The 90 Day Husband

I woke up in Vegas with a bruise on my jaw, a gold band on my finger, and a stranger in my shirt.

Three point two million people had already watched us say "I do" on Mr. and Mrs. Right Now.

A livestream wedding stunt. Twitch and YouTube. My face on every feed in America.

I was supposed to announce my engagement to another woman on Monday.

A forty-year merger. My father’s dying wish. A twenty-carat diamond waiting in a vault.

Instead, I married a food-truck cook from Nashville.

The solution was simple. Stay married for 90 days. Sell it as love. Walk away clean.

Then she showed me the text on her phone.

Her ex had been hunting her for eighteen months.

And the same drunken video that ruined my engagement just told him exactly where she was.

She wanted papers, a new name, and a one-way ticket to Portland.

I gave her my name, my house, and three men with guns at every door.

But somewhere between the contract and the kitchen, the fake started feeling real.

The way she laughs. The way she looks at me.

90 days was supposed to be the deal.

90 days is nowhere near enough.

She’s mine now.

And the man who’s after her is about to learn what a Russian billionaire does when someone touches what’s his.