Chapter 4

We had barely been on the road for ten minutes when my phone buzzed again.

This time, it wasn't Mandy. It was my mom.

"Didn't you take Mandy's place on that blind date today? How did it go?"

I glanced at Sean beside me and typed: "Not bad."

"What does 'not bad' mean? How does he look? What does he do? How's his family?"

I paused for two seconds before typing: "I'll tell you when I get home."

Then I immediately switched my phone to Do Not Disturb.

It wasn't that I wanted to brush my mom off, but how on earth could I explain this over text?

*Hey Mom, I went to reject a guy for a friend, but I ended up marrying him instead. Oh, and by the way, he's becoming the sole heir to a thirty-billion-dollar empire in seventy-two hours.*

Yeah, she’d have me committed to a psych ward.

When Sean pulled up in front of City Hall, it was already 4:30 PM.

I checked the dashboard clock, panic flaring. The clerk's office closed at 5:00.

"Hurry!" I unbuckled my seatbelt and practically leaped out of the car, nearly twisting my ankle in my heels.

Sean followed behind me, his pace measured and unhurried.

He always seemed to operate at his own frequency—steady, composed, as if the sky could collapse and it wouldn't ruffle a single hair on his head.

That kind of poise didn't belong to an average Joe.

Suddenly, I understood why Old Man Harrington thought of his estranged illegitimate son the moment Luke died.

Sean possessed something Luke never had.

That quiet, unshakable certainty of a man holding all the winning cards.

Even though, right now, he didn't hold a single one.

Inside the clerk's office, the woman behind the desk reviewed our forms with a skeptical look.

"So... you two just met?"

"Yes," I answered brightly.

She looked between me and Sean, typing a few keys on her computer. "Have you completed premarital health screenings?"

"No," I replied. "But we're both perfectly healthy."

"Alright. Fill out these forms first."

She slid two sheets toward us. I grabbed a pen and began scribbling.

When I hit the "Marital Status" box, my pen hovered for a split second before I firmly checked "Single."

Beside me, Sean was filling out his own paperwork.

His handwriting was stunning—clean, bold, and disciplined, carrying an elegance that belonged to classical calligraphy rather than rushed chicken scratches.

Bullet comments floated across:

[His handwriting is prettier than my entire existence!]

[The Harrington heir really is built different. Even growing up neglected didn't ruin his class.]

[Old Man Harrington is gonna blow a gasket when he finds out his heir got married without even telling him.]

I finished my paperwork and handed it across the counter.

The clerk reviewed it, then raised her brows at me.

"Ma'am, are you certain your husband's employer is listed as 'Boutique Architectural Firm,' and under real estate assets, it says 'None'?"

"Positive," I answered without hesitation.

Her expression turned even more bewildered.

She was probably thinking I had lost my mind—marrying a guy with no house, no savings, and a beat-up car, yet grinning like I had won the lottery.

What she didn't know was that in three short days, this exact man with "no house, no savings, and no assets" would possess dozens of luxury estates, a private garage of supercars, and controlling shares in a thirty-billion-dollar conglomerate.