Fake Marriage Ruined, She Married The Tycoon

"I just need the joint filing status confirmed, please."

Christi pushed the heavy manila envelope across the polished marble counter. It slid under the gap of the bulletproof glass. She offered a polite, practiced smile to the clerk sitting on the other side.

Officer Doyle didn't smile back. He pulled the thick stack of W-2 forms and the Rivera family trust yield certificates from the envelope. His fingers moved mechanically over his keyboard, entering her Social Security Number into the federal tax database for the annual cross-check.

A harsh, flat error tone beeped from his computer speakers.

Doyle frowned. He hit the enter key again. The red glow from the monitor cast a harsh shadow across Christi's face.

"Ma'am, there's no legal marriage record on file for you and Jensen Rivera," Doyle said. His voice was completely monotone, a stark contrast to the sudden ringing in Christi's ears.

Her chest tightened. The air left her lungs in a rush. "That's impossible. We had a massive ceremony in the Hamptons five years ago. There was a priest. Hundreds of guests."

Doyle turned the heavy monitor around to face her. He tapped a thick finger against the screen. "Single," he read aloud. "Without a signed marriage license filed with the state, any religious ceremony is legally void. You are not married."

Christi's breathing stopped. Her brain forcefully replayed a memory from five years ago. Jensen, standing in his tailored suit, smiling warmly as he took the marriage certificate from her hands. *Let me handle the mailing, babe. It's safer for the family trust.*

A violent wave of nausea hit her stomach. She gripped the edge of the cold marble counter to keep her knees from buckling. Five years. She had spent five years in the Rivera family as nothing more than a high-end, legally unprotected companion.

Her phone vibrated violently in her trench coat pocket. The buzzing against her hip broke through the static in her brain. She pulled it out. The screen flashed with the name of her editor-in-chief, Arthur Finch.

She forced air into her lungs and answered. "Arthur-"

"Get to the Upper East Side. The Pierre Hotel. Now," Arthur barked. "There's a multi-car crash outside. I need photos before the police clear the scene."

"Arthur, I have a personal emergency. I can't-"

"You want to keep your health insurance, Christi? You go. Now." The line went dead.

Christi stood frozen for a second. Her fingers were numb. She turned and walked out of Boston City Hall. The early autumn rain of Boston slammed into her face, freezing and sharp. She raised her hand, flagged down a yellow cab, and headed straight for the train station.

Three hours later, the rain outside the Upper East Side was even worse.

Christi stood outside The Pierre Hotel, her waterproof windbreaker soaked through. She wore bulky safety goggles to keep the rain out of her eyes, clutching her telephoto camera. She shoved her way through the aggressive crowd of paparazzi pressing against the yellow police tape.

A black Maybach sat under the dim glow of a streetlamp. The front bumper was crushed.

Christi raised her camera. She adjusted the heavy lens, zooming in. The license plate came into sharp focus. Her stomach dropped. It was Jensen's private car.

Her fingers started to shake. The heavy camera trembled in her hands. She slowly tilted the lens up, focusing through the half-lowered rear window of the Maybach.

The flash of another photographer's camera lit up the inside of the car.

Christi saw Jensen. He was leaning over the backseat, draping his expensive suit jacket over the shoulders of a blonde woman.

The woman turned her head. It was Fallon Ratcliff. Her face, usually plastered on the covers of socialite magazines, was flushed.

Fallon didn't look scared of the crash. Instead, she reached up, hooked her arms around Jensen's neck, and pulled him down. Right there, in the back of the wrecked car, they engaged in a deep, possessive kiss.

Acid burned the back of Christi's throat. She gagged, the bile rising fast. The hard plastic viewfinder of the camera slammed hard against her brow bone. A sharp, stinging pain shot through her forehead.

She bit down on her lower lip. She bit so hard she tasted the hot, metallic tang of blood. *Don't look away.* She forced her finger to press the shutter button.

Click. Click. Click. She took over a dozen high-definition close-ups.

The rapid flashes caught the attention of a bodyguard inside the car. A man in a black suit stepped out, snapping open a massive black umbrella to block the window.

Christi immediately lowered her head. She shoved the heavy camera deep inside her oversized windbreaker. Using the chaotic pushing of the crowd, she backed away and slipped into a dark, narrow alleyway next to the hotel.

She leaned against the wet brick wall and slid down until she hit the cold pavement.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out. A text message from Gilda Rivera, her "mother-in-law."

*Don't be late for the dinner party tonight. Make sure you wear something that doesn't make us look cheap.*

Christi stared at the words, the title "Mrs. Rivera" a cruel, mocking lie. A dry, ugly laugh scraped out of her throat.

She opened her phone's photo gallery. She zoomed in on the picture she just took. Jensen and Fallon kissing. Jensen's left hand rested on Fallon's waist. His wedding ring caught the street light, a circle of gold that now seemed utterly ironic.

A five-year highlight reel of psychological torture played in her head. Jensen telling her her journalism job was a joke. Jensen isolating her from her college friends. Jensen whispering that she was lucky the Rivera family accepted a girl from the Rust Belt.

The tears in her eyes dried up, replaced by a heat that burned her chest. She stood up. She went to Gilda's contact and hit 'Do Not Disturb'.

She opened the camera compartment, pulled out the small SD card, and carefully slipped it into the hidden lining of her bra. This was her first bullet.

She walked out of the alley, heading straight for the subway.

She didn't notice the black Lincoln Navigator parked silently at the mouth of the alley. The windows were tinted pitch black.

In the back seat, a man sat in the shadows, his eyes fixed on the screen of a tablet. He watched Christi's retreating figure until she disappeared into the rain.