The Billionaire and the Runaway Bride

by Nadia Lee

  “Okay, but I don’t pay enough to support…that.” I indicate her outfit. “Georges Hobeika and all.”

  She smiles. “Actually, this is a Dior.”

  “The point is, it’s expensive.” Like a few thousand bucks expensive. Like you don’t need a job expensive.

  “Can I be honest? I feel like I might as well be if you’re going to react so oddly to the kind of outfits I wear.”

  “Sure. I love honesty.” Here it comes. She’s going to tell me what she really wants is me, not this lousy temp job. Because somehow she found out she’d be working—and spending—all that time with me.

  We’re interrupted by the server bringing our food. But as soon as we’re alone again, she takes a bite of her taco and sighs. I start eating my burrito and wait.

  “My family wants me to get married. To a man of their choosing. I refuse, so that means I need to be gainfully employed and support myself with what I can make on my own. Which is why I got a job with you.”

  Okay, this isn’t what I expected. “People still do arranged marriages?” Talk about cultural shock therapy. “I thought that kind of thing died out in the Middle Ages.”

  “In some circles, yes. They still do.” Her mouth twists.

  “What’s wrong with the man they chose for you?” Hopefully, he’s old, unhealthy, had his prostate removed years ago and can’t get it up. And has to wear diapers. All excellent reasons for turning him down and seeking a superior candidate.

  Like somebody rich, hardworking and smart. With a face many a woman has swooned over, I might add.

  “Actually, it’s more like men. There are a hundred of them. Or so.”

  “A hundred?” My jaw goes slack.

  I try to picture how that would work. A hundred men? Do they all get to have sex with her? If so, how many at a time? If it’s one by one, it’d take over three months before a guy had his turn again. Actually, more like four if we factor in menstruation. So that wouldn’t be a popular option.

  And what about her? A woman always has her favorite—favorite lipstick, favorite purse, favorite shoes. Why not a favorite man?

  And if she gets pregnant, how do they know who fathered the child? Do they need to run a hundred paternity tests?

  And then, how does she manage having so many men around? How big of a house does she need? How does she decide who she’s going to have dinner or go out with? Most restaurants don’t have seating for a hundred and one.

  But my mind keeps coming back to the critical question: sex. Do the men do rock-scissors-paper? It would take forever with a hundred guys.

  A raffle? A lottery? Are the men going to be okay with only random chance?

  Or maybe she’d have some type of reward system. After all, she isn’t going to sleep with a man she doesn’t like much if she has ninety-nine others at her disposal. She might adopt the system my kindergarten teacher used. Yuna could give men stickers every time they do something that pleases her, such as cleaning or cooking or something of that nature. And if they collect a certain number of stickers, they can redeem them for sex. Like airline miles.

  Of course, none of that would matter if she had me in the group…

  “So, it’d be like a kind of…reverse harem?” I say finally.

  She shakes her head. “That’s never been a thing in Korea. If it was, I might’ve chosen a man for now to mollify my family, then gathered a harem, adding the love of my life later. Then favored only my pick and lived happily ever after, like Korean kings used to with their favorite concubines.”

  “So you’d divorce your fake husband and marry your favorite concubine guy?”

  “There wouldn’t be a need to divorce anyone. In ancient Korea, the king was technically married to all his concubines.” She shrugs. “But these days, you’re supposed to pick one.”

  “One out of a hundred.”

  “Right. My parents compiled a list that I’m supposed to choose from. I guess they think getting married is like a buffet.”

  Okay, so I misunderstood. One. Good. “What if the guy doesn’t pick you back?” Who’s on this damned man list? And why am I not on it? She would’ve chosen me if I were.

  She snorts. “Not pick me back? Come on.”

  I raise my eyebrows, impressed. “A woman who’s confident. I like that.” Not that I disagree. I would totally pick her back.

  “I know what I bring to the table, and more important, they know. Every eligible bachelor will have a dossier on me. They’re happy as long as they get a proper merger wife who’ll increase the market cap of the combined conglomerates. And bring enough of a control stake in their companies to help in a war for succession.”

  Shit. This reads like a pitch for a movie: Game of Thrones meets Crazy Rich Asians.

  Anyway, she doesn’t want to settle for being somebody’s merger wife, although I don’t see anything wrong with wanting to win. What’s the point in living if you don’t plan on winning? But maybe she only wants to marry a guy who’s already won.

  But now I understand why I’m not on the list. It would be unfair. After all, I don’t need to wage a succession war. I’m already the king of my own fortune.

  “So what’s wrong with the men?” I ask. Other than that none of them are named Declan Winters.

  “Nothing…except that they were all born rich, over educated, multilingual workaholics. That and the fact that I didn’t choose them.”

  That makes me feel superior. I wasn’t born rich, and nobody can accuse me of being over educated. I speak some Spanish, but everyone in L.A. does. I do work a lot, but only because I’m trying to make sure I’m going to be okay, not to win some succession war. That makes me a complete non-workaholic.

  Then another solution to her problem strikes me. “Why don’t you just marry someone on your own? I mean, just as a preventive measure. Then your family won’t be able to marry you off to one of the Hundred.”

  A lot of men would be interested in that position. Hell, I would. It’d be awesome to pretend to be her significant other and keep her away from those other guys she hates so much. Performing a selfless act of good, while wrapping my arms around her and kissing her in public because you gotta make it look authentic.

  It isn’t like me to be interested in a fake relationship, but so what? What was I doing in the romantic comedy I filmed for Netflix? Acting like I was in a relationship with my counterpart, who’s married in real life. Doing it with Yuna would be just like filming that show, except there wouldn’t be any cameras.

  Yuna shivers. “Ew, no. The goal is to marry somebody who will put me first, not marry someone who won’t put me first to avoid some other guy who also won’t put me first. It’s like saying I’m going to drink my own arsenic so I don’t have to drink someone else’s. I’ll still be dead.”

  Touché. “But with a guy you choose, you could have a prenup, so you can divorce amicably after your family’s no longer trying to marry you off. Then you can pick the right guy. And who knows? Maybe you’d fall in love with your fake husband.”

  “Too complicated, and falling in love with a fake husband only happens in fiction.”

  “It does?”

  “Well, romance fiction. Like The Very Bossy Engagement. I read that one not too long ago.”

  Jesus, the title sounds faker than a fake husband.

  Yuna adds, “Besides, there’s no guarantee he won’t become greedy and want more than what was promised. Or that he won’t take my family’s payoff money and divorce me before the specified deadline. It’d be simpler to research and pick out a guy who wanted me for something very specific—like enough shares to control his family’s company—with the understanding that we’d divorce in a year or two. That way, my family wouldn’t try to make him go away by throwing money at him.”

  “Never mind, then,” I say, although I can’t imagine the kind of money her family would need to make a guy leave this woman. “Obviously you’ve given the matter a lot of thought.”

  “Yeah.” She shrugs
. “Anyway, to get back to the original point, I need to prove to my family that I’m capable of being gainfully employed and taking care of myself.”

  “What would’ve happened if you hadn’t found a job?”

  “I would’ve sent out more résumés until I did.”

  “I mean, what if you never found a job? Anywhere?”

  “Oh.” She sips her drink and takes a moment. “I don’t know. I didn’t think that far. Stayed with friends? Become homeless?”

  Or married one of the Hundred. An untenable option.

  “But I don’t have to worry about finding a spot under a bridge because you gave me a job. So thank you.” She beams.

  She’s looking at me like I just saved the world from a super villain from outer space. Which makes me sit straighter and taller, although…

  “It’s only for eight weeks.” I feel obliged to point that out. I wonder if I should replace Benedict with Yuna permanently. He’s going to be a famous writer anyway. I’ll introduce him to a few producers before I let him go. That’ll make him happy.

  Her smile only deepens. “Don’t worry. My family doesn’t want me working forever. I’m pretty sure that they’ll wave the white flag within the next two months. Then I won’t have to work anymore, so actually, this position works out perfect for me.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Declan

  Yuna’s sunny declaration feels like a sledgehammer to the base of my skull.

  Here I am, seriously considering letting go of the best assistant I’ve ever had, and she’s telling me she doesn’t see any future, professional or otherwise, with me beyond eight weeks.

  I can’t quite process it.

  “Should you be telling me about that?” I ask finally.

  “Why not? It isn’t like you don’t know I’m done after eight weeks. Your assistant’s coming back, right?”

  “Well…yeah. But what are you going to do after that? Seems to me you’ve still got the same problem. Your family’s still going to be pushing guys at you, right?”

  She laughs. “I’m only going to marry a man who puts me above everything else. A guy who lets me know how much he loves me and cares about me every day of my life.” Her tone is very matter-of-fact. “And I’m perfectly okay with staying single for the rest of my life if I don’t find that person.”

  “Because you won’t settle,” I say, starting to understand her better.

  “Nope. Why should I? I don’t even keep presents I don’t like. Why would I keep a guy?”

  “But how are you going to know if you won’t even date him?”

  Yuna shrugs. “There has to be a, a…what do you call it? In French it’s a frisson.”

  “A zing? A thrill?”

  “That’s it. It’s like shopping. When I’m looking at shoes on display, some of them don’t do a thing for me—although they’re very good shoes—but some of them just scream my name. It’s the same thing with men.”

  Popping my I threw away your number cherry, and now this. My ego is doubled over and wheezing, although part of me says there’s no way she felt zero zing. I didn’t imagine the changes in her body when I held her during our waltz practice.

  The fluttering of her pulse.

  The parting of her lips as she breathed faster.

  The subtle flush on her cheeks.

  No woman responds like that if she feels nothing.

  Maybe she doesn’t understand what her reactions mean. But that’s ridiculous. She might’ve been sheltered, but she isn’t an idiot.

  Well, we’ll see how long she can pretend to feel nothing when we continue to practice the dance. I plan to insist on it until I get together with Melvin. And maybe after. You can never practice enough. I might even tell her I need to learn to tango, because there could be some role out there that requires it.

  I pay for lunch, and we leave. I open the door for Yuna, but she gestures for me to go first.

  “You’re the boss. I’m supposed to open doors for you.”

  Well, this is new. Benedict never did that. Maybe I should tell him when he’s back. “Consider me an enlightened boss.” I smile at her. “I’ll always open the door for you.”

  “Well…okay. Thanks.”

  She steps out, looking fresh. A hand over her eyes, she gazes up at the sky. There’s a small smile on her lips.

  “What are you thinking about?”

  “Nothing. The day’s just beautiful.” She sighs softly. As she does so, her gorgeous breasts rise and fall, the ruby pendant sliding a little along her cleavage. Lucky accessory. “In fact, it’s perfect. I love the climate here.”

  “Yeah, L.A.’s great.” I continue to look at her. It’s remarkable that she finds joy in such little things when it’s obvious she’s used to money. I can’t think of a moment when one of my exes showed any appreciation for anything that didn’t have a hefty price tag. My heartbeat grows erratic as something warm unfurls in my chest. It almost feels like heartburn, except it isn’t unpleasant.

  We start walking back to the parking garage, but a loud shout comes from behind us.

  “Oh, you bastard!”

  I stiffen and turn, recognizing the voice. Ah jeez…!

  Jessica is glaring at me, her face the approximate color of Yuna’s lipstick. She starts gesturing wildly with her arms, her golden hair flying around like Medusa’s snakes. Her green eyes narrow as she spots Yuna. “Is this the reason Benedict’s been ignoring me? You want this…this thing?”

  People are staring, so I stand taller and straighter to show I have nothing to be ashamed of. I wish I’d put a restraining order on her. Except Aiden would probably say that an ex making a spectacle of herself to get me back isn’t really a crime. Much less a threat. Right now, all she’s doing is hyperventilating and glaring at Yuna.

  Yuna runs her gaze over Jessica once, then shrugs and looks away like she’s beneath notice. My new assistant’s composure is impressive, but also just funny. It’s as though Yuna knows exactly what buttons to push.

  And sure enough, Jessica turns redder. She’s a former beauty pageant princess and isn’t used to people ignoring her. Now she looks like the salsa we had for lunch.

  “I’m talking to you, bitch! You think you can just show up and steal my man?” She glares at Yuna’s dress and bag. “Gold digger! You can’t afford that stuff on your own!”

  This has gone far enough. I step forward to stop her ranting, but Yuna puts a hand on my elbow.

  She looks down at herself, then at Jessica with a small smile. “This? This stuff?”

  “Declan bought it for you, didn’t he? I’m sure he showers you with gifts.”

  “Actually, I bought them myself,” Yuna says. “I don’t need a man to buy things for me.”

  “Liar! You don’t even look that rich!” Jessica sneers.

  Okay, enough of this bullshit. “If you don’t move out of the way, I’m calling the police.”

  She looks at me like I just slapped her. “For what? I didn’t do anything!”

  “You’re harassing me and my employee.”

  “Your employee?” She blinks, then gestures at Yuna. “She’s an employee?”

  Yuna’s smile turns brilliant. “His brand-new assistant. I started today.”

  Confusion clouds Jessica’s gaze as she addresses me. “But you don’t do female assistants.”

  “I’m kind of exceptional.” Yuna winks.

  A vein starts to appear on Jessica’s forehead.

  “If you don’t relax, you’re going to go all varicose,” I say, pointing at the thin blue cord that’s now throbbing like a trapped worm under her skin.

  “You can’t get them on your face!” she says.

  “Not according to the studies,” I say, making shit up. “Look it up.”

  Gasping, she slaps her forehead.

  Yuna covers her mouth, her eyes bright with laughter, and we walk off. Enough time has been wasted.

  But I know I won. Jessica will be busy for the next few days looking
for studies on forehead varicose veins.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Yuna

  On the way back to Malibu, Declan stops by a Starbucks drive-through and buys coffee for both of us. I sip my soy latte and sigh.

  “This is perfect,” I say. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He swallows a mouthful of iced macchiato. “And sorry about the scene after lunch. Hopefully Jessica won’t do that again.”

  “It’s no big deal. I enjoyed it, actually.” I can feel myself grinning with perverse excitement. It was like starring in a train-wreck K-drama with all sorts of crazy tropes. I should wait for the cliché of all clichés: the Secret Behind Somebody Important’s Birth. K-dramas like this are so popular, there’s even a word for them: makjang.

  I wonder which one of Witches Jessica is. Definitely not Witch2, because her texts made her sound like a really old ex. Maybe Witch8. Or maybe she isn’t important enough to rank that high. I should ask Benedict when he gets back.

  As we get to the gates, I enter the passcode. Declan drives up the winding road and parks in front of the main entrance.

  We enter the nicely air-conditioned mansion together. Just as the door’s about to shut, there’s a hair-raising cry from behind me. Somebody rushes us from outside. I stop to see what’s going on, and Declan bumps into me.

  The coffee I’m holding slops around, but the lid prevents it from spilling, thank God. I would’ve been annoyed if it stained my Dior.

  “What the fuck?” Declan says, turning around.

  I do the same, quickly positioning myself behind him. I’m an assistant, not a bodyguard. And I feel quite protected behind his wide shoulders and strong, muscled back.

  A tall woman with dark brown hair pulled into a low ponytail is standing with her feet braced shoulder-width apart. Her eyes are too closely set on her face to be pretty, and she has a feral, angular look that makes her appear rather skeletal. Her breasts are full, although I’m pretty certain they’re fake. They aren’t quivering, not even a little, even though she’s breathing hard enough for me to see her chest rise and fall.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Declan’s voice is murderous.