Chapter 3 - The Ink and the Alibi
The municipal clerk’s office smelled of floor wax, old paper, and bureaucratic misery. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a harsh, sickly glow over rows of plastic chairs where miserable-looking couples sat waiting for divorce filings or marriage licenses.
We didn't wait.
A middle-aged man with sweat beading on his forehead and a thick stack of manila folders rushed out of a back office the second we walked through the double doors, his eyes widening in a mixture of terror and absolute deference when he caught sight of Vincent.
“Mr. Romano,” the clerk stammered, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his brow. “We’ve... we’ve expedited the emergency waiver based on the federal district court parameters. Everything is logged under seal.”
“Good,” Vincent said, his voice dropping into that commanding, frictionless register that made everyone in the room instinctively straighten their posture. “Let’s sign and get out.”
We sat at a scratched wooden table in the corner of the office. The clerk slid a stack of legal documents across the desk, pointing frantically to a series of sticky notes marked Sign Here.
Harper picked up the black ballpoint pen, her hand steadying only because she felt Vincent’s broad shoulder pressing lightly against hers. She looked down at the words Certificate of Marriage.
In less than five minutes, she was legally binding herself to a man she had met six hours ago in a greasy diner—a man who ran the city’s shipping yards with an iron fist, a man whose enemies probably ended up at the bottom of the river.
She signed her name in sharp, clean cursive: Harper Vance.
Vincent signed immediately afterward, his signature a jagged, aggressive slash of black ink that looked more like a tactical blueprint than a human name.
The clerk snatched the papers back as if they might detonate, stamping them with a heavy, satisfying THUD that echoed off the linoleum walls.
“Congratulations,” the clerk wheezed, handing a ceremonial folder to Vincent with a nervous bow. “You are legally married.”
Vincent didn't smile. He slipped the folder into his briefcase, stood up, and offered Harper his arm.
May you like
“Come along, wife,” he said, the word sounding entirely foreign yet utterly natural rolling off his tongue. “Our next stop is family court. Your uncle Richard is already waiting.”
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