My Fake Bankrupt Husband Is A Tycoon

oor of the diner

n. I need air. I need the freezing Philadelphia winter, but t

ain, thick fingers dig into my bicep. The nails

think you're

d with a force that makes my neck snap. She shoves me into

is cheap cologne hits the back of my throat, thick and n

y, Gracie,"

over my jaw. His fingers press into my cheeks, hard enough to grind m

e trembling. "I am not marrying a ma

nto her oversized purse and pulls out a ring. The diamond is small, cl

sin right now," Doris hisses, her face turning a mottled red. "Do

ing over my skin. Doris notices the audience and immediately changes her

he diner. "Leaving her poor mother to

ly I think it might crack my sternum. I grip the strap of my canvas bag until my k

of scalding black coffee. She looks nervous, her eyes darting

s i

le against Clarnce's hold. As I twist, I slam my

ips. The m

ee cascades directl

he jumps up, knocking his knees against the table. The booth shakes. Doris shriek

s er

g, spin around, and sprint toward the

ck there!" a cook yel

e heavy metal back door and b

I run until my legs burn and my throat tastes like copper. I sprint past

hest heaving. My hands are shaking so badly I can barely unlock my phone. I open the contr

my tangled hair. A nondescript, black Ford sedan p

ctly styled. He wears a suit that has no visible logos, but the fabric looks expensive. He frowns, hi

e is a low, deep rumble

l open the heavy car door and

lls like expensive cedarwood and clean linen. It does

ront," he says, adjusting his cuff. "I'm only here because my sick

ches. I look

ock, Clarnce is stomping down the sidewalk. His

rearm. His muscles are rock-hard beneath the suit jacket. He flinches, leaning

social security card on you?" I ask, my

t me, his jaw

. If you find me annoying or for any other reason, we can get divorced the day

ssive, angry man scanning the street. He look

seatbelt o