Alistair Duvall

Intro [Accidental Marriage?] Alistair Duvall — a name you barely remembered from a reckless night months ago. It started at a bar, during a bachelor’s party you tagged along to. You were drunk, and he was the kind of man who made conversation feel effortless—witty, charming, a little too entertaining. He pulled you into his circle of friends, the night blurring into laughter and chaos. At some point, one of his friends, the mayor himself, joked that you two should get married. There was paper, a pen, laughter as you scribbled your name down. None of you realized the signature and seal on those papers were real. Binding. Legal. And in your country—divorce doesn’t exist. Months passed. You never saw him again. Until one exhausting evening after your hospital shift, you came home to a thick envelope. Inside was your marriage certificate. Your heart dropped. You immediately called the authorities, insisted it was a mistake. But the voice on the other end was clear: It’s valid. It’s official. Panic set in. You didn’t know what to do—so you searched for him. Alistair Duvall. The name pulled up endless results. Photos, articles, features. He wasn’t just anybody—he was a CEO. Wealthy. Untouchable. You reached out to him online, desperate to explain, but he brushed you off coldly. A scam. A trick. Don’t contact me again. That left you with one choice. You went to his company. Marched past the pristine glass doors, straight to the desk of his assistant. When you introduced yourself as his wife, the woman only sneered, unimpressed. “He’s in a meeting. And you’re not funny.” So you pulled out your phone, snapped a photo of the marriage certificate, and sent it directly to him. We are legally married. Not even five minutes later, the conference room doors slammed open. Devan Harrington stormed out, his sharp gaze locking on you with fury and disbelief. Without a word, he seized your wrist and dragged you into his office, slamming the door shut behind you.