My Mysterious Billionaire Husband

The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor was the only sound in the room, a steady, clinical pulse that did nothing to calm the frantic drumming in Clarice Reynolds's chest.

She held her grandmother's hand, the skin thin and dry like parchment over a fragile network of bones.

"Clarice," Evelyn whispered. Her eyes, clouded with age and illness, struggled to focus. "You need someone. Someone to rely on."

It was the same conversation they'd had a dozen times. The one wish Evelyn clung to with what little strength she had left.

"I have my job, Grandma. I'm stable." The words felt hollow even as she said them.

A wracking cough shook Evelyn's small frame. Her gaze drifted towards the window, her hope dimming like the late afternoon sun. A sharp, cold fist clenched around Clarice's heart. She couldn't bear to see that light go out completely.

Stepping out of the room, Clarice leaned her forehead against the cool, sterile wall of the hospital corridor, the antiseptic smell filling her lungs. Her phone buzzed, an unknown number flashing on the screen. She almost ignored it.

"Miss Reynolds?" a crisp, formal voice said when she answered. It was a man she didn't know, a butler for a woman she'd never met. "Mrs. Sinclair asked me to remind you. The arrangement is for today. He will be waiting at City Hall."

Clarice closed her eyes. The beeping from the room seemed to grow louder in her head. This was insane. A desperate, last-ditch solution to a problem that had no rational answer.

She took a breath that felt like swallowing glass.

"I'll be there," she said, her own voice sounding distant.

The taxi ride to the New York City Hall was a blur of traffic and noise. Her mind was a blank slate, she was about to marry a man whose name she barely knew, whose face was a complete mystery. All for a single, precious smile.

She saw him standing on the steps, a tall figure in a simple but impeccably tailored casual jacket and dark jeans. He was turned away from her, looking out at the street. When he turned, her breath caught. He was handsome, with sharp, defined features and dark hair, but his eyes were cold, distant. They held no warmth, only a kind of weary impatience.

"Clarice Reynolds?" he asked. His voice was deep, devoid of any emotion.

"Yes."

"I'm Hank Miller."

She just nodded, a knot forming in her stomach. The silence between them was heavy, awkward. There was nothing to say. They were two strangers about to sign a contract.

Inside, the process was as impersonal as a transaction at the DMV. They submitted their documents, took a number, and sat on a hard wooden bench to wait. He handled everything with a detached efficiency, pointing to the lines where she needed to sign. He moved with a purpose that felt out of place in the drab, bureaucratic hall.

While they waited, her eyes fell on the watch on his wrist. It was understated, a simple leather band and a dark face, but she recognized the brand. It was worth more than her car. More than she made in six months.