The billionaire i Married by mistake

October in London was brutal.

It wasn't just the rain hammering against the windows of the small two-bedroom flat in Croydon. It was the coldness inside the house that was worse. Elise Carter had been awake since five, even though her little flower and bookshop, "The Petal Pages," in Notting Hill didn't open until nine.

She had made breakfast — scrambled eggs, toast, baked beans for her six-year-old niece Ava. She had packed lunch for her sister Sophie, who worked as a nurse and was already exhausted from night shifts. She cleaned the tiny kitchen and, as she did on the tenth of every month, she placed a white envelope on the fridge. Inside was £2,000.

It was almost everything she made after paying her shop rent and suppliers.

Elise was zipping her old backpack, ready to slip out quietly before anyone woke up, when she heard voices from the living room. Her brother-in-law, Mark.

"Sophie, I'm being serious. We have to start going Dutch. Completely Dutch. Rent, council tax, electric, groceries, everything! I'm not trying to be a villain here, but your sister has been here for eight months. That two thousand pounds she leaves doesn't even touch the sides with how expensive everything is now."

"Mark, lower your voice, she'll hear you," Sophie whispered.

"Let her hear! It's the truth! She's 26, Sophie. She needs to get her own life, get a boyfriend, get married, whatever. She can't just keep mooching off us forever. We have a child to raise."

Mooching.

The word didn't just hurt. It shattered something in Elise's chest.

She wasn't mooching. She was working fourteen hours a day. She was paying. She was trying. But she knew Mark was also struggling with the mortgage rates. And she knew Sophie was caught in the middle.

Tears burned her eyes. She couldn't stay here one more night. But she also knew her sister. If Elise said she was moving into a cheap bedsit alone in London, Sophie would cry and refuse and say the streets weren't safe.

There was only one way to make Sophie feel at peace. If she left as a married woman.

Her hands were shaking as she pulled out her phone. There was only one person she could call.

Three months ago, a very elegant old lady with silver hair had collapsed right in front of Elise's shop during a heatwave. Elise had rushed her inside, given her water, called a doctor, and refused to take any money. The lady, who introduced herself as Rose Blackwood, had been coming every single day since then for tea and scones.

Last week, over Earl Grey tea, Rose had held Elise's hands and said, "My darling, my eldest grandson is 31. He's tall, he's handsome like a sin, and he's richer than the King. But his heart is frozen. No girl can stand his cold face for more than a day. My biggest wish before I die is to see him married to a kind girl like you. Would you... would you consider it? I have a big empty apartment in Kensington doing nothing."

Elise had laughed it off then.

Now she dialed the number with a racing heart.

"Grandma Rose? It's Elise... about your grandson... is that offer still standing?"

Twenty-five minutes later, Elise arrived at the Chelsea Old Town Hall Registry Office, soaking wet despite her small umbrella. Her cheap brown dress clung to her, but she clutched her birth certificate tightly.

"Elise! My love!" Grandma Rose was there, waiting under a large black umbrella held by a driver. She looked like she stepped out of Vogue for seniors. And beside her...

Elise forgot how to breathe.

The man beside her was not what she expected at all. She expected a chubby, awkward 31-year-old who couldn't get a date. This man was a god.

He was at least 6'3, with broad shoulders, a chiseled jaw, and piercing grey eyes that looked like a winter storm. He wore a simple black shirt and tailored trousers, but it looked like a million pounds on him. His expression was pure ice. He looked at the registry office like it was a waste of his precious time. He radiated a "do not approach me" energy that made people step aside.

So this was the grandson no woman could stand.

"Elise, this is my grandson, Ethan," Rose said proudly. "Ethan Blackwood. Ethan, this is Elise."

Ethan Blackwood's eyes swept over her once. Not in a creepy way, but in a cold, assessing way. He took in her wet shoes, her nervous hands, her honest face.

"Let's make this quick," he said, his voice deep and low and unbelievably attractive. "I'm busy."

Elise blushed furiously. "Hello... Mr. Blackwood. I'm Elise Carter."

She held out her hand. He looked at it for a second before his large, warm hand engulfed hers. His handshake was firm and brief.

"Grandma, you should sit in the car. It's raining," Ethan said to Rose, his tone softening just a fraction for his grandmother. He personally opened the car door of a plain black Volkswagen parked nearby — not a luxury car at all — and helped her in.

Elise noticed that. He might be cold, but he was a good grandson. That counted for a lot.

"Shall we?" he said to Elise.

Inside, the registry office was warm. The registrar officer smiled at them.

Before they signed, Ethan pulled Elise slightly aside.

"Listen, Ms. Carter. I will be blunt. I am only doing this because my grandmother has a heart condition and her only wish is to see me married before her surgery next month. This is a marriage of convenience. I am very busy. I run a small business and I travel a lot. You will not see me often. I want to keep this marriage private. No social media. No telling your friends I'm your husband. In return, you can live in my flat in Kensington — it's fully paid for, close to your shop. I will cover all household costs. Are we clear? If you want romance and dates, walk away now."

It was harsh. But it was honest. And right now, honesty was what Elise needed.

She lifted her chin. "I understand perfectly, Mr. Blackwood. I'm also doing this for convenience. I need to move out of my sister's place so she can have peace. I don't need romance. I just need a place to stay and for my sister to know I'm safe. I will pay my own way and I won't disturb you."

Something flickered in Ethan's cold eyes. Surprise, maybe.

"Good," he said.

The process took less than fifteen minutes. Two signatures, two stamps, one photo that neither of them smiled in.

They walked out as Mr. and Mrs. Blackwood.

Ethan reached into his pocket and handed her a set of keys and a matte black bank card.

"Kensington High Street, Apartment 12B, The Kensington Palace Gardens. Code is 8808. The flat is furnished. My housekeeper comes twice a week. The card is for you. Use it for anything you need."

Elise stared at the keys. Kensington Palace Gardens? That was the most expensive street in London. The houses there cost fifty million pounds. He must mean a flat near there.

"Mr. Blackwood, I have an e-bike, I don't need a car... and about the bills, shouldn't we split them?"

Ethan frowned, as if the idea offended him. "I can provide for my own wife. I don't need my wife to split bills with me. Keep your money."

Elise's heart skipped a beat at the word "my wife."

"I need to go. I have a board meeting. Take a cab home. I'll reimburse you," he said, already looking at his phone.

"I'm fine, I can take the bus," Elise said quickly.

Ethan sighed, pulled out two crisp £50 notes, and pressed them into her palm. His fingers were warm. "Take a cab. It's raining."

Before she could refuse, he was already walking away, back into the rain, getting into that plain black Volkswagen.

Elise stood there holding the marriage certificate, the keys to a Kensington flat, and £100. She had just married a stranger.

What she didn't see was that the plain black Volkswagen only drove for two minutes to the end of the street, where a convoy of three black Rolls-Royce Phantoms and ten bodyguards in suits were waiting.

A man in a suit bowed and opened the door of the middle Rolls-Royce.

"Chairman Blackwood, the board meeting in Canary Wharf has been waiting for an hour. The investors from Dubai are on hold."

Ethan Blackwood, the cold stranger who just married her, took off his plain shirt to reveal a bespoke £10,000 Tom Ford suit underneath. He was not a small business owner.

He was Ethan Blackwood, CEO of Blackwood Group, the youngest billionaire in the UK, worth over £98 billion. And the most powerful man in London.

As the Rolls-Royce sped off, he muttered to his assistant, "Find out everything about Elise Carter. And send someone to make sure she gets home safe."