Boardroom Bride: A Fake Fiance Secret Pregnancy Romance

by Alexis Angel

  But I can’t even really talk. I’m about to do the same thing to him—something way more intense than what he has to tell me!

  I see Tanner hesitantly start to speak. “Elsa, um...Why don’t you go first? I’m sorry.”

  “No, no, I insist. Let’s start with you,” I counter.

  “Well, alright. I’ll start,” he says.

  He must be dying to get this off his chest.

  He pauses and takes a deep breath. My eyes are locked on his face.

  His jaw is so pronounced. He’s been gritting his teeth, and his eyes are just a bit sullen, which honestly, only I would notice.

  While I wait for him to find the words, I sit with my own teeth clenched and my heart racing.

  It’s pounding so hard in my chest I’m almost worried that he can hear it thumping around.

  I grip the pregnancy test tight as he locks eyes with me and begins to speak.

  “Elsa...”

  The Capitalist Chronicle

  Tanner Sharpe: “Please, Elsa! Take me back!”

  by Lis Langley

  New York—They broke their beds, our wallets, and each other’s hearts—but if you thought things were through for the Lingerie Lovers, you thought wrong.

  In an exclusive interview with Tanner Sharpe—by yours truly—the newest details of this lacy little lingerie spat have just come to light. Sharpe has searched his soul, came up empty, and turned to the shriveled little raisin he calls his heart instead. And what the heart wants?

  Tanner Sharpe’s heart wants Elsa Blakely back.

  “If she would just talk to me, this would all be over in an instant,” Sharpe reassured me in a clandestine interview as he begged me to bring his message to the public stage. “Elsa isn’t perfect, and neither am I. But at the end of the day, Lis, it’s me and her. Always has been, always will be. Without her, I’m shit—and you can print that.”

  You’ve put your plea in the right hands, Mr. Sharpe—because I’m about to do just that.

  “Elsa, if you’re reading this, come back to me,” Sharpe dictated. “I fucked up. I’m man enough to admit that. Did we have our problems? Sure. Everyone does. But you and me, Elsa—we had something together, babe. You know it. I know it. Lis Langley’s readers know it. If there was life on Mars, they’d know it in space.

  “A hundred years from now, our lace panties and leather bustiers will be gone. But you and me, Elsa—what we’ve got together—that kind of thing resonates for more than just one lifetime. Everyone has problems. We’re aware of that. But the love I have for you…not everyone has that, Elsa. Some people never will.”

  A heart wrenching plea, dear readers! But will it be enough to unfreeze ice princess Elsa Blakely’s frozen-over heart?

  When asked for any final comments, Sharpe had this to add.

  “The venue is still booked, Elsa. The florists are on standby and no one has canceled the caterers. I know you’ve never been late to a meeting before—and I doubt you’re about to start now. You’re still on my calendar, babe. The wedding is still on. All that’s missing is you. I’ll be waiting for you at the altar. You always did look good in white.”

  I don’t know about you, dear readers, but it seems like Sharpe is holding his breath on this one. I know I will be, too—will you?

  Chapter 30

  Tanner

  Walking into a room full of assholes applauding me—has never pissed me off more in my entire fucking life.

  The moment I step into the office, it starts. Streamers are unfurled in multi-colored ribbons. Balloons drop. The pop of champagne bottles go off like gunfire, as the corks are shot across the room, and a dozen different douchebags offer to buy me a beer later for what they think I did to the woman I love.

  A year ago, I might have taken them up on it.

  Christ, a year ago I would’ve gotten off on the idea of hurting Elsa so badly she’d quit her own damn company.

  But now?

  Now it just fucking sucks.

  I might be able to endure the hordes of faceless jackasses pawing at my Armani as they attempt to pat me on the back, but I don’t have to smile through it. So I don’t. That’s the benefit of being Tanner fucking Sharpe in a post-Dirty Little Angel world—at least I don’t have to fake shit anymore.

  Or so I think for the five fucking minutes it takes me to wade through congratulations, only find my board of directors waiting for me yet again.

  “Tanner!” Mark says with the biggest shit-eating grin I’ve ever seen in my life plastered on his smug weasel face. “Man of the hour! I never thought I’d say it, but—goddamn, Sharpe. Let me shake the hand of the man who bested Elsa Blakely.”

  He shakes my hand and mechanically, I let him. My mother didn’t raise me to half-ass a handshake, but this fucker doesn’t even deserve to have my name in his mouth.

  And he certainly doesn’t deserve hers.

  I’d curb stomp that grin right off of his understated jaw right now if I thought it would help.

  Hell, if I catch him with Elsa’s name on his tongue again, I might do it anyway.

  But, when I look down the boardroom table at all the other posers and dipshits grinning at me in the exact same way…

  Lis Langley is going to have a fucking heyday if I wind up systematically assaulting my entire board.

  “So let’s talk strategy, Tanner,” Mark says, steering me toward my seat at the table. “We’re ahead on this, so if we pivot properly, I think…”

  I don’t bother to sit. I feel like there’s no way this can take long.

  It’s not like it’s fucking difficult, right?

  In their eyes, I’ve eliminated our top competitor. I cut the beast off at the head. Without Elsa fucking Blakely, that company is just a bunch of dumb apes stringing up underwire and lace on Elsa’s reputation and laurels.

  The farce of our engagement should be over now, too. What’s the point? No business in marrying the enemy when the battle’s already been won.

  If we get anything from this…I’m glad it’s that, at least.

  When Elsa Blakely marries someone, it should be on her terms. Period.

  And let’s not kid ourselves here—she was never going to marry a bastard like me without a contract in front of her and an ultimatum hanging over her head.

  Even I’m not that fucking cocky.

  So that’s what I figure. We’ll breeze through this meeting—I’ll have a glass of champagne and go sit in my office—while they all jerk each other off over all the fucking money I just made them.

  But of course, it’s not that simple. It’s never that simple. I realize that much when they bring out the bimbos.

  Now, I’m a man who respects women. I have my flaws, my issues, my own fucking demons that I’ve gotta deal with. But when I fuck a woman—I appreciate her, I worship her—I make her feel like the goddamn goddess she is.

  The bimbos, on the other hand, have obviously been paid very well to be here—how else would they be able to afford fake tits the size of twin bowling balls like this?

  They scamper out, three of them, and line up at the far end of the boardroom table like this is some kind of fucking flesh auction and I’m the only bidder.

  “Now,” Mark begins with pride, because obviously he’s the asshole who orchestrated this circus of stupid fuckery—the rest of us are just filling seats. “I know that you and Elsa had chemistry, Sharpe. There’s no denying that. But with Ms. Blakely out of the picture and the entire bridal line on our side now…You’re a marketing man, Sharpe. You know how it goes. Don’t like the story, change it, right?”

  “Yes, we’ve all caught up on our Netflix sessions of Mad Men, Mark.” It takes the patience of a fucking saint not to roll my eyes. “Get to the point.”

  “What we’ve got is a bridal line—but what we need is a bride.” Mark pauses dramatically, like he’s waiting for the applause to start up again. It’s apparent that he’s put a lot of effort into scripting this bullshit.

  But this ain’t
the fucking Oscars. This is my life.

  “No,” I tell him, because I know where this is going. “Fuck no.”

  “Sharpe,” Mark warns me, “You’re coming off a win today, buddy. But don’t think that puts your position as CEO of this company in any less of a precarious—”

  “Is that what you fuckers think this is?” I ask, turning to the board. “Some little prick comes up with a new way to fuck over my life, and the rest of you just smile and nod and prepare to golf clap all the way to the bank, huh?”

  “You could at least listen to the pitch, Sharpe.” Mark is looking a little too tail-between-the-legs for my liking now. It’s actually worse than seeing him smug.

  “You want to replace Elsa Blakely on the runway and on my arm.” I say it with certainty—because I don’t need to hear Mark’s elevator pitch to understand the dumbshit ideas that come out of his weasely little peanut brain. “You’re not exactly Hannibal crossing the Alps here, Mark.”

  The tension in the room is fucking palpable. This isn’t what the board was hoping to hear and I know it. That’s why I keep talking.

  If I’ve earned anything from all of this, it’s the right to twist the little dagger I’ve just stuck in their side.

  “The fact that you think any one of these low-IQ bimbos—sorry, ladies—could replace Elsa fucking Blakely tells me that, not only are you all an entire bucketful of incompetent panty-chasing halfwits,” I announce. “But it also tells me that not a single one of you understands the very business you think you’re constantly saving from me.”

  “But—”

  “Go eat a dick, Mark.” I push away from the table and make for the door. “I’m taking a personal day.”

  As I’m walking out, I’m wishing that I could pretend that what just happened was all bravado and ball swinging. But I’ve lied to myself for long enough. I haven’t seen Elsa since the thing at Times Square, and like it or not—I’m worried about her.

  If only Elsa Blakely was the only blonde woman in my life that I have to worry about.

  “Langley,” I say, offering her a curt nod. “What brings you snooping about Sharpe Tower today?”

  “Sharpe,” Lis greets me. She holds her phone up towards my mouth, obviously ready to record my every word. “Are you aware that Jackson Halo, disgraced former CEO of Crooked Halo is, in fact, your—”

  “Father?” I glance over at her, and enjoy the look of defeat on her face as she reacts. “Langley, I’ve gotta say, I’m concerned. Usually you’re ahead on the story—not miles the fuck behind it. Looks like you’re losing your touch.”

  “Yeah, well you’re…” I see a dozen different insults run through Lis’ head before it clicks. “Being way too blasé about this, Sharpe. You know who that man is. You know his reputation. For him to be tied to you—genetically—”

  “Lis,” I shake my head, “Jackson Halo knocked up his secretary and she gave birth to me after he put her out on her ass. Raised me herself too, actually. Not a penny from Jackson Halo and not a finger lifted in my direction. That shit has nothing to do with me.”

  “He gave you your first job,” Lis points out. “I think my readers will be fascinated to learn how Tanner Sharpe really rose through the ranks of Crooked Halo so quickly.”

  We’re walking now—I’m striding and Lis is trotting admirably to keep up with me in her expensive little heels.

  “You think too highly of your readers, Langley. But look…You want a story that’s really going to grab them by their panties and make them salivate?”

  She narrows her eyes at me. “Well, I wouldn’t put it like that, but…”

  “Come on, then. Follow me.”

  Chapter 31

  Elsa

  Judging by the size of my baby bump, it’s getting difficult to tell if I’m six months pregnant, or six years overdue.

  It’s the former, for the record. But like most predicaments that Tanner Sharpe drags me into—this one is large, cumbersome and…

  Well, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t love it anyway. But the fact stands: I’m the biggest that I’ve ever been in my life.

  “Remember, it’s not fat.” Dr. Garcia gives me that look like she knows exactly what I’m thinking. “You former models always get a little on edge about that point, but it’s true. Your body is changing to accommodate the little bundle of joy growing inside you. You’ll look just fine in your stockings and garter belt after the birth is done—women like you always do.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Women like me?”

  She laughs. “Elsa, you’re not the first Wall Street executive or busty model to hide out in Connecticut for the duration of your pregnancy, and you certainly won’t be the last.”

  “I wonder why we all choose Connecticut,” I muse.

  “Because no one cares who you are here, dear.”

  Dr. Garcia closes her eyes and places a hand on my belly like she’s blessing my child through it—prescribes me some vitamins and bids me farewell.

  She’s not exactly wrong about Connecticut, really. I’m not a Cohen, a Vanderbilt, or a Kennedy—so as far as the wealthy and to-do out here beyond the streets of New York are concerned—I’m not anyone at all.

  It’s been a long time since I felt like that.

  I’m half-surprised at myself for it, but I don’t exactly hate it.

  The hardest thing, really—is how I left things with Tanner. He should be here by my side for these increasingly frequent check-ups and ultrasounds, quipping at the nurses and making all of the other soon-to-be mommies swoon in their maternity pants.

  But Tanner isn’t here for me to lean on, and that’s okay. I’m Elsa fucking Blakely. I’ve been on my own before—I’ll make it through this just fine. But it’s not easy being on your own, is it?

  Not that much fun either, really.

  Without Dirty Little Angel, and my rollercoaster love-hate relationship with Tanner to manage, I’ve been doing okay; catching up on my reading, taking naps—whatever the fuck those are for—learning how to knit and biding my time.

  It’s fucking killing me, but what can you do?

  The situation is what it is. Still, I can’t help but envy Tanner for getting to stay behind and keeping his old life.

  And speaking of old lives…

  “Lis fucking Langley,” I swear, stopping dead in my tracks.

  I have to blink several times before I believe it—but when she turns, there’s no denying it.

  The messy chic French vanilla hair. The trench coat, belted just so.

  The look in her eyes that says gotcha—whether it’s warranted yet or not.

  The notebook. The pencil.

  It’s Lis Langley alright.

  “Ms. Blakely,” Lis says with a coy little smile. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  “Well, you’ve found me.” I surrender with a little shrug. “If you want to pester, Lis, you’ll have to walk with me. I’m late for mommy yoga.”

  “Is that what you’ve been doing with your days since you left New York? Mommy yoga?”

  I shrug as I power walk in my designer pumps. “Pilates, too. Tai chi. Yoga. You know, the basics.”

  “That’s funny. I never thought of Elsa Blakely as a basics kind of woman.”

  “Ah, well. Pregnancy changes you, Lis. You’ll find that out someday.”

  Lis scoffs like I just told her she’s about to become president of the moon and somehow—despite her diminutive stature—manages to get ahead of me, blocking my path.

  “You haven’t changed a bit, I see.” I eye her up and down and lean back on my heels. “Okay then. Out with it. Ask me what you need to.”

  “It doesn’t add up, Elsa. My readers might be dumb enough to buy this shit between you and Tanner, but I’m not.”

  “Is this all off the record, Lis? Because I don’t think your readers would appreciate being called dumb.”

  Lis shakes her head. “This isn’t for a story, Elsa. I’m serious. Some shit’s going on behind the scenes that
no one has clued me in on and I don’t like it. I thought you and I respected each other enough to cut the crap and wade through the web of lies.”

  I look down at her for a moment—there’s spirit in those pretty eyes of hers—too much spirit, some might say. The world hasn’t broken Lis Langley yet and it shows. She cares so much and fears so little.

  An unbroken New York City reporter. Not something you see every day, at any rate.

  “Maybe,” I say, brushing past her. “Maybe you’re right. Or maybe you’re just too close to your own story, Lis.”

  “I’m always too close to my own damn story!” I turn to see her standing behind me, holding her ground with her fists clenched. “If you’re not, what’s the point?”

  “Sleeping at night.”

  “Not my forte.”

  “Maybe it should be. I’ve been trying this new thing, you know. Napping. Have you heard of it? I’m still practicing, but I feel like it could—”

  “Elsa,” Lis sighs. I can tell she’s at a breaking point…and maybe she should be. “Cut the shit and give me something. Anything. I need to know.”

  It’s been a rollercoaster ride between Tanner Sharpe and me since day one, and she’s been along for the ride at every twist and turn.

  Maybe I do owe it to her to be straight with her.

  Maybe this mommy thing is just making me soft.

  “Okay,” I relent. “What do you want to know?”

  “Jackson Halo. Tanner knows that Halo’s his father and doesn’t give a shit about it getting out. Why?”

  “Tanner’s a big boy,” I remind her. “Daddy issues aren’t really his thing.”

  “Okay, then how about Dirty Little Angel. The company should have tanked by now—but the stocks are floating. Why?”

  “Solid products,” I explain away with a wave of my hand. “Risk-averse business strategies. Keep trying.”

  “The wedding thing with Tanner. He’s not the type to wait around at the altar for anyone—not even you.”

  “I’m insulted, Lis. I’ll have you know that I’m quite the catch. Maybe Tanner has finally caught feelings after all.”