Damien's POV
I break every traffic law getting to Elara's grandmother's townhouse.
When she called me at 11 PM, crying about the Ashfords coming after her, something inside me shifted. All my carefully built walls crumbled. I don't care about revenge right now. I don't care about my master plan.
I only care about her.
Marcus is in the passenger seat, laptop open, already digging into the Ashford legal threat. "This is bad, Damien. If they file charges, she could face up to five years in prison for corporate espionage. Even if she's innocent."
"She IS innocent," I snap, taking a corner too fast.
"I know that. But the Ashfords have the best lawyers in New York. They can make evidence appear out of nowhere. We've seen them do it before." He pauses. "With your parents."
My hands tighten on the steering wheel. Seventeen years ago, the Ashfords destroyed my family with fake evidence. Now they're trying to do the same thing to Elara.
Over my dead body.
We pull up to the townhouse. I'm out of the car before it fully stops. I run up the steps and pound on the door.
It opens immediately. Elara stands there in pajamas, her face swollen from crying, her eyes red and desperate.
And she's never looked more beautiful.
"Damien," she breathes. "You came."
"Of course I came." I step inside without asking. "Tell me everything. Don't leave anything out."
We sit in her grandmother's living room—the old woman is already asleep upstairs—and Elara tells us about the phone call. About the accusations. About how she never accessed any confidential files because her father cut off her security clearance the night he fired her.
"They're making it up," she says, her voice shaking. "Trevor and my father must have planted fake evidence. Made it look like I stole files to give to you."
Marcus looks up from his laptop. "Actually, they did more than that. I just hacked into Sinclair Hotels' server logs. Someone accessed confidential merger documents from your employee account two days ago. Long after you were terminated."
Elara's face goes white. "But I haven't logged in! I don't even have access anymore!"
"Someone's using your credentials," I say grimly. "This is a frame job. Professional level."
"What do I do?" She looks at me with those desperate eyes. "I can't go to prison, Damien. I can't—" Her hand moves to her stomach unconsciously.
I notice. Marcus notices too, his eyebrows shooting up.
"You're pregnant," I say quietly.
She freezes. "How did you—"
"You keep touching your stomach. You're tired all the time—I saw you fighting to stay awake in our meeting today. You're not drinking coffee anymore." I lean forward. "How far along?"
Tears spill down her cheeks. "Three weeks. Almost four."
The timeline clicks in my head. Three weeks ago. The airport. The hotel.
Oh my God.
"Is it—" I can barely get the words out. "Is the baby Trevor's?"
"No!" She looks horrified. "I never slept with Trevor. He said I was too boring in bed, remember? We were waiting until marriage. His idea, not mine."
Relief crashes through me so hard I almost can't breathe. "Then whose—"
She looks directly at me. Doesn't say anything. Just looks at me with those sad, beautiful eyes.
And I understand.
"Mine," I whisper. "The baby is mine."
"Yes."
The room spins. Marcus makes a choking sound. I can't think. Can't process. Three weeks ago, I had a one-night stand with a stranger. Now that stranger is my employee, being framed for crimes she didn't commit, and carrying my child.
"I was going to tell you," Elara says quickly. "I just didn't know how. You made it so clear that night was a mistake. That we should pretend it never happened. And then you were my boss, and I needed the job, and—" She's crying harder now. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
I cross the room and pull her into my arms. She fights me for a second, then collapses against my chest, sobbing.
"Don't apologize," I say roughly, holding her tight. "None of this is your fault. The Ashfords did this. Your father did this. Not you."
"But the baby—"
"Is mine. Ours. And I'm not going anywhere." I tilt her chin up so she has to look at me. "You hear me, Elara? I'm not Trevor. I'm not your father. I don't abandon people I care about."
"You care about me?" she whispers.
"I haven't stopped thinking about you for three seconds since that night. I was cruel today because I was scared. Because caring about you complicates everything. But I'm done being scared." I kiss her forehead. "We're going to fix this. Together."
Marcus clears his throat awkwardly. "Uh, guys? We have about forty-eight hours before the Ashfords file formal charges. We need a plan."
I force myself to let Elara go and turn to Marcus. "What do we have?"
"Not much. The fake evidence is good. Really good. Without proof of who actually accessed those files, Elara looks guilty."
"Then we find proof," I say. "Hire the best digital forensics team. Trace the IP addresses. Find out who set her up."
"That'll take weeks. We don't have weeks."
Elara stands up, wiping her face. "What if I ran?"
"What?" I turn to her.
"What if I just... left? Got on a plane tonight. Disappeared. They can't arrest me if they can't find me."
"That makes you look guilty," Marcus says. "And they'll issue a warrant. You'd be a fugitive."
"Better than being pregnant in prison!"
She has a point. But I hate it.
"There has to be another way," I say.
"There is." Marcus's face changes. Gets calculating. Dangerous. "But you're not going to like it."
"Tell me."
"Marry her. Tonight. Right now."
Elara and I both stare at him.
"Are you insane?" I ask.
"Listen! If Elara is your wife, she can't be forced to testify against you. More importantly, spousal privilege protects any conversations you've had. The Ashfords are claiming she stole files to give to you, right? But if you two were in a relationship when the alleged theft happened—if you can prove you've known each other longer than just employee-boss—then it's not corporate espionage. It's just a woman sharing information with her boyfriend."
"We weren't together when the files were accessed," Elara says.
"But they don't know that. All they know is you met after the theft allegedly happened. If you get married now, date the relationship back to before you were fired, it creates reasonable doubt. Plus—" Marcus grins. "The media loves a good love story. 'Pregnant woman framed by vengeful ex-fiancé' plays a lot better when she has a powerful new husband defending her."
It's crazy. Insane. Exactly the kind of reckless move that could backfire spectacularly.
It's also brilliant.
"No," Elara says. "Absolutely not. Damien, you can't marry me just to save me from legal charges. That's—"
"Strategic?" I interrupt. "Smart? The best option we have?"
"Fake! It's fake!"
I step closer to her. Take her hands. "What if it wasn't fake?"
She blinks. "What?"
"What if we really got married? Not just for show. Not just for protection. What if—" I take a deep breath. "I know this is fast. I know we barely know each other. But Elara, I haven't felt anything real in seventeen years. And then I met you, and suddenly I'm feeling everything. You're pregnant with my baby. We're good together. So what if we just... tried?"
"Tried marriage? Like a trial run?"
"Like a commitment. To each other. To this baby. To figuring it out as we go." I squeeze her hands. "I'm not saying it'll be easy. I'm not saying I'm not terrified. But I'd rather be terrified with you than safe and alone."
Tears stream down her face. "You're serious."
"Completely."
"This is insane."
"I know."
"We'll probably crash and burn."
"Maybe."
"I'm a mess, Damien. I'm broken and scared and I have no idea what I'm doing."
"Join the club. I'm an emotionally unavailable workaholic with revenge fantasies and trust issues." I smile. "We're perfect for each other."
She laughs through her tears. "This is the craziest thing anyone has ever asked me."
"Is that a yes?"
She looks at me for a long moment. Then at her stomach. Then back at me.
"Yes," she whispers. "Let's get married."
Marcus whoops and starts making phone calls. I pull Elara into my arms and kiss her—really kiss her—for the first time since the airport.
She kisses me back like she's drowning and I'm air.
"We're really doing this?" she asks when we break apart.
"We're really doing this."
"What if it doesn't work?"
"Then at least we tried." I touch her face gently. "I'd rather fail with you than succeed alone."
Two hours later, we're standing in a 24-hour wedding chapel in Brooklyn. Marcus found a judge who owed him a favor. Elara's still in pajamas. I'm in jeans and a t-shirt. We have no rings, no flowers, no guests.
It's perfect.
The judge—a tired-looking woman in her sixties—speeds through the ceremony. "Do you, Damien Cross, take Elara Sinclair to be your lawfully wedded wife?"
"I do."
"Do you, Elara Sinclair, take Damien Cross to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
Elara looks at me. Really looks at me. And I see the exact moment she decides to trust me. To take this insane leap of faith.
"I do," she says firmly.
"By the power vested in me by the state of New York, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."
I kiss my wife for the first time. She tastes like tears and hope.
"Congratulations," the judge says dryly. "That'll be two hundred dollars."
We leave the chapel as the sun starts to rise. Elara is quiet in the car, twisting the temporary paper marriage certificate in her hands.
"Regrets?" I ask softly.
"Honestly? I don't know." She looks at me. "Ask me in a week."
"Fair enough."
Marcus drops us at my penthouse. "Get some sleep," he says. "Tomorrow we go public with the marriage and dare the Ashfords to make their move."
Inside my apartment, Elara stands in the middle of my living room looking lost.
"Guest room is down the hall," I say. "Take the master bedroom. I'll sleep on the couch."
"We're married and you're sleeping on the couch?"
"We're married and pregnant and being framed for crimes. Let's tackle one crisis at a time."
She smiles—small but real. "Thank you, Damien. For believing me. For helping me. For... everything."
"Thank you for saying yes. Even though I'm probably the worst option you had."
"Actually, you're the only option I had. But still." She stands on her toes and kisses my cheek. "Goodnight, husband."
"Goodnight, wife."
She disappears into the bedroom. I collapse on the couch, staring at the ceiling, trying to process the last six hours.
I got married. To the woman I had a one-night stand with. Who's pregnant with my baby. Who I'm now protecting from the same family that destroyed my parents.
My phone buzzes. Unknown number. I answer without thinking.
"Hello?"
"Mr. Cross? This is Trevor Ashford."
My blood goes cold. "What do you want?"
"I heard you hired Elara." His voice is smug. Poisonous. "I wonder if you know what you're really getting. She's a liar, Damien. A thief. And now she's your problem."
"She's my wife," I say coldly. "As of three hours ago. So if you want to come after her, you'll have to go through me."
Silence. Then Trevor laughs—sharp and mean. "You married her? Oh, this is perfect. You just made the biggest mistake of your life, Cross. Because when I'm done, I won't just destroy her. I'll destroy you both. And that bastard baby she's carrying."
He hangs up.
I sit there, phone in hand, rage and fear coursing through me.
Trevor knows about the baby. Which means he's been watching Elara. Probably for weeks.
And if he's been watching her, he knows everything.
I need to tell Elara. Need to warn her.
But when I open the bedroom door to check on her, she's already asleep, curled up on my bed, one hand on her stomach.
She looks peaceful. Safe. For the first time since I met her.
I can't wake her up just to terrify her.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll tell her everything. About Trevor's threat. About my revenge plan. About why I really bought her family's company.
Tomorrow I'll risk losing her.
But tonight, I just watch my wife sleep and pray I'm strong enough to protect her from what's coming.