Four Weeks And A Baby

Flash Marriage To My Best Friend's Father

Madel Cerda

I was once the heiress to the Solomon empire, but after it crumbled, I became the "charity case" ward of the wealthy Hyde family. For years, I lived in their shadows, clinging to the promise that Anson Hyde would always be my protector. That promise shattered when Anson walked into the ballroom with Claudine Chapman on his arm. Claudine was the girl who had spent years making my life a living hell, and now Anson was announcing their engagement to the world. The humiliation was instant. Guests sneered at my cheap dress, and a waiter intentionally sloshed champagne over me, knowing I was a nobody. Anson didn't even look my way; he was too busy whispering possessively to his new fiancée. I was a ghost in my own home, watching my protector celebrate with my tormentor. The betrayal burned. I realized I wasn't a ward; I was a pawn Anson had kept on a shelf until he found a better trade. I had no money, no allies, and a legal trust fund that Anson controlled with a flick of his wrist. Fleeing to the library, I stumbled into Dallas Koch—a titan of industry and my best friend’s father. He was a wall of cold, absolute power that even the Hydes feared. "Marry me," I blurted out, desperate to find a shield Anson couldn't climb. Dallas didn't laugh. He pulled out a marriage agreement and a heavy fountain pen. "Sign," he commanded, his voice a low rumble. "But if you walk out that door with me, you never go back." I signed my name, trading my life for the only man dangerous enough to keep me safe.

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I'd poured millions into Sophia Evans, transforming a waitress into a chic SoHo gallery owner.

For four years, I funded her life, her mother's life-saving medical treatments, her brother's MIT education.

All because she was the spitting image of Ava, my beloved fiancée, who died seven years ago in a sailing accident I still blame myself for.

Our wedding, a high-society spectacle, was set for the next day.

Then, I overheard the devastating truth: her childhood sweetheart, Jake, had threatened to jump from her gallery balcony if she married me.

And Sophia? She agreed to publicly humiliate me, leaving me stranded at the altar, just to appease his fragile ego.

My carefully constructed world, built on Ava's ghost, imploded.

Later, at a charity gala, Jake crashed the event, screaming I'd stolen her; when I was knocked down in the chaos, Sophia rushed to his side, not mine.

The betrayal was complete; she'd played me, using my grief and my money.

I was done.

I immediately canceled the wedding, cut off every penny, and even aired her deceit to our stunned guests before escaping to Dublin to start fresh.

But months later, after her mother passed away and I learned Jake was still venomously manipulating her, I did something utterly unexpected, something that even shocked myself.

I offered Sophia a job.

In Dublin.

Working directly for me.

Chapter 1

I dropped four years' worth of cash on Sophia Evans.

She wasn't just a waitress with a photography habit-I made her a SoHo gallery owner. Her mom got life-saving treatments, her brother's at MIT, all thanks to me. Why? She was Ava's ghost, my Ava, dead seven years in a sailing accident I caused.

Then, Jake Miller, her old flame from Queens, barges in, sobbing about how I forced her into this gilded cage, threatening to jump if she marries me. Her mom and bro are practically begging her to ditch me for Jake.

I overheard it, a betrayal so sharp it stole my breath away. She agrees to humiliate me at the altar, all to appease Jake's fragile ego. They played me.

My world, built on a dead woman's memory, shattered. I'm done. I'm canceling the wedding, moving to Dublin, starting over.

But, days later, I see her with Jake, laughing, buying him an expensive watch with my credit card.

The Children's Hope Gala becomes a disaster when Jake crashes it, screaming about how I stole her. In the chaos, I hit my head, and she rushes to him.

That's it. Over.

Now, my mom calls. "End it, Ethan."

So, I tell her the wedding's off.

"Go to him," I said.

I'm shipping her everything to her gallery, tonight. Marc will oversee the moving, and everything is being shut down. No more free ride. What could be worse than that?

Then, I'll go get a drink...

Four years.

Four years I'd poured money into Sophia Evans.

It started when she was a waitress, a photography student at NYU.

Now, her mother, Carol, was alive, thanks to treatments I funded for a rare disease.

Her brother, Leo, was at MIT, studying engineering, on my dime.

Sophia herself? She had a gallery in SoHo. Successful.

All because she looked like Ava.

Ava Monroe, my Ava, dead seven years.

A sailing accident. A storm. I was at the helm.

The guilt never left. Sophia was a balm, a ghost I could almost touch.

The wedding was tomorrow.