Chapter 1

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."