The fabric was so thin I could see the outline of his shoulders through it, and there was a small hole near the hem that he'd probably been ignoring for months.

My chest tightened. November in Chicago wasn't kind to anyone, but especially not to someone who clearly couldn't afford a proper winter coat.

"Planning to buy out the entire mall?" he asked, nodding at my organized chaos of advertisements.

"Just being strategic." I held up my color-coded list. "Black Friday is basically Christmas for people who understand math."

He picked up one of the ads, eyebrows raising at the highlighted sections. "You've calculated the tax on everything."

"Of course. What's the point of a good deal if you don't know the real total?" I watched him study my meticulous notes. "Actually, I was thinking... maybe we could go shopping together? You know, for winter clothes. The sales are incredible right now."

Something flickered across his face—too quick to read. "I don't really need anything."

"Marcus." I gestured at his t-shirt. "It's going to be thirty degrees today."

"I have a jacket."

"The leather one? That's not going to cut it when it starts snowing."

He was quiet for a moment, and I could practically see him weighing his pride against the Chicago winter. Pride was winning.

"Look," I said carefully, "I know this whole situation is weird, but we're supposed to be married, right? Married people buy each other clothes. It's normal."

"Normal," he repeated, like he was testing the word.

"Plus, I could use the company. Shopping alone on Black Friday is basically a death wish."

That earned me a small smile. "When you put it like that..."

Two hours later, we were walking through the Woodfield Premium Outlets, and I was starting to question my life choices. The crowds were insane—families with strollers creating human traffic jams, teenagers camping out in front of stores, and the kind of aggressive shoppers who treated Black Friday like a contact sport.

"Stay close," I told Marcus, grabbing his arm as a woman with three shopping bags nearly took out a small child. "These people are animals."

We made it to the men's section of the Nike outlet, where I immediately started pulling items off the racks. "Okay, what's your size? Large? Extra-large?"

"Sophia." Marcus was staring at a rack of jackets like they'd personally offended him. "These prices..."

I looked at the tag he was holding. "Sixty percent off! That's amazing."

"It's still two hundred dollars. For a jacket."

The way he said it—like two hundred dollars was an insurmountable mountain instead of a reasonable price for outerwear—made my heart squeeze. I'd spent more than that on a single dinner last week.

"It's an investment," I said gently. "Good winter gear lasts for years."

He put the jacket back on the rack with careful precision, like he was afraid he might damage it. "Maybe we should try somewhere else. Target, maybe?"

"Marcus, no. Look at this." I pulled out a sleek black puffer coat that would look incredible on him. "This would be perfect. And with the sale, it's practically stealing."

But he'd moved away, studying a clearance rack in the corner where everything was marked down to under fifty dollars. The clothes there were clearly last season's leftovers—weird colors, odd sizes, styles that hadn't sold for obvious reasons.

"These are more reasonable," he said, holding up a jacket in an unfortunate shade of mustard yellow.

Something twisted in my chest. He wasn't just being practical—he was embarrassed. Here I was, dragging him through expensive stores, pointing out "deals" that were still more than he could afford, making him feel like charity case.

"You know what?" I said, putting my hand over his. "You're right. Let's check out the clearance section first. Sometimes you find the best stuff there."

His shoulders relaxed slightly. "Really?"

"Absolutely. My mom always said the smartest shoppers know that price doesn't always equal quality."

It was a lie—my mother had never set foot in a clearance section in her life—but the relief on Marcus's face made it worth it.

We spent the next hour going through discounted racks, and I found myself actually enjoying the treasure hunt aspect of it. Marcus had good taste; he just couldn't afford to indulge it. When he held up items, I could see him calculating not just the cost, but whether it was worth it, whether he needed it enough to justify the expense.

"This one's nice," he said, showing me a navy blue jacket that was marked down from three hundred to seventy-five dollars.

It was perfect for him—classic, well-made, the kind of thing that would last for years. But I could see him hesitating, doing the math in his head.

"Try it on," I said.

While he was in the fitting room, I pulled out my phone and quickly typed a text: "Emergency shopping situation. Need backup plan. Call you later."

Except I didn't send it to my best friend like I'd intended. Instead, I watched Marcus emerge from the fitting room, the jacket fitting him like it was made for him, and felt something shift in my chest.

He looked... expensive. Like he belonged in boardrooms and fancy restaurants, not outlet malls and clearance racks.

"What do you think?" he asked, adjusting the collar.

"Perfect," I said, and meant it. "We're getting it."

"Sophia, I can't let you—"

"You're not letting me do anything. I'm buying my husband a coat. End of discussion."

While I was at the register, I noticed Marcus step away, pulling out his phone. He typed something quickly, then put it away before I could see.

Probably texting a friend about his crazy fake wife, I thought, signing the receipt.

Little did I know, the message he'd just sent would change everything.

But for now, watching him smile as he put on his new jacket, I was just happy to see him warm.

The electronics section at Best Buy looked like a battlefield. Bodies pressed against each other, voices rose in heated arguments over the last gaming console, and somewhere in the distance, I could hear what sounded like actual screaming over a markdown on laptops.

"This is insane," Marcus muttered beside me, his new jacket already proving its worth as someone's elbow nearly caught him in the ribs.

I clutched my shopping list tighter, scanning the chaos for my target. "There!" I pointed toward the back wall where a small crowd had gathered around a display of flat-screen TVs. "The fifty-five inch Samsung. Half price."

Marcus followed my gaze, his expression skeptical. "Sophia, you don't even have a TV in your apartment."

"That's the point. I've been watching games on my laptop like some kind of medieval peasant." I started pushing through the crowd, using my small size to weave between larger bodies. "The Bulls season just started, and I refuse to miss another game because of my tragic living situation."

The TV section was pure mayhem. A hand-written sign proclaimed "LIMIT ONE PER CUSTOMER" in aggressive red letters, but that hadn't stopped people from forming what looked like a small militia around the remaining units. I counted three TVs left.

Two.

One.

"Excuse me," I called out, squeezing past a woman with four shopping carts. "I'd like to purchase—"

"Too late, sweetheart." The voice came from behind me, dripping with condescension. "I was here first."

I turned to find myself face-to-face with exactly the kind of person I'd spent my entire life trying to avoid. Tall, blonde, wearing clothes that probably cost more than most people's rent, and sporting the kind of smirk that suggested he'd never heard the word 'no' in his life. His friends flanked him like bodyguards, all designer sneakers and entitled expressions.

"Actually," I said, keeping my voice level, "I've been waiting in this section for twenty minutes. You just walked up."

His laugh was sharp and ugly. "Waiting? You mean lurking around like you can actually afford anything here?" His eyes swept over my clearance-rack outfit with obvious disdain. "Why don't you try Walmart? I'm sure they have some nice little TVs more in your price range."

Heat flooded my cheeks, but I stood my ground. "I have just as much right to shop here as anyone else."

"Right, sure." He stepped closer, using his height to intimidate me. "Look, princess, this is how the world works. People like me get what we want, and people like you..." He gestured vaguely at my appearance. "Well, you get the leftovers."

I felt Marcus move behind me, but I was too angry to back down. "People like me?"

"Poor people," he said bluntly, his friends snickering. "You know, the ones who have to wait for Black Friday sales to afford basic electronics. It's actually kind of sad."

Something snapped inside me. Maybe it was the stress of the fake marriage, or the exhaustion from pretending my life wasn't falling apart, or just the sheer audacity of this trust-fund brat. Before I could stop myself, I reached for the TV box.

"I'm buying this TV," I said firmly.

He grabbed the other end of the box. "I don't think so."

For a moment, we engaged in the world's most expensive tug-of-war, the TV box between us like some kind of retail prize. His grip was stronger, and I could feel myself losing ground.

"Let go," he demanded.

"No."

That's when he shoved me.

It wasn't a gentle push. It was deliberate, aggressive, designed to send me stumbling backward into the crowd. I lost my grip on the TV box and went down hard, my palms scraping against the concrete floor as I tried to break my fall.

Pain shot through my wrists, and I could feel the sting of scraped skin. Around us, the crowd had gone quiet, everyone suddenly very interested in their own shopping.

"Oops," the guy said, not sounding sorry at all. "Maybe next time you'll know your place."

I was struggling to get back to my feet when I felt a presence beside me. Marcus had moved so quietly I hadn't even noticed, but suddenly he was there, helping me up with gentle hands.

"Are you hurt?" His voice was soft, concerned, but there was something else underneath it. Something that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

"I'm fine," I started to say, but Marcus was already turning toward the blonde guy.

The change in him was instantaneous and terrifying. Gone was the quiet, almost shy man who'd been hesitant about buying a winter coat. In his place stood someone who looked like he could dismantle a person with surgical precision. His green eyes had gone cold, and there was a stillness about him that screamed danger.

"Apologize," Marcus said quietly.

The blonde guy laughed, but it sounded forced now. "Excuse me?"

"You pushed my wife. You made her fall. Apologize."

"Your wife?" The guy looked between us, taking in Marcus's worn jeans and faded t-shirt. "Right. What are you going to do about it, broke boy?"

Marcus stepped forward, and suddenly the space between them seemed to shrink. He didn't raise his voice, didn't make any threatening gestures, but somehow he filled the entire area with menace.

"I'm going to give you one more chance to apologize," Marcus said, his voice barely above a whisper. "And then I'm going to make you wish you had."

The blonde guy's friends had started backing away, sensing something their leader was too arrogant to pick up on. But the guy himself just sneered.

"Yeah? You and what army, charity case?"

Marcus moved.

I'd never seen anything like it. One moment the blonde guy was standing there smirking, and the next he was face-down on the floor with Marcus's hand wrapped around his wrist at what looked like a very painful angle. It had happened so fast I'd barely seen Marcus move.

"Apologize," Marcus repeated, his voice still eerily calm.

"I can't—my arm—" the guy gasped.

"Apologize to my wife."

"I'm sorry!" The words came out in a rush. "I'm sorry, okay? Let go!"

But as Marcus released him and the guy scrambled to his feet, something caught his attention. His eyes fixed on Marcus's wrist, where his sleeve had ridden up slightly during the altercation.

"That watch," the blonde guy said, his voice strange. "Where did you get that watch?"

I looked down and caught a glimpse of what he was staring at—a flash of platinum and what looked like diamonds before Marcus quickly pulled his sleeve down.

"I think you should leave," Marcus said, ignoring the question entirely.

The guy was still staring at Marcus's wrist, his face a mixture of confusion and something that looked almost like fear. "That's a Patek Philippe Grandmaster Chime. There are only seven of those in the world."

Marcus said nothing, but his jaw tightened.

"Who the hell are you?" the blonde guy whispered.

Instead of answering, Marcus simply picked up the TV box and handed it to me. "I believe this is yours."

The blonde guy and his friends melted away into the crowd, leaving me standing there with a fifty-five-inch Samsung and about a thousand new questions about the man I'd married.