Mr. President: A Billionaire & Virgin Fake Fiancé Romance

by Alexis Angel

  I walk into my dad's house. I still have a spare key so there was no need to knock. When I enter, I don't see or hear anyone, but I know he has to be home. He's always home at this time. And when I called his office, I was told he wasn't there. So I decide to walk to his study—slowly, carefully—I don't know why I'm trying to be so quiet. Once I walk down the hall toward his door, I see that sure enough, the light is on. I hear him fishing a conversation on the phone and I wait until he ends the call. I don't want to interrupt. I need his undivided attention. Now's my chance. I take a deep breath, turn the knob, push the door, and enter my father's study. The room is filled with swirls of blue smoke, and I can see a cigar smoldering on his desk, smoke curling around it's tip in lazy half circles. Since when did he pick up smoking again? As a kid, I remember he'd smoke cigars in his study, sipping a glass of scotch. His study was always off limits. That was his personal, private zone and everyone knew better than to breach it. But I thought the smoking ended years ago. He must be stressed. It was always a nervous habit of his.

  These days, it seems as if he's always here, networking and either buried in email, or nose-deep in a self-help book. He's throwing everything he's got into this campaign and he seems tired. The bags under his eyes give it away. He looks up at me, momentarily annoyed that I've broken his concentration.

  "What is it?" he asks.

  "I need to talk to you."

  "Lance, can't this wait? I'm in the middle of an important project."

  "What's new? You're always busy. The mockery of your entire campaign is that family has never come first for you. Please tell me that irony isn't lost on you?" I say.

  "If you were planning on telling me how awful of a father I've been to you over the course of your life, spare me the sob story."

  "Look, this can't wait. It's urgent."

  The word 'urgent' catches him by surprise. I now have his full attention, so I take my hands out of my pockets and sit down, and I steady my nerves and continue, "I have a confession."

  "Go on," Michael says slowly.

  "It's about Jocelyn… and the baby."

  I watch as Michael sits up in his chair, his body erect. The muscles around his mouth are rigid. His eyes look like broken glass and are hinting at violence, but I continue, "her—and I—we—" I'm stumbling, trying to find the right combination of words.

  "You can't be serious," he says, cutting me off.

  "I love her."

  "You don't know the first thing about love," he growls. "You've dipped your dick into anything with two legs and tits. Who are you kidding?"

  "You're one to talk—sitting in this house married to a woman you never loved. What kind of marriage is that? It's one of the greatest charades I've ever seen."

  "You have no idea the sacrifices I've had to make. Not just for me. For this city. And for you."

  I understand more than you think, and Jocelyn's pregnancy—well, that baby is mine, and I plan on being more of a father than you've ever been."

  Michael slams his fist down on his desk, flashing his teeth at me. "You ungrateful little prick! I invite you into my house; I feed you, I give you a place to live, I give you work, I introduce you to my network—some of the most influential people in the world—even after you nearly cause WW III with the president's daughter, and this is the thanks I get? You have some real nerve."

  "I didn't mean for any of this happen. I swear it on my mother's grave."

  "Ha! You should watch what you say. Do you take me for a fool Lance?"

  "No, I don't. You're too manipulative for a fool. Even I know that. Let's face it, we're all pawns in your master plans."

  “You’re all too stupid to even be pawns,” he snarls at me. I can’t believe there are times when I alternate between thinking of him as Dad instead of just Michael. “You’re all a weight on my feet, dragging me down.”

  “You’re the only weight on yourself, Dad,” I say, raising my voice. My blood is pumping. “Maybe if you were more open and honest people would help you more.”

  Michael bows his head and rubs his hands against his temples. His body language changes, and he seems resigned. "It's a tough pill to swallow when the world isn't willing to accept you—perhaps can't accept you, or isn't ready to. Do you think it's easy to live a lie? To wake up every day and don a series of masks? No, of course you don't. You've never had an ounce of real responsibility and sacrifice in your life. You don't know the meaning of it."

  "I do now," I say, and when it comes out of my mouth, I mean it. "I have a family to take care of."

  "I may not have been in love with Jocelyn, but I was good to her. I hope you understand that. I tried. I really did, but then I met Kenneth, and with him, I slowly felt my masks come off."

  He stops for a moment and looks pensive, like he's struggling to find the right words.

  "There's something you should know about me."

  "I think I already do."

  "I'm gay, Lance."

  Of course, this revelation comes as no surprise. I've known this about my stepdad ever since I was a kid—at least I suspected it. I always saw the way he looked at other men.

  "I know," I say.

  "You do?"

  I nod my head yes as if it's the simplest, most obvious thing in the world.

  "Well, you should also know how important this job is to me—and this election."

  "I know that too."

  His eyes resume their fire and he gives me an intense gaze. We hold the gaze for a few moments, but it feels like it might as well be an eternity, and then he speaks again.

  "I can forgive you for sleeping with Jocelyn—with my wife—but I can never forgive you for costing me this election."

  "I don't understand."

  "Then listen closely because I will only tell you this once. If you cost me this election, you will be dead to me, and that is exactly what will happen if you and Jocelyn are together."

  "But I love her—I—"

  "Consider what I'm saying to you right now."

  "I hear what you're saying. Believe me, I have no intention on costing you this election. I want you to win and I know you can. You're my dad—the only dad I know. You've always been there for me."

  Michael doesn't expect the sentimental spiel and I can tell it has caught him off guard, but I continue because I mean it. It's the truth.

  "But I do love Jocelyn and she loves me. We're going to start a family—together. And I promise you that it won't ruin your mayoral campaign."

  He laughs. "Oh to be young and naïve. That's such a foolish thing to say. Lance, listen to yourself for just a minute! A scandal like this will rock every news site there is. Reporters will have a field day with this story, don't you see? They'll be licking their lips as they watch me bleed and run my name through the mud. My entire campaign has been built on family values. This will be seen as the biggest joke of all."

  "That won't happen," I say. "I have a plan."

  123

  New York Daily Journal

  From the Desk of Amanda Adams, the Professional Gossiper of Page Two.

  Welcome to Page Two Gossip, here’s what we’re hearing around the halls of power:

  With two days to go before the mayoral election, it seems we’ve started to see some balls start coming out of left field.

  First we have rumors of a major rift opening up between the Mayor and his pregnant wife, Jocelyn Anders. Sources inside the Mayor’s campaign talking on condition of anonymity because this is super secret confirm to me that the Mayor and his wife are not, and have not been sleeping in the same bedroom for months. It could be even before the election.

  But wait, wasn’t this the happy family? Wasn’t the mayor all about family values? In fact, wasn’t his wife getting pregnant in the middle of the election?

  Yep. All of that was supposed to be Hizzoner, but deep cover sources are telling me that a lot of what we think we know is very, very different from what’s actually happening.

  Second curveball. Ju
st when things were starting to go right, it looks like our bad boy heartthrob has fallen off the wagon. Reports have been surfacing for a few days that New Yorkers are starting to see Lance Anders—the son of the mayor—back to his usual antics. He’s been spotted at the VIP section of Pasha—the high end Chelsea nightclub, partying into the early hours of the morning.

  Sources also tell me—again under complete anonymity—that he’s moved out of the Mayor's townhome. That’s right. Something must have happened between the Mayor and his son that was so bad that Lance moved out. He’s been spotted at the Plaza and I have two sources confirming that he’s been staying there. Not just that, but this whole thing may be revolving around a mystery lover that Lance has. Does daddy not approve of whoever Lance is dating? Is that why he moved out? This story is getting juicier the more layers we dig.

  Third and final curveball. Jocelyn Anders has announced a press conference for tomorrow. At the time of this printing, we have no idea what she plans to speak about, but we’re willing to guess based on the information that we have so far. We think it has to do with the same reason that our sources are telling us that there’s marital discord between what we thought was the happy couple. In fact, it could even deal with the baby itself. Oh, this could end up being bigger than we even thought, New York. In a rare step, the Mayor’s wife has also agreed to open up the press conference to the public.

  She’ll be speaking at noon tomorrow on the steps of City Hall.

  One thing we know for sure, Jocelyn Anders hails from a political family. If she’s coming out in public then something has gone on behind the scenes that's big enough to rock the boat a few days before the election. And whatever it is, you can bet that we’re going to get you the full story behind what they say. Till tomorrow then, New York. This is Amanda Adams signing off. Keep your ears open, New York.

  124

  Jocelyn

  The press are lined up in the front. The photographers are snapping pictures. I can’t understand how they even manage to look like they’ve gone through a full day when it’s still only 10 am.

  Yeah, hon, you guessed it. I’m so nervous. I almost decided to call the whole thing off today when I woke up.

  I mean, can you blame me? I’m going to go in front of 8.5 million people in a few minutes right now and tell them that I’ve been a bad wife. That not only that, but I’ve seduced my own stepson. Talk about chickens coming home to roost.

  I was literally five seconds away from sending Michael an email today.

  But then I felt Lance’s arms around my shoulder. He pulled me closer to him in bed and I felt his cock grind against my ass. We’ve been sleeping naked every night I’ve spent at the Plaza now that Michael knows. It suits Michael just fine—Kenneth and he have been romping around I’ll bet.

  This marriage is over. That’s for sure. But we’re not out of Michael’s crosshairs until we get this sorted. Lance and I can never be happy until I go do this.

  All that doubt that I was feeling in the morning? As soon as I felt Lance’s strong arms hold me tightly against him, as soon as I felt his hard, cut body behind me, as soon as I thought about how much he loved me and stood by me while I figured this entire situation out, and yes, as soon as I felt that massive cock of his, I knew that I had to be in his life.

  And there’s no way I can continue to be in his life if I don’t do this.

  I take a giant sigh and walk to the podium.

  Michael and Lance have gone over all the details. For the purposes of this press conference, Michael has felt it absolutely essential that Lance not be there while I speak.

  “We need the media to focus on Jocelyn,” Michael apparently told Lance. “We have one chance to come clean and get them on our side. If it looks like we’re trying to play them, this could spiral out of control. And being there with her makes this whole thing look way more orchestrated than we want to let on.”

  Of course, Michael was orchestrating this. Of course every detail had been gone over with painstaking detail. Literally, the election for mayor of the greatest city in the world is lying as the stakes.

  “You sure you don’t want me to come with you?” Lance asked this morning as we dressed. There had been a savage protectiveness to his lovemaking in the shower, as he bent me against the wall and took me from behind as the water pelted our bodies. “Or stand by you when you go on in front of the press?”

  “Michael said it was for the best if neither of you guys…” I had started but Lance wouldn’t let me finish.

  “Fuck what anyone else says, Jocelyn,” he cut me off. Then he brought his arms around me and made me take a step closer. “All that fucking matters to me in this whole world is you. Fuck everything else.”

  Honestly, just him telling me that at that moment made me realize that no matter what, I had to be brave and get this done. Because this was the man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. So what if he was 15 years younger than me? So what if he had been my stepson? All my life, I’d gone from man to man, being told how beautiful I was that I never really knew what it meant to be cared for by someone. Michael gave me neglect and contempt under a shield of status and power.

  Lance gave me love. He gave me his body. And I wanted to give him my soul.

  That’s literally all I’m thinking about as I get onto the podium. How after this, I want to go bury my face in Lance’s chest. How I’ll be able to do that without having to worry.

  Maybe we’ll get some lunch at The Spotted Pig. I hear they make a great burger. Maybe after that some shopping. Bergdorfs? No, I know just the place. Saks Fifth Avenue. Maybe we could go back to the dressing room where it all started…

  The flash of a photographer brings me back down to the here and now. I need to focus. There won’t be any lunch with Lance if I don’t do this. There won’t be any dressing room shenanigans if I mess it up.

  “Thank you for coming today, ladies and gentlemen,” I say, looking down at the prepared notes I have. I’ve memorized them, but it helps to look down. The press in the front grow silent. I can see a large crowd assembled behind them. Ordinary New Yorkers, coming to see what the big deal is. Hoping to find a moment in history. I continue. “I will have a prepared statement, after which I will take any questions from the media.”

  More photographs. People must be speculating what I’m going to say. Well, I’m about to drop it. I wonder who will be left after the dust clears.

  “As many of you know, I’ve recently found out and am overjoyed by the fact that I am pregnant,” I say into the microphone and take a deep breath. “Despite reports and statements made to the press, I am here today to set the record straight. Michael Anders is not the father of my child.”

  If I had told them that I was a Martian who had been secretly gathering data about the human race in preparation for a future invasion, people may have looked less stunned.

  In fact, there’s maybe a second or two where the photographers are too stunned to do anything but look at me. Of course the cameras are rolling, but the flash bulbs literally die down.

  And then they come back. With a vengeance.

  It seems like the brightness of a thousand suns descends onto the steps of City Hall as the photographers furiously begin to take pictures. I can hear the reporters right behind the photographers decide to dispense with my earlier rules and shout out questions. I feel overwhelmed.

  But there’s only one way through this.

  “Like all marriages, Michael’s and mine faced troubles,” I begin and seeing that I’m continuing, the camera flashes begin to die down. The reporters also eventually stop shouting questions, realizing they won’t be getting answers. “Unfortunately, the problems we faced seem at this point to be insurmountable.”

  I pause and look to the audience. They’ve settled down a bit. Their still chomping at the bit, waiting for me to finish, but they’re giving me the courtesy now.

  “I have moved out of our townhome for the time being, in an effort to allow Michael
the utmost concentration in his bid for re-election,” I say into the microphone. “At the end of the day, it was the job that came above all else for him. While it was bad for our marriage, I believe it will only lead to good things for our city. While he may not be my husband, he shall continue to have my vote.”

  The last bit was put in by Michael himself. Slick. Way to turn every last thing about our sham marriage into a political point. Even as I announce how I’m leaving him, this is bound to get him a few points in the polls with people who think how dedicated he must be—that he’s willing to sacrifice everything.

  “Michael and I are thus planning an amicable separation,” I conclude. “With a termination of our partnership to be decided at a later date.”

  If I could, I would divorce him today. But Michael wants to do it quietly. A year or two into his next term. Lance and I will have to stay under the radar, but at least we’ll be able to openly see each other. We won’t be able to get married though. His child won’t have a father.

  It’s the price we have to pay for our love, I guess.

  “That concludes my statement, and I am now ready to take questions,” I finish and close my eyes for a second. Here it comes.

  There’s a cacophony of voices but eventually one emerges.

  “Ms. Anders, who is the father of your child?” a reporter for the New York Herald asks.

  I’m fully prepared for this question and we’ve rehearsed it a thousand times. “At this time, I’d like to protect that information and would ask you to respect my privacy as I transition to becoming a private citizen,” I say calmly. I can’t show them if I get flustered. That only feeds the beast, apparently. “Next question?”