Upper East Side, Manhattan — Whitmore Mansion
The Whitmore estate in Upper East Side Manhattan stood as a fortress of prestige and old money. A sprawling limestone mansion with towering pillars and wrought-iron gates, it sat like royalty among lesser nobles. Inside, rich mahogany walls, gold-trimmed furniture, and velvet drapes spoke of generational wealth. But the atmosphere today was anything but elegant.
"Are you seriously messing with me right now?!" Lawrence Whitmore thundered, eyes blazing. "I told you to follow her every move and report anything stupid. What, is your brain parked somewhere near your ass?!"
He landed a stinging slap across the face of the man standing before him.
"You waited until she brought a beggar into the house? And now—now—you tell me she married him?! Are you completely useless?!"
"I thought she just took him home for a bit of fun, sir," the man stammered, rubbing his cheek. "Didn't want to alert you over something that might've been… harmless. For her reputation, sir. I only realized it was serious when they went to the marriage registry."
"Wait, wait—what did you just say?" Clara Whitmore, Sarah's half-sister, blinked in disbelief. "You mean Sarah—our high and mighty socialite—married a beggar off the street?"
She burst out laughing. "Oh my God. This is priceless."
"Do you find this amusing?!" Mrs. Whitmore snapped, eyes narrowing. "You think this is a joke? Do you even understand the gravity of this situation?"
"Exactly," Lawrence growled. "Mr. Ashford was going to bail out the company in exchange for marrying Sarah. Now that she's married, do you think he's still going to help us?"
"Mom…" Clara began.
"What, Clara? You going to marry Mr. Ashford now?"
"Mom, how could you even suggest that? I have a fiancé!" Clara protested, face wrinkled in disgust. "Even if I didn't, there's no way I'd marry that old man with yellow teeth."
"Enough! Both of you!" Lawrence shouted, pacing the room like a caged lion. "I knew she'd react badly when I asked her to marry Ashford, but this? This is sheer madness!"
"She's just like her mother," he muttered, clutching his chest. "Ungrateful… reckless…"
"Dad, please—calm down," Clara said, rushing to his side. "You'll trigger your heart again."
"Let me be," he groaned, lowering himself onto the couch. "Let me die in peace. I can't bear to watch this company fall under my watch. My ancestors built this from the ground up—and now it's all crumbling."
"Don't say that, darling," Mrs. Whitmore said softly, grabbing her phone. "Let me call her."
She dialed Sarah's number—but it went straight to voicemail.
"She switched off her phone," she hissed.
"So what now, Mom?" Clara asked, finally looking a bit serious.
"Don't worry," Mrs. Whitmore said coldly. "She married a beggar. That's easy to fix. We'll pay him off—make him leave. Quiet and clean."
"Yes, Daddy," Clara nodded. "Don't stress. We'll handle this. He'll be gone before Mr. Ashford even hears a whisper."
"You," Lawrence barked at the man still standing nearby. "Go. Bring that beggar here. Now."
"Yes, sir," the man answered quickly and rushed out.
As the door clicked shut, the family huddled closer.
"This can't leak to anyone," Mrs. Whitmore said firmly. "We'll offer him enough money to walk away without questions. He'll sign the divorce papers, and it'll be like it never happened."
"And if Sarah refuses?" Clara asked.
"She won't," her mother answered. "She may be stubborn, but she won't risk her lifestyle. Not when we threaten to cut her off completely."
Clara smirked. "This little fairytale of hers? It ends today."
Lawrence leaned back, silent and heavy with rage, while the Whitmore women plotted in whispers.
*****
By the time Sarah and Mark returned home, it was already 1:45 p.m. Sarah parked the car neatly in the garage, and the two of them walked inside. The house was quiet, sunlight pouring through the windows and painting golden patches on the marble floors.
They settled on the couches in the living room. Sarah crossed her legs, resting her elbow on the armrest and turning toward Mark.
"So… where do we start?" she asked, initiating the conversation.
Mark looked at her calmly. "You asked for my help to marry you," he said. "So what's my role now?"
Sarah blinked, momentarily stunned. So, to him… it was just helping her?
"Oh," she mumbled. Then collected herself. "Yes. Right."
She exhaled slowly, her voice softening as she began to explain. "My father, Lawrence Whitmore—he wanted me to marry an old man. Mr. Ashford. Twice my age, yellow teeth, reeks of cigar smoke and arrogance." Her voice trembled with bitterness. "Ashford promised to give my father a large sum of money. Enough to save his failing company. But in return, he wanted me as the price."
Mark listened quietly, his expression unreadable.
"I've spent my whole life doing what my father told me. Attending the right parties. Dressing the way he wanted. Smiling when I wanted to scream. I thought if I did everything right, maybe… he'd finally see me as enough." She scoffed. "But this time? This time he went too far. He was ready to sell me off—to save his precious company. As if I'm just… another one of his assets."
There was a long pause. The silence between them was thick.
So that was it, Mark thought. That's why she'd been out drunk last night, asking strangers to marry her. It wasn't just impulsive—it was rebellion. A cry for freedom.
"I'm sorry," Mark said softly.
"Thank you," Sarah replied, her lips curving into a small, grateful smile.
Wanting to shift the mood, Mark stretched and said with light cheer, "So… what are we having for lunch?"
Sarah chuckled. "Honestly, I don't know."
"Alright then," he grinned. "Let's check the fridge and see what we've got."
"You can cook?" she raised an eyebrow.
"Mm… just a little," he said humbly.
Mark headed to the kitchen and opened the fridge. It was well-stocked with everything from fresh vegetables to marinated meats, blocks of cheese, and herbs tucked in labeled containers.
"Alright," he muttered to himself, pulling out a few items. "Let's do something simple but warm."
He placed a few things on the counter: chicken breasts, garlic, onion, bell peppers, cherry tomatoes, and fresh rosemary. He found some dried pasta in the pantry and filled a pot with water to boil.
Sarah leaned against the counter, watching him with suspicion. "You don't look like someone who just barely knows how to cook."
Mark smiled, peeling the garlic with practiced ease. "Let's just say I've had time to learn."
He chopped the onions quickly, without tearing up once, then sliced the chicken into even pieces. With a drizzle of olive oil in the pan, he sautéed the onions and garlic, their aroma instantly filling the kitchen. Then came the chicken, sizzling as it kissed the hot skillet.
"Add the bell peppers, now?" Sarah asked, inching closer.
"Yes. Toss them in."
She did, carefully, and he handed her a wooden spoon. "Stir gently. Like this."
Sarah followed his lead, laughing a little. "You're actually teaching me how to cook."
"Only fair," Mark said, tossing in the halved cherry tomatoes and seasoning with salt, pepper, and rosemary.
Once the pasta boiled, he drained it and added it into the skillet, tossing everything together. He finished it with a little parmesan he found in the fridge and a splash of lemon juice for brightness.
When it was done, the vibrant chicken pasta looked like it belonged in a magazine—golden, colorful, and full of life.
Sarah sat down at the dining table, still half in disbelief. "You sure you weren't a chef before becoming a beggar?"
Mark shrugged with a small smile. "I've been a lot of things."
---
Knock, knock, knock.
Both Sarah and Mark turned their heads toward the front door at the sound.
"Are you expecting someone?" Mark asked, his tone calm but alert.
Sarah shook her head, brows furrowing. "Today? No. No one." She wiped her hands on a kitchen towel. "Let me go check."
She walked to the door and peered through the peephole. Her heart sank.
Tony.
She knew him well—one of her father's trusted men. Standing beside him were three other bulky figures, all dressed in black. Their presence wasn't casual.
She opened the door cautiously. "What is it, Tony?"
Tony didn't waste time. "I'm sorry, Miss. Your father asked us to bring your husband to him."
Sarah's eyes widened. They already know. I'm being watched.
Her voice was laced with irritation. "Go tell him we're on our honeymoon. We won't be seeing anyone."
Tony's gaze hardened slightly. "I'm sorry, Miss, but we were ordered not to return empty-handed."
Before Sarah could close the door, Tony shoved it open with a forceful arm and stepped inside, his men right behind him. They moved with cold precision—like this had been planned.
Tony's eyes swept the room until they landed on Mark, who was at the stove, casually tossing pasta in a pan like none of this involved him.
Tony frowned. This man didn't look like a beggar. Not at all. He looked… composed. Too composed.
"Sir, you need to come with us," Tony said, stepping forward.
Sarah stormed into the room. "I want you out of my house this instant," she snapped, blocking his path.
Tony ignored her, making a motion to his men. "Move her."
That was their mistake.
The two men tried to pull Sarah aside, not roughly, but with enough force to draw her startled cry.
Before they could even get a grip on her arms—Mark moved.
He didn't shout. He didn't hesitate.
In a blur of movement, Mark stepped forward, grabbed the first man by the collar and drove his knee into the man's gut—hard. A deep oomph burst from the man's throat as he collapsed to the ground.
The second man lunged at Mark with a punch. Mark leaned back slightly, the fist cutting air in front of his face, then countered with a sharp elbow to the man's jaw. The crack was audible. The second man staggered backward, dazed.
Tony cursed and pulled a small baton from his belt, swinging it toward Mark's ribs.
Mark caught the baton mid-swing with one hand, twisted it out of Tony's grip, and sent a punishing punch to his nose with the other. Blood sprayed as Tony stumbled back, holding his face.
The last man tried to grab Mark from behind—but Mark stepped to the side, slammed his elbow into the man's ribs, then swept his leg out from under him. The man hit the marble floor with a thud.
One after the other, they groaned, struggling to get up. Mark stood tall, unshaken, his breathing even.
He grabbed Tony by the back of his jacket, dragged him toward the front door, and opened it.
"One-way ticket," he said coldly—then tossed Tony out like a sack of potatoes.
The others scrambled out without waiting to be told.
Mark slammed the door shut behind them.
Sarah stood frozen, eyes wide, heart racing. "W-What the hell was that?" she finally breathed.
Mark returned to the kitchen, rolled up his sleeves again, and said casually, "Your pasta's getting cold."
---