Married To The Undercover Billionaire Boss

To escape my sister-in-law selling me off to a local thug, I married a complete stranger I met at City Hall.

My new husband, Drake, claimed to be a broke Uber driver who could barely make rent.

He even made me sign a brutal ten-page prenup just to ensure I wouldn't take his rusted, beat-up Ford sedan if we ever divorced.

I thought I was just sharing a decaying Brooklyn apartment with a struggling man at the bottom of the ladder.

But things quickly stopped making sense.

When that local thug cornered me at a restaurant, my "weak" husband didn't cower.

Instead, he dismantled three massive mobsters in ten seconds with the terrifying, fluid speed of an apex predator.

"I used to be a human punching bag in an underground boxing gym to pay off debts."

I believed his excuse, until his supposedly homeless grandfather showed up at our door in a moth-eaten sweater, begging to sleep on our lumpy sofa.

Before going to sleep, the old man casually pressed a heavy, intricately engraved pocket watch into my hand as a wedding gift.

He claimed it was a cheap flea market find that didn't even keep time.

But the sheer weight of the solid rose gold and the flawless mechanical gears inside screamed otherwise.

Why did a destitute driver have the aura of a man who controlled empires?

And what kind of homeless old man casually hands over a priceless, museum-grade antique?

I had no idea the "broke driver" sleeping on my floor was actually a ruthless billionaire CEO, and I had just walked straight into his trap.