Reborn Heiress: Escaping My Contract Marriage with the Cold CEO
Chapter 34: I’m Married?

Chapter 34: I’m Married?

VANESSA BELMONT

The Maybach peeled away from the hospital, tires screeching. I twisted in my seat—or tried to, before my ribs reminded me that sudden movements were a bad idea. Pain lanced through my side, sharp enough to make me gasp.

"Hold on. What did you just say?" I demanded, my voice strained.

"Do you not know or are you pretending not to know?"

"Pretending," I admitted. "Getting married is not on the agenda, Nate. I want you to break the contract. I don’t want to--"

Wait a minute. In my previous life, I died on my wedding day. But things had changed. Fiona was in the wind, but she couldn’t kill me. Right? Maybe getting married to Nathan was the right thing to do. No wedding. Just another signed piece of paper.

My parents would be thrilled.

Nathan pulled out his phone, tapped a few times, then lifted it to his ear. "Yes. I need the bureau kept open. Half an hour." A pause. His tone dropped dangerously. "No, I don’t care if it’s after hours. Open it."

He hung up without another word.

I gaped at him. "You really want to do this now? We can’t just—hey, let’s get married real quick—after the day we’ve had! Are you insane?"

Nathan looked at me, and saw real fear reflected in his gaze. "You nearly died. Carver got shot. Fiona wants you dead. You think I’m waiting another second for our marriage?"

The intensity in his voice sent a shiver down my spine.

"This was supposed to be a contract marriage," I argued weakly. "Business, right?"

"Wrong." His voice was rough, edged with raw emotion. "I thought I made it clear to you that I want a real relationship. A real marriage. I want you. Only you."

My breath caught. This was so different from my first life. Nathan looking at me like I actually mattered had not been on my Second Life bingo card. He wanted to marry me. Protect me. And... maybe even love me.

"Do you really care about me, Nathan?" I whispered.

"Yes," he said without hesitation. "I like you. Do you still like me?"

I swallowed, my pulse thundering in my ears.

"Sometimes," I said.

"Vanessa."

"Fine. Yes," I admitted, my cheeks burning. "I like you. I have for a long time."

Nathan’s expression softened, just for a second. Then he leaned over the seat, his hand tipping my chin up as his lips descended toward mine—

Malone cleared his throat loudly from the driver’s seat. "Sir. We’re here."

Nathan pulled back, regret in his eyes.

"Way to kill the mood, Malone," I muttered.

The Civil Registration Bureau was not how I imagined my wedding venue. No flowers. No music. Just fluorescent lighting, a bored-looking clerk, and the faint smell of industrial cleaner.

Nathan didn’t let me walk. He carried me inside like I was fragile, precious. He set me on my feet but kept an arm around my waist. I leaned against him. Dare I say I felt happy?

"We’re here to register our marriage," he told the clerk.

"He knows that," I said. "It’s after hours and we’re the only people here."

The clerk slid the paperwork toward us. Nathan signed without hesitation, his signature sharp and decisive. I stared at the pen like it might bite me.

Well, we’re here now, I thought.

So I signed.

The clerk stamped the certificate with a dull thunk. "Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Jang."

Just like that—we were married. Officially. Legally. Done.

The clerk handed us the certificate. Nathan took it, folded it neatly, and tucked it into his inner pocket like it was the most important document in the world.

Then he kissed me. Right there in the middle of the bureau. No warning. No hesitation. Just his mouth on mine—hot, demanding, panty-melting.

Malone cleared his throat.

Nathan pulled away, smirking. "Let’s go."

"Where?"

"Home."

***|***|***|***|***

The Maybach pulled up to Nathan’s penthouse, the city lights glittering around us like scattered diamonds. My ribs still ached, my stitches pulled with every breath, but the pain was dulled by the lingering warmth of Nathan’s kiss.

Malone opened the car door, his expression as impassive as ever. "Security is doubled for the night, sir."

Nathan nodded and scooped me out of the car before I could protest.

"Is this a permanent mode of transportation?" I asked dryly. "At this point, my legs will atrophy from lack of use."

"You’re tired, hurt, and hungry," he said, his voice low. "Let me carry you, Neenie. Rest your head on my shoulder."

I did. His scent—clean, comforting, uniquely Nathan—wrapped around me. He was officially my husband. We were married. And Fiona was nowhere around to kill me.

The elevator ride up was silent. His thumb traced idle circles against my hip, sending little sparks of heat through me.

The penthouse doors opened to dim lighting, the scent of leather and whiskey, and...

Rose petals.

A trail of them, leading straight to the bedroom.

"I had it prepared while we were at the bureau."

He carried me down the hall, kicking the bedroom door open. The room was bathed in soft gold light, the bed turned down, a bottle of champagne chilling beside two glass flutes.

"You’re ridiculous," I muttered, my face burning.

Nathan set me down carefully on the edge of the bed, his hands lingering. "And you’re mine."

The way he said it—like a vow, a warning, a promise—put about a million butterflies in my stomach. His words wrapped around me, possessive and unyielding, and for the first time, I didn’t feel the urge to fight it. Maybe it was the exhaustion, the pain, or the loving way he gazed at me.

Then his phone buzzed.

He ignored it.

It buzzed again.

And again.

I raised an eyebrow. "You should get that."

"It can wait." His voice was rough, his attention still fixed on me like I was the only woman in the world.

"What if it’s important?" I pressed.

Nathan’s grip tightened on me for a fraction of a second before he reluctantly pulled the phone from his pocket. His expression darkened as he scanned the screen, his body going rigid.

I already knew I wasn’t going to like whatever it said.

"It’s Malone, isn’t it?" I asked. "He’s got bad news."

Nathan looked at me. "Who the hell is Gregory Savage?"

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