24/04/2026
Title : Flash Marriage To My Best Friend's Father
Full story link : https://eng.moboreader.com/1A8Sij/719125
Blurb: 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.
Chapte 1
The crystal flute in Eliza Solomon's hand was going to shatter.
She could feel the hairline fractures in the glass pressing against her palm, a perfect mirror of the way her chest felt—tight, brittle, and one breath away from exploding.
"He looks happy, doesn't he?"
The voice came from her left. A socialite in emerald silk, someone Eliza used to know before the Solomon empire crumbled, before she became the pitiful ward of the Hyde family. They weren't just her guardians; they were the iron-fisted trustees of the Solomon estate, a vast fortune she couldn't touch until she turned twenty-five, or married. Anson, as the primary trustee, controlled every dollar.
Eliza didn't answer. She couldn't. Her throat had closed up somewhere between the appetizer course and the moment Anson Hyde walked into the ballroom with Claudine Chapman on his arm.
Anson looked more than happy. He looked victorious.
He stood in the center of the room, under the massive chandelier that cost more than Eliza's entire college tuition. His hand rested on the small of Claudine's back, his fingers splayed possessively against the white fabric of her dress. He leaned down, whispering something into her ear that made Claudine throw her head back and laugh.
The sound was sharp. It cut through the heavy orchestral music and lodged itself directly behind Eliza's ribs.
It was the same laugh Claudine used when she made fun of Eliza's second-hand shoes.
"Excuse me," a waiter muttered, bumping into Eliza's shoulder with a heavy tray.
Champagne sloshed over the rim of her glass, soaking into the bodice of her grey dress. It was cold and sticky.
The waiter didn't apologize. He glanced at her, recognized her as the charity case, and curled his lip in a sneer before moving on to serve the guests who actually mattered.
Eliza's stomach cramped. The humiliation was a physical weight, pressing down on her shoulders until her knees felt weak. She needed air. She needed to not be here, watching the boy who held the keys to her gilded cage announce his engagement to the girl who had made that cage a living hell. The promise to "protect her" had always been a lie. It was a promise to possess her.
She turned and walked toward the library, keeping her head down.
The library was dark, smelling of old paper and lemon polish. It was the only room in the Hyde estate where Eliza had ever felt safe. She closed the heavy oak door behind her and leaned her forehead against the wood, gasping for air. Her lungs burned.
The door handle turned under her grip.
Eliza jumped back, wiping frantically at her eyes. She expected Anson. She expected him to come in here and tell her to stop making a scene, to smile for the cameras, to be grateful for the roof over her head.
But the figure that filled the doorway wasn't Anson.
It was a wall of a man in a black tuxedo that seemed to absorb the dim light of the room. He was taller than Anson, broader, with a stillness about him that made the air in the library drop ten degrees.
Dallas Koch.
Eliza's breath hitched. Why was he here? The CEO of Koch Industries, the most powerful man in the city, didn't hide in libraries. He didn't even look at people like Eliza.
He stood there, his hand still on the brass k**b, his dark eyes scanning her face. He took in the champagne stain on her dress, the red blotches on her cheeks, the way her hands were shaking so hard the crystal flute was rattling.
For a second, the stoic mask he wore—the one that made him look like a statue carved from granite—cracked. A muscle in his jaw ticked.
He stepped inside and closed the door, sealing out the noise of the party.
He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. It was white silk, folded into a perfect square. He held it out to her without a word.
Eliza stared at it. "I... I'm fine."
"You are not fine," Dallas said. His voice was a low rumble, vibrating in the quiet room. "Take it."
Eliza reached out. Her fingers brushed against his palm as she took the silk. A jolt of static electricity snapped between them, sharp and surprising. She flinched, but he didn't move.
The handkerchief smelled of sandalwood and something clean, like rain on pavement. It smelled expensive. It smelled like stability.
From the hallway, Anson's voice drifted through the thick wood of the door. He was making a toast.
"...to my beautiful fiancée, Claudine..."
The words were like a physical blow to the back of Eliza's knees. Her legs gave out.
She didn't hit the floor.
Dallas moved with a speed that shouldn't have been possible for a man of his size. One moment he was standing three feet away, and the next, his arm was around her waist, catching her.
His grip was firm. Solid. He held her up effortlessly, his arm like a steel bar against her spine.
Eliza looked up. Her vision was swimming with tears, blurring his features, but she could see the intensity in his eyes. He wasn't looking at her with pity. He was looking at her with a terrifying kind of focus.
"Take me away," she whispered.
The words fell out of her mouth before she could stop them. It was a desperate plea, born of heartbreak and the sudden, overwhelming instinct that this man was the only thing in the room that wasn't trying to crush her.
Dallas went still. His eyes darkened, shifting from brown to something nearly black. He looked down at her, assessing the weight of her request, calculating the cost.
"There is no turning back if we leave, Eliza," he warned. His voice was low, rough around the edges. "If you walk out that door with me, you do not come back to this house."
Eliza nodded frantically. The tears were spilling over now, hot tracks on her cold skin. "Please. Just get me out."
Dallas didn't hesitate. He shifted his grip, guiding her toward the servants' exit hidden behind a tapestry. He moved his body to shield her from the security cameras, blocking her from view with his broad shoulders.
The night air outside was biting. A sleek, matte black Maybach was idling at the curb, looking like a predator waiting in the shadows.
Dallas opened the heavy door and helped her in. The interior smelled of leather and isolation. He slammed the door shut, and the silence was absolute. The music, the laughter, Anson's voice—it was all gone.
Eliza slumped against the seat. There was a crystal decanter in the center console. She didn't think. She just poured amber liquid into a glass and drank it in one gulp.
It burned. It burned all the way down to her empty stomach, setting her blood on fire.
Dallas got into the driver's seat. He didn't look at her. He gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white.
"Where are we going?" she asked, her voice slurring slightly as the alcohol hit her system with the force of a truck.
"My place," Dallas said.
The car moved. The city lights blurred into streaks of neon. Eliza felt dizzy, unmoored. The alcohol was mixing with the adrenaline and the grief, creating a toxic cocktail in her brain.
She looked at Dallas's profile. He was Azalea's dad. He was old money. He was power.
"I need a shield," she mumbled, the words tumbling out. "I need a wall he can't climb."
Dallas glanced at her in the rearview mirror. His expression was unreadable.
They arrived at a building that pierced the skyline. The elevator ride was a blur of motion sickness. When the doors opened into the penthouse, Eliza stumbled.
Dallas was there again, steadying her. His hands on her arms felt hot through the thin fabric of her dress.
She looked up at him. In the harsh lighting of the foyer, he didn't look like a savior. He looked dangerous.
"Marry me," she blurted out.
The silence that followed was deafening.
It was the alcohol talking, yes, but it was also a desperate, calculated gambit. Marrying Anson was a life sentence. But marrying anyone else... that was the loophole in her father's will. It was her only escape clause. It was the survival instinct of a wounded animal trying to find the one predator in the forest who could kill the wolf at her throat.
Dallas froze. The air in the penthouse turned electric, charged with a tension that made the hair on Eliza's arms stand up.
He didn't laugh. He didn't tell her she was drunk.
He walked to a wall safe hidden behind a painting. He punched in a code, the beeps loud in the quiet room. He pulled out a document and a heavy fountain pen.
He walked back to her and placed the paper on the marble console table.
"Sign," he commanded. His voice was soft, but it carried the weight of a gavel striking a sounding block.
Eliza blinked, trying to focus on the paper. The words swam. She saw "Marriage" and "Agreement."
She didn't care about the details. She just wanted Anson to know she was gone. She wanted to burn the bridge so thoroughly she could never cross it again.
She grabbed the pen. Her signature was messy, a jagged scrawl across the bottom line.
"Done," she whispered.
The pen slipped from her fingers and clattered onto the marble. The room tilted sideways.
The last thing she felt was Dallas catching her again, lifting her into his arms as the blackness swallowed her whole.
Chapter 2
The light was aggressive.
It sliced through the floor-to-ceiling windows, hitting Eliza squarely in the face. She groaned, rolling over and reaching blindly for the glass of water that usually sat on her nightstand.
Her hand hit nothing but air.
She cracked one eye open. The ceiling was too high. The crown molding was too intricate. And the sheets... these weren't her scratchy, polyester sheets. This was cotton so smooth it felt like water against her skin.
Memory slammed into her like a physical blow.
The party. The champagne. Dallas.
Eliza sat up so fast her head spun. The room tilted, her brain throbbing against her skull in a rhythmic, painful beat. She looked down.
She was wearing an oversized men's silk pajama top that swallowed her frame. The fabric was impossibly soft against her skin, and it smelled faintly of sandalwood—his scent.
Panic, cold and sharp, flooded her chest. She grabbed the massive duvet and pulled it up to her chin, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Her own dress, the cheap grey one, was nowhere to be seen.
She scanned the room. It was minimalist, masculine, and expensive. Dark wood, grey accents, no clutter.
On the bedside table, a stack of clothes was folded with military precision.
Sitting on top of the clothes was a piece of heavy cardstock and a black credit card.
Eliza reached out with a trembling hand. The card was heavy—metal, not plastic. A Centurion card. It was a blank, supplementary card, bearing only the platinum insignia of the bank.
She dropped it like it was hot coal.
She picked up the note. The handwriting was sharp, angular.
Hydrate. The code is your birthday. —D.
Flashbacks assaulted her. The car ride. The demand for a shield. The paper on the marble table.
Sign.
She gasped, pressing her hands to her mouth. She had proposed to her best friend's father. And he had said yes.
She grabbed her phone from the nightstand. The screen lit up with a barrage of notifications.
52 missed calls from Anson Hyde.
30 texts from Anson Hyde.
12 voicemails.
Then, a single text from a number she didn't have saved, but recognized instantly.
Lawyers are filing. You are safe. Go to school.
Dallas.
Eliza stared at her left hand. There was a ring there. It was a simple platinum band, elegant and understated, but it felt heavier than a shackle.
She scrambled out of bed, her legs wobbly. She grabbed the clothes. A soft cashmere sweater, dark jeans, fresh underwear. She pulled them on. They fit.
They fit perfectly.
She paused, the sweater halfway over her head. How? How did he have clothes in her exact size ready? The thought sent a shiver down her spine, but she pushed it away. She couldn't deal with that right now.
She needed to leave.
She grabbed her bag and the black card—shoving it deep into her pocket—and fled the room.
The penthouse was silent. A housekeeper was dusting in the hallway, a stout woman with grey hair.
"Good morning, Mrs.—"
Eliza didn't let her finish. She bolted for the elevator, jabbing the button, half-expecting it not to work. To her surprise, a green light blinked and the doors slid shut. He had already given her access.
Her phone buzzed in her hand. It was Azalea.
Library. Now. Emergency.
Eliza's stomach dropped. Did she know?
She hailed a cab outside the building, her hands shaking so bad she could barely open the door. The ride to the university took twenty minutes, but it felt like twenty seconds.
She ran through the campus quad, ignoring the stares of students who probably saw the photos of her fleeing the party last night.
She found Azalea pacing behind the reference section in the library. Azalea looked manic, her blonde hair messy, phone clutched in her hand.
"Eliza!" Azalea grabbed her arm and dragged her further into the stacks. "My dad just transferred a crazy amount of money to my account."
Eliza froze. "What?"
"Like, 'buy a small island' money," Azalea whispered, eyes wide. "He said to take you shopping. Why is he spoiling you?"
Azalea looked suspicious. Her eyes narrowed, scanning Eliza's face.
Eliza's mouth went dry. "I... I helped him with a project. Some translation work."
It was a weak lie. Eliza was an art history major, not a translator. Azalea nodded slowly, though a flicker of doubt crossed her mind. Translation work? For her father, who had an entire in-house team of linguists? It felt thin, but Eliza looked so fragile, Azalea decided not to press. For now.
"Whatever. We have orders. Come outside."
Azalea marched her out of the library toward the student parking lot.
"He said your car is a death trap," Azalea said over her shoulder. "Which, to be fair, it is. The brakes sound like dying cats. So I took the liberty of having it towed to a junkyard this morning. You're welcome."
They reached the lot. A flatbed truck was idling there, its empty bed a testament to Azalea's efficiency. Parked in her old spot was a silver Aston Martin. It gleamed under the sun, looking alien among the dented Civics and Toyotas.
The driver hopped out and walked over to Azalea. He handed her a key fob.
Azalea tossed it to Eliza.
"He said this is the replacement."
Eliza caught the keys. The fob was heavy, leather and chrome. She looked at the car. It was worth more than the house she grew up in.
"I can't take this," Eliza whispered.
"You have to," Azalea said, crossing her arms. "You know how he is. If you send it back, he'll just send two."
Students were stopping. Phones were coming out. Whispers rippled through the air.
"Is that Eliza Solomon? Who bought her that?"
Eliza's phone buzzed again. Anson.
She declined the call, her thumb hitting the red button with aggressive force.
She walked to the car and pressed the unlock button. The mirrors unfolded. The lights flashed.
"Get in, Mrs. Koch," Azalea joked, nudging her ribs.
Eliza flinched. The title hit too close to home.
She slid into the driver's seat. The smell of new leather enveloped her. It smelled just like the Maybach. It smelled like Dallas.
She gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles white. She had signed a contract with the devil, and now she was driving his chariot.
Chapter 3
The coffee shop on campus was loud, a chaotic mix of espresso machines hissing and students complaining about midterms.
Eliza sat in the corner booth, clutching a latte like a lifeline. The caffeine was making her hands shake worse, but she needed it to combat the fog in her brain.
Azalea was sitting opposite her, scrolling through Instagram with a grimace.
"Everybody is talking about how you vanished," Azalea said, not looking up. "Claudine is posting passive-aggressive quotes about 'loyalty' and 'trash taking itself out.'"
Eliza flinched. A drop of foam spilled onto her thumb. "Let her talk."
"Oh, I am," Azalea said darkly. "I'm commenting with vomit emojis on every single post."
Eliza reached for a napkin to wipe her hand. As she moved, the cashmere scarf she was wearing slipped slightly to the side.
Azalea gasped.
The sound was so loud that two people at the next table turned around. Azalea dropped her phone onto the table with a clatter.
"Eliza! What is that on your neck?"
Eliza's hand flew to her throat. She felt the tender spot just below her ear. A dark, purplish bruise against her pale skin.
She had seen it in the mirror this morning and had been trying not to think about it. The memory of the night was hazy, obscured by alcohol. She remembered stumbling. She remembered Dallas catching her. Had he held her too tightly? Or was it... something else? She couldn't be sure, and the uncertainty was terrifying.
"It's nothing," Eliza stammered, pulling the scarf tighter. "The car door hit me on the way out this morning."
"Bu****it," Azalea hissed, leaning over the table. Her eyes were wide, predatory. "That's not a door, that's a hickey. A world-class, possessive, 'stay away from her' hickey. Who is he?"
Eliza's heart hammered against her ribs. She couldn't say Your Dad. She absolutely could not say that.
"It's... complicated," Eliza said, looking down at her cup. "An older guy."
Azalea's eyebrows shot up. "Older? Like... Anson's age?"
"Older," Eliza whispered.
Azalea opened her mouth to scream, but her phone cut her off. It began to ring, vibrating violently against the wooden table.
The Caller ID flashed: The Bank.
That was her contact name for Dallas.
Azalea answered immediately, her posture straightening instinctively. "Yes, Daddy?"
Eliza held her breath. She could hear the deep rumble of Dallas's voice on the other end, though she couldn't make out the words. The sound alone made the hair on her arms stand up.
Azalea frowned. "Right now? But we have class in an hour."
She listened for another few seconds, then sighed. "Okay. Fine. We're coming."
She hung up and looked at Eliza, confused.
"He wants us at the flagship store downtown."
Eliza's stomach dropped. "Both of us?"
"Yeah. He says you need 'appropriate attire' for a dinner tonight."
"Dinner?" Eliza squeaked.
"Apparently." Azalea gathered her bag. "Come on. You don't keep The Bank waiting."
They walked back to the parking lot. The silver Aston Martin was gleaming in the sun, drawing stares from a group of fraternity guys.
Eliza unlocked the car. She slid into the driver's seat, the leather molding to her body. She pushed the start button, and the engine roared to life, a guttural growl that vibrated through the floorboards.
"You'll get used to the high life, eventually," Azalea laughed, buckling her seatbelt.
Eliza pulled out of the lot, merging onto the main road toward the city. The skyline loomed ahead, glass towers reflecting the afternoon sun.
She glanced at her reflection in the rearview mirror. She adjusted the scarf again, ensuring the mark was covered.
Whether it was a bruise or... something else, Dallas had left a mark on her. And he had done it in a place that was hard to hide.
It felt like a brand.
Suddenly, the dashboard screen lit up. Eliza had paired her phone to the car's Bluetooth earlier.
A text message notification popped up on the center console, huge and undeniable.
Sender: Anson Hyde
Message: Stop playing games. Come home. You belong here.
Azalea saw it. She let out a low whistle.
"He's obsessed," Azalea said, shaking her head. "It's actually creepy. Good thing you have a new 'older man' to distract you."
Eliza gripped the steering wheel tighter. "Yeah. Good thing."
She drove faster, putting distance between herself and the university, between herself and Anson. But she was driving straight toward the man who had put a ring on her finger and a mark on her neck.
And she had no idea what his game was.
Full story link: https://eng.moboreader.com/1A8Sij/719125
