The day after our flash marriage, I found out the man I’d married the night before was my ex-husband’s uncle. At a family dinner, Damon saw us walk in arm in arm—and crushed his wine glass with his bare hand. My new husband, Marcus Thorne, gripped my trembling hand and told Damon to call me Aunt. After that, the whole family exploded. Damon, my ex-mother-in-law, and Cross Sr. all surrounded us, pressuring me to divorce Marcus. When the pressure became unbearable and I finally pulled out the prenuptial agreement to end things, Marcus slapped a stack of photographs onto the table. They were photos from a contract signing event I’d attended as a company representative three years ago. In every shot, I was looking down at the documents. Marcus was standing slightly behind me, watching me—his expression so tender it almost didn’t look real. That’s when I realized: this so-called “flash marriage” was a scheme Marcus had been planning for a very long time. “Sloane, you have to go tonight!” Nicole was shoving me through the doors of a nightclub, and I was still thinking about Damon Cross. Three years of marriage, and he had publicly humiliated me—said I wasn’t good enough for him. Said I was just an ordinary office worker with no family name worth mentioning. Then he turned around and married a jewelry merchant’s daughter. Today was the anniversary of our divorce. Nicole called it a “love luck party.” Pay to get in, get randomly matched with a new guy—instant marriage, right then and there. “Are you crazy?” “You’re the one who’s crazy—it’s been three years and you still haven’t moved on.” She pressed a card into my hand. “The code is on the back. Find the host, say your code, and if you get a match, you go straight to city hall.” I glanced down at the back of the card, and my breath caught. It read: Damon Cross. Nicole’s explanation? The system had crunched some data and decided that my ex-husband’s name was the one most likely to help me let someone in again. Ridiculous. But the alcohol was hitting hard, and I decided to lean into the ridiculous. The nightclub lights were blinding, the noise overwhelming. The host was shouting from the stage: “Alright, all you single people out there! Pull out your code cards! Find someone with a matching code in ten seconds—and tonight, you’re heading to city hall to make it official!” I was getting pushed around by the crowd, card clutched in my fist. Everyone had gone completely wild, shouting codes at each other. Some guy yelled “Tesla” at me; I shook my head and kept moving. The seconds ticked by. As if in a trance, I flipped the card over and read the words aloud: “Damon Cross.” The words had barely left my lips when a pair of hands seized my wrists. The grip was so strong I nearly lost my footing. I looked up. A sharp, cold face stared back at me. The man was around thirty-five, dressed in a tailored suit—completely out of place in a crowd like this. His eyes were icy, locked onto mine, filled with an emotion I couldn’t quite read. “Are you sure?” His voice was low, with a dangerous edge. I wasn’t fully sober. Something in me just answered: “I’m sure.” He smiled. It sent a chill straight down my spine. Then he grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the exit—through the dance floor, through the crowd, like I weighed nothing. I stumbled after him, telling him to let go. He didn’t listen. By the time I came back to my senses, we were standing in front of city hall. Two in the morning, and city hall was fully lit—a special counter opened just for the flash marriage party. “Do you have your passport?” he asked. “No, I don’t…” He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out two documents — his passport, and one that was… mine. My eyes went wide. “How do you have my passport?” “Your best friend gave it to me.” His voice was flat. “She knew you’d come.” Nicole. That traitor. “I’m not doing this.” I spun around to run. He grabbed my arm and pulled me close, his lips brushing my ear, his voice dropping so low it felt like a blade grazing skin. “You just said that name, didn’t you?” I went still. “Damon Cross.” Each word came out slow and deliberate — like he was chewing on something bitter. “Your ex-husband.” “How did you know he was—” He didn’t answer. He just shoved me through the doors of city hall. The next ten minutes felt like a nightmare. Photos, signatures, a stamp — and then a certificate was pressed into my hands. A marriage certificate. With my ex-husband’s uncle. By the time we stepped outside, the night breeze had sobered me up fast. I stared down at the certificate — his photo, completely expressionless — and laughed. It looked worse than crying. He stood under a streetlight, his shadow stretching long across the pavement. Smoke drifted up from between his fingers. I couldn’t read his face. “Congratulations,” he said. Not a shred of warmth in his voice. “Who are you, exactly?” He turned, and the streetlight caught the side of his face. That’s when I noticed the faint scar cutting through his left eyebrow — it made him look harder. Dangerous. “Marcus Thorne.” The name meant nothing to me. I’d never heard it before. “Do you know Damon?” His eyes changed. That split-second flash of ruthlessness made me step back. “We know each other.” He crushed out his cigarette, unhurried. “I’m his uncle.”
The marriage certificate slipped from my fingers and hit the floor. My heart seized. The suffocation hit me all at once, from every direction. He bent down and picked it up, pressed it back into my hand. His fingertips grazed the back of my hand — ice-cold, cutting. “What’s wrong? Having second thoughts?” I couldn’t speak. He smiled. That smile was more unsettling than any tears. “Too late, Sloane.” He said my name like it was nothing new. Like he’d been saying it his whole life. “The moment you spoke that name, you tied yourself to me. For good.” I stood there, watching him disappear into the dark. My phone buzzed. A Snapchat from Nicole: Congrats on the wedding, babe!!! I replied: Do you know who he is? She shot back instantly: Who? I typed out the name: Marcus. Damon’s uncle. She went quiet. Long enough that I thought her phone had crashed. Then a voice note came through, her voice shaking: “Sloane… you are so screwed.” I didn’t understand what she meant until the following afternoon. Nicole called while I was standing in front of the fridge, zoning out. I’d spent my wedding night alone — Marcus never came home. “Sloane, Mrs. Cross just called. The Cross family is having a dinner tonight, and she wants you there.” “Why would I go? I divorced Damon.” “Yeah, but — she also said to bring your new husband.” I closed the fridge door. Three seconds of silence. “How does she know?” “I have no idea!” Nicole sounded like she was about to cry. “But your ex-mother-in-law specifically said she wants to see Marcus. She said the whole Cross family is waiting…” My stomach dropped. The Cross family. Marcus. Uncle. Those three things clicked together, and something cold exploded at the back of my skull. I didn’t dare tell Nicole what that name really meant. I just said “Got it” and hung up. There was a black dress hanging in my closet. I put it on, stood in front of the mirror, and painted my lips red. Like walking to my own execution — at least I’d go out looking good. Marcus came to pick me up that evening. He’d changed into a dark charcoal suit, silver cufflinks catching the light as we passed under a streetlamp. The moment he saw me, his eyes moved over me — face to ankles — slow and deliberate. He didn’t say anything, but the corner of his mouth shifted. “Get in.” The ride was deadly quiet. I stared out the window at the streetlights blurring past, my palms slick with sweat. He broke the silence. “Nervous?” “No.” “Then why are you shaking?” I looked down at my hands. They were. I curled them into fists and said nothing. The car stopped in front of the Cross family estate. I knew those large red front doors too well. Two years of marriage to Damon, and every visit here was its own kind of torment. Mrs. Cross’s sharp, dissecting gaze. Damon’s barely-concealed impatience. The relatives with their passive-aggressive digs. I thought the divorce meant I’d never have to come back. And yet here I was — in a new dress, on a new husband’s arm. The whole thing was so fucking absurd. Marcus held out his arm for me to take. “Once we’re inside, don’t say a word. Stay close.” I was just reaching for his arm when the doors swung open. Damon stood in the doorway. Black shirt, collar unbuttoned, a glass of red wine in hand. His expression said he’d just found an uninvited guest in his own living room. But the moment his eyes landed on Marcus, his pupils shrank. “Uncle.” He said it through clenched teeth. Marcus didn’t even glance at him. He walked straight past, taking me with him. The entire Cross family was there. A dozen people filled the living room. Cross Sr. sat at the head of the room, turning a pocket watch over in his hands. He narrowed his eyes the moment he saw me. Mrs. Cross sat beside him, her smile so stiff it looked painted on. “Sloane, you made it. Come sit down.” I had barely taken my seat when someone laughed. “Never thought our Sloane would get divorced and end up marrying Marcus.” “Hey, don’t — she’s his wife now. That makes her our aunt.” The whole room laughed. Knives behind every smile. I was about to say something when Marcus spoke first. “I don’t need anyone’s approval for who I choose to marry.”
His voice was calm, but every word landed clean. The room went quiet. Cross Sr.’s hand stilled on the pocket watch. “Marcus, when did the two of you meet?” “What does this have to do with you?” “I’m your cousin.” “So?” Marcus picked up his tea and took a sip. “I brought her here. Whether you want to accept her is up to you.” Mrs. Cross looked like she was about to be sick. But I noticed Damon. He was sitting in the corner, drinking glass after glass, his eyes locked on the barely eight-inch gap between me and Marcus. “Lucky you,” he suddenly said, his voice rough. “Still happy scraping up someone else’s leftovers.” Dead silence fell over the room. Cross Sr. slammed his hand on the table. “Damon!” Marcus wasn’t angry. He actually smiled. He glanced at me — something amused flickering in his eyes — then looked back at Damon. “You call her leftovers. But let me ask you something — were you even worthy of her in the first place?” The glass in Damon’s hand shattered. Red wine dripped down his fingers. He shot to his feet and glared at me. “Sloane, you ruthless bitch.” I opened my mouth to respond, but Marcus pressed his hand over mine. “Call her Aunt.” Damon’s jaw went tight. Marcus pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and calmly wiped his fingers, like he had all the time in the world — like he was simply waiting for an impatient child to mind their manners. Every pair of eyes in the room was on me. Envy. Amusement. Fury. I stood there in front of the whole room, my heart pounding so hard I thought it would burst from my chest — but I kept my back straight. Marcus turned his head, his voice low, just for me. “Don’t be scared. I’m right here.” Damon finally spoke. “Fine.” He pointed his bleeding finger at my face. “Aunt.” Then he smashed a priceless vase and stormed out the door. Mrs. Cross stood up to go after him, but Cross Sr. called her back. “Marcus,” the old man sighed. “Take your wife and eat.” I caught the corner of Marcus’s mouth curve into an almost imperceptible smile. He stood up and took my wrist with the hand he hadn’t used the handkerchief on. His fingers were burning hot. “Let’s eat.” At the dinner table, everyone was whispering. I kept my head down and ate, my mind spinning. My phone lit up. Nicole: How did it go?! Me: He smashed a vase. And called me Aunt. Nicole: … Nicole: I’ve officially seen everything now. I was about to reply when a hand found mine under the table. Marcus’s fingers were long and strong. One by one, he pried open my clenched fist and pressed his warm palm flat against mine. I looked up at him. He was calmly sipping his soup, expression completely unbothered, like nothing had happened at all. But under the table, his thumb was slowly brushing back and forth across the back of my hand. My stomach was in knots the entire meal. By the time it finally ended, Marcus pulled me into his car — not toward home. He drove straight to an office building I’d never been to before. “Why are we here?” He didn’t answer. He swiped his card and stepped into the elevator. It went all the way to the top floor, and when the doors opened, the letters on the wall in front of us stopped me cold. Thorne Group. I froze. He walked me into the CEO’s office, pulled a document from the drawer, and dropped it on the desk. “You didn’t read what you signed.” I picked up the prenuptial agreement and flipped through a few pages. My eyes went wide. The last page — the additional terms — read: Party A, Sloane, formerly held the position of Vice President at Thorne Group, tenure of two years and three months, resigned due to personal marriage-related reasons. “You…” “Three years ago, I was the one who recruited you.” Marcus leaned back against the desk, arms folded, his gaze steady. “From the headhunter search to the project launch — I was involved in every step personally. Your first acquisition proposal? I was the one who approved it.”
It felt like a bomb went off inside my head. Three years ago. Before I quit my job and married into the Cross family, I had been working as a VP at a corporation — but I never once met the owner. Every part of my onboarding had been handled through the HR director. “You didn’t know your boss’s last name was Thorne?” “I signed an NDA when I joined. The company used a code name.” “Mm.” He let out a soft, indifferent sound. “That was my requirement.” My fingers gripped the agreement. My knuckles went white. “So from the very beginning, you knew I was Damon’s ex-wife.” “More than that.” He walked around the desk and came to stand right in front of me, looking down at me from above. “I know he cheated on you for two years. I know his mother looked down on you for coming from an ordinary family. I know that at the Cross family, even the servants felt entitled to treat you like dirt.” “You—” “I also know that on the day of your divorce, you stood outside your ex-husband’s office building for three hours — and then left alone in a cab.” My eyes stung instantly. That was the most humiliating day of my life. After Damon signed the divorce papers, he didn’t even bother to see me out. I stood in front of his building for almost an hour waiting for a cab. The wind was brutal. I was wearing heels, and they’d rubbed my feet raw until they bled. “How did you know that?” “I happened to be in a meeting in the building across the street that day.” His voice dropped. “I saw you crouch down by the curb and take your heels off. You stood there barefoot on the pavement.” “…” “From that moment on, I knew — I was going to make you my wife.” He said it the way you’d state a fact. Calm. Certain. Like it had already been decided. “Marcus, are you out of your mind?” “Not even a little.” He pulled another photo from the drawer and slid it across to me. It was the two of us at a contract signing event three years ago. I was in my work suit, head down, reading through documents. He was standing slightly behind me and to the side, his gaze resting on me. That look in his eyes — soft in a way that didn’t seem like him at all. “I noticed you at that signing.” He tapped the photo with his knuckles. “But you were married then, so I didn’t do anything.” “So now you’re—” “Now you’re divorced, and I’m single.” He cut me off. “I waited three years for this chance, Sloane. Do you really think I’m going to let it go?” I stepped back. My back hit the edge of the desk. “This isn’t love. This is obsession.” “Call it whatever you want.” He picked up the prenuptial agreement and held it out to me. “But it’s all right here in black and white — pre-marital assets stay separate, and everything you own after marriage is fully protected by law. I’m not Damon. I won’t let you get burned.” “But this whole marriage is a setup!” “A setup?” He laughed — cool, humorless. “You showed up to a speed dating event and tossed out your ex-husband’s name as your secret passcode. Who were you looking for, Sloane? Were you waiting for him to come back?” That stopped me cold. “You don’t even love him. You just can’t accept how it ended.” He cut right to the heart of it. “What you need is a marriage that lets you stand back up. And I can give you that.” “What exactly can you give me?” “Respect. Equality. And—” He paused. “A place that’s actually worthy of you.” My heart skipped a beat. The office lights were bright, throwing his features into sharp relief. It hit me all at once — this man had woven himself into the edges of my life three years ago, and I had never even noticed. “I’ll give you three days to think it over.” He slipped the agreement back into the drawer. “If you still want out after three days, I’ll sign.” I stood there and watched him turn and walk toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city glittered outside. He stood with his back to me, his voice drifting over his shoulder: “Sloane, you need to ask yourself — are you running away from a person, or are you running toward a life?” I had nothing to say.
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