My Father Sold Me To A Billionaire — So I Married A Disgraced Spy Instead
Part 1
The afternoon of April fourteenth was violently dismal in Washington D.C.
A relentless, freezing rain battered the tall glass windows of my father’s Georgetown townhouse.
The weather perfectly mirrored my utterly foul mood.
I paced the length of the Persian rug in the library.
The heavy silk of my emerald dress rustled furiously with every sharp turn I took.
Seated by the roaring hearth was my friend Brenda.
She meticulously scrolled through her phone, offering me entirely unhelpful platitudes.
You cannot avoid him forever, Megan.
Brenda did not even look up from her screen as she spoke.
Craig Miller is perfectly respectable.
He has a massive estate in Silicon Valley, billions of dollars, and immense political influence.
Your father has all but signed the settlement papers.
I scoffed, a sound highly unbefitting a Senator’s daughter.
Craig Miller is fifty years old, Brenda.
He smells distinctly of boiled cabbage and damp wool.
His only passion in life is categorizing his massive collection of vintage taxidermy.
If I am forced to spend the next forty years listening to him wheeze through dinner, I shall throw myself into the Potomac.
Be dramatic if you must, but your father will not tolerate another refusal.
Brenda set her phone down on the mahogany side table.
You have already dismissed three eligible suitors this season.
The Majority Leader himself commented on your stubbornness at the Capitol gala last week.
You are running out of time and completely out of options.
The heavy oak doors of the library remained firmly shut.
They separated us from the bustling household staff in the corridor.
I threw my hands up in exasperated defeat.
My dark eyes flashed with rebellious fire.
The pressure was a physical weight crushing my chest.
My father’s ultimatums had become daily occurrences.
They were backed by the very real threat of cutting off my trust fund entirely.
He would exile me from the family if I did not perform my political duty.
Options!
I cried out, my voice echoing off the high plastered ceilings.
I have absolutely no options.
I am treated as a mere bargaining chip.
I am paraded about for men who only care about the political influence my father wields in the Senate.
I am so utterly sick of the pretense.
I would honestly prefer a total stranger.
In fact, I am so desperate to escape the miserable clutches of Craig Miller.
I threw my arms wide in a theatrical gesture of absolute surrender.
I swear upon my life I will marry the very first man who enters this room.
Brenda laughed a light, tinkling sound.
Be careful what you wish for, Megan.
The head butler was just polishing the silver in the hall.
You might find yourself legally bound to a member of the catering staff.
At least he has a full head of hair and decent teeth.
I countered, a defiant and reckless smile playing on my lips.
I stand firmly by my vow.
The first man to cross that threshold shall have my hand in marriage.
It cannot possibly be worse than the fate my father has meticulously engineered.
As if summoned by the very audacity of my words, the heavy brass handle began to turn.
I froze instantly, the smile dying rapidly on my lips.
Brenda gasped, her phone slipping from her lap to the floor.
The heavy oak door swung inward with a slow, agonizing creak.
I braced myself, expecting the familiar uniform of my father’s staff.
Perhaps the Senator himself was coming to deliver another harsh lecture.
Instead, a towering silhouette completely filled the doorway.
The man who stepped over the threshold was certainly not a servant.
He was soaking wet.
A heavy dark trench coat draped over his broad shoulders.
It dripped rainwater onto the pristine hardwood floors.
He pulled off his drenched leather gloves with a slow, deliberate motion.
His sheer presence instantly suffocated the vast room.
It was Dan Reynolds.
I felt all the blood rapidly drain from my face.
Brenda let out a soft, strangled squeak of sheer terror.
Dan Reynolds was not merely a wealthy contractor.
He was a walking, breathing scandal.
A veteran of brutal covert operations, he bore a faint, wicked scar along his sharp jawline.
It was a souvenir from a classified mission gone horribly wrong.
But it was not his military past that made D.C. elites tremble.
It was his lethal reputation.
He was a man rumored to have ruined three powerful careers, openly mocking the rigid moral codes of Washington.
He was currently under federal investigation for allegedly funneling intelligence to foreign adversaries.
He was lethally handsome, immensely powerful, and utterly ruthless.
He stood there for a long moment.
The sharp scent of rain and rich coffee preceded him.
His piercing, icy blue eyes locked onto me.
I was standing completely paralyzed in the center of the room.
My hand was still frozen in midair from my theatrical declaration.
The silence stretched taut and fragile as a bowstring.
I stared at the most dangerous man in Washington, realizing my joke had just sealed my fate.
