His Fake Fiancée: BBW Romance (Fake it For Me Book 1)

by Fiona Murphy

  Nodding, Rebecca goes back to her desk. Only minutes later the door to my office closes. Connor leans against it, his face haggard; he has aged a decade since I saw him yesterday. I shoot a message to Rebecca to hold all calls until I notify otherwise.

  “You look like hell.”

  His head goes down.

  “Do you need a drink? Or have you already had one?”

  He shakes his head. “No and no. I don’t...I’m afraid I won’t stop.”

  “Sit down before you fall down.”

  Like the good employee he is, he complies.

  “What happened?”

  Blinking fast, he looks away. “They think it’s leukemia. We won’t know for a few days though. In the same breath they reassure us, she’ll be fine. We are catching it early. Kids are resilient, a year from now her hair will have grown back and this will be a bad memory. Lindsey’s sister had leukemia at five; she died before she turned seven. Lindsey isn’t”—he shakes his head—“she’s not so sure.”

  “What the hell are you doing here when you should be home?”

  “I need to be here. Home—I can’t. Sara doesn’t understand; she’s three years old. I’m glad but it’s...hell.” The last word is squeezed from his throat.

  For a moment I consider allowing him to stay the way he believes he wants to. No, there are the things we need to do, and the things we have to. I shake my head. “Lindsey needs you. Take the week, good or bad, I do not want you in the office until next Monday. When you know the diagnosis, call me, not the office, me. My goddaughter’s health is my concern as well.”

  Connor nods yet does not move.

  “Go home. We will reassess once it is confirmed. I have no words to convey the depth of my sorrow at what you, Lindsey, and Sara are going through, might continue to go through. Whatever she needs, you and Lindsey need, I am here for you both. Anything that can be done will be done. I am not giving you permission. I am sending you home.”

  I press for Rebecca. “Call a car for Connor.” Turning my attention to him, “Go home, Connor.”

  Finally, with a nod he gets up.

  “If you need me, call me, at any time.”

  Another nod; at last he crosses to the door.

  “And give the driver all your work you have taken home. I do not want you on the server either.”

  Resigned, he walks out.

  For a long moment I consider what Connor and his wife are going through. I shudder. Add it to one of the almost hundred reasons I am grateful not to have a woman or child in my life. Too messy, too much emotion, not now, not ever.

  Reviewing my calendar, my two remaining personal assistants, Rebecca and Tim, could handle the week without Connor. They wouldn’t be happy but they could do it. However, more than a week would force them into longer than fifty-hour work weeks and create negativity I do wish to deal with.

  I do not believe in unicorns or the power of prayer. I believe in being prepared. Denise, the head of my human resources, answers on the first ring.

  “I want the files of three people. The best of the assistants and admins who can sit in for Connor for an undetermined amount of time. They must be able to travel at a moment’s notice, thick-skinned, and not inclined to tears like the last two people you sent up here.

  “You have ten minutes. This should go without saying; however, considering the amount of leaks from your office, it is extremely confidential. The lives of any of my personal assistants, not just Connor, are not up for discussion.”

  Her gasp is the last thing I hear as I hang up. I glance at the time; I don’t want her to think too hard. Often the decisions made under pressure are the right ones. The people she sent last year were perfect on paper, but in practice neither one lasted longer than a day.

  I shoot a message to both Tim and Rebecca of Denise’s impending arrival, that Connor will be off for the week, and that I am still unavailable.

  My cell goes off, the ringer warns me it is Gemma, my sister. I send it to voice mail without hesitation. No conversation has lasted less than ten minutes with Gemma in the last six months since her wedding planning went off the rails, with the addition of a Hindu wedding ceremony at her future mother-in-law’s insistence. With the weddings only three weeks away her frantic calls have increased. They often consist of nothing more than panicked, garbled, near-hysterical ranting before she hangs up.

  Rebecca announces Denise before the woman follows. Denise clutches three files, her eyes wide behind her thick lenses. Owlishly she blinks at me as she offers the files to me, her head tilting in question. “These, are the best?”

  I swallow a sigh; she always speaks in questions, timid and nearly stuttering around me.

  “Tell me why.” I open the first file. “Keith Diamond.”

  “Wharton graduate, he works hard. He wants to be you. He isn’t shy about saying it. Comes in early and stays late.”

  Everyone wants to be me. I’m not impressed by his file. He might be from Wharton; however, his grades are lacking, his extracurriculars even less impressive.

  “Next one.” I check the name. “Christina Connolly.”

  “She, um, well there’s a rumor going around the office she’s been doing Simon’s job since she took over from his last assistant. He increased her salary significantly. I approved it because well you told us, while there’s the forty-five thousand minimum you want your employees to make, there’s no maximum.”

  Clearing her throat, she shrugs. “Her previous performance supported a raise. She gets here before Simon but doesn’t stay late because of her grandfather. He’s got health issues. She lives with and supports him. He’s her first priority, as she’s made clear multiple times.”

  I had gone still at her first sentence yet did not interrupt. Denise gets tongue-tied around me in the best of circumstances. The need for her to continue without fear kept me from questioning her. Closing the file on Christina Connolly, I allow my eyes to meet hers. Working to keep my tone even is not easy.

  “A rumor that she is doing Simon’s job. Tell me about this rumor.”

  What she sees has her taking a step back, almost tripping over her own feet. Her mouth opens and closes no less than four times. Anger is beginning to go from a simmer to a boil when she finally spits out: “Martin was overheard complaining about your compliments to Simon. Christina was a researcher for a year when she filled in for Simon’s assistant. Christina, she was good, is good. All the proposals for acquisition Simon has submitted for the last three years have been Christina’s.”

  The scope of Simon’s duplicity is unlike anything I have known. I take a deep breath as I focus on the file of Christina Connolly, the woman who helped Simon perpetuate his lies.

  “Leave.”

  I pick up the phone. Before Diego Valdez answers Denise is already forgotten.

  2

  Christina

  That bitch. I can’t believe Anna dared me. Risk versus reward, the bottom line of every acquisition. Words Ivan Volkov lived by and wanted his employees to live by. My cell phone rings, scaring the shit out of me in the quiet of the office. Ah damn it, it’s Lynne, the head of the nursing staffing agency.

  “Hello?”

  “Christina, it’s Lynne. I’m sorry. I tried to talk her out of it but Sharon quit today.”

  Damn it. “I’m sorry. What did he do this time?”

  “The usual racist remarks. He swears she hurt him on purpose checking his blood sugar. Sharon said his sugar was too high and that’s what made him extra cranky. High sugar or not, she refuses to go back even if he apologizes.”

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I sigh. I love Abuelo, but Jesus fucking Christ he is a pain in the ass. The man is a raging racist, which makes absolutely no sense to me. As far as he’s concerned it’s his right as a black Cuban man. Which was so shitty, Abuelo had never thought of himself as black until he came to America and began experiencing racism. In Cuba, it wasn’t an issue and since Abuelo’s father was an Italian man who ran the casino where
Abuelo’s mother had worked, he was actually lighter than many Cubans who weren’t black. But the racism Abuelo has endured has made him bitter. It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve begged and pleaded; he refuses to curb his tongue in the best of times.

  Ever since his double bypass almost three months ago, his temper has been even worse. Even when he had a certified nursing aide he liked he resented the need for one. Yet he couldn’t be left alone while I was at work. His sugars were sky high, he forgot his insulin, and there were times he didn’t eat during the day. The aid was necessary. Sharon is also the fifth one we’ve had in three months.

  “No, I understand completely she shouldn’t put up with it. Is he home alone now?”

  “I sent over Emily since she’s one of the few he’ll put up with. But I’m going to have to bill you for her.”

  “I know, I understand. It’s completely fine.” I rush to reassure her, not wanting her to think I’m upset in the slightest. “She’s an LPN, and insurance only covers the CNA rate.” Lynne is already helping me by billing insurance at the lower rate, then sending me the bill for the difference. If she put it through insurance at the higher rate it would be rejected out of hand and I’d have to pay the entire shift out of pocket. “I’ll pay. Is there anyone he hasn’t pissed off yet at the CNA rate?”

  “Not this week, I have two new people but next week is the soonest one is available.”

  This time I can’t hide my sigh; it will cost almost three hundred dollars for Emily this week. It shouldn’t be a big deal but it is.

  “Do you not want me to send her? I understand if you want to try another service. I have a few numbers I can give you.”

  “I would appreciate it. At this rate I’ll need it anyway before the end of the year.” I take the numbers for the other nursing staffing companies.

  Hanging up, I fight the urge to call Abuelo and tear him a new one. It wouldn’t help or change anything. Abuelo would ignore me the way he always does when I talk about something he doesn’t want to hear. I log on to my banking website and move the necessary funds from savings to checking.

  It stings to see the savings balance go down. Every paycheck when money goes into savings, all I can think of is how much quicker I could quit if I used the money to pay down the mortgage. Except I need the savings for times like this. Like when the boiler went out last winter, or when the roof sprung a leak a month ago, and of course all of these issues with the nursing Abuelo needs after his heart attack and double bypass.

  My email pings, oh for fuck’s sake. It’s from Simon, an all-caps declaration to behave while he’s out of the office and not forward the proposal to Volkov. What’s his deal about not submitting the proposal? I look through it again; he has the rough draft I sent him on Thursday before I completed the final proposal.

  Anna’s accusation comes back to me. Simon is scared. If I were to present it Volkov, the fiercely intelligent, wickedly discerning Ivan will know Simon had nothing to do with it. How pissed will Volkov be?

  His formidable reputation proceeds him not just in the company but in the business world. It’s said CEOs hide from him. He is completely and utterly ruthless, unforgiving, eternally demanding, and sees those adjectives as compliments.

  Could I make it through the presentation without getting into trouble? I have a slight problem with my mouth, I’m too sarcastic, and I lost my filter somewhere around my teens. I also have no respect for authority of any kind, I ask questions a lot, and annoy people with my refusal to accept because they say so.

  Like the whole no going upstairs thing and how Volkov doesn’t interact with any of his staff. It’s just...weird to work for someone who is only one floor up and to know so much about him, but not have met him even once. If I was in a big corporation and in some office in the middle of nowhere, it would make sense, but one floor up, and there being all of fifty employees in the company...

  Yet in all the four years I’ve worked here, I’ve never even laid eyes on him once. I refuse to believe it isn’t odd the man never made appearances at the company parties he paid for, that he came and went from his office through a private elevator. He likes his privacy, I get it. No interviews with press, or showing up at the society parties, fine; but no contact with his own employees? It just seems like the ultimate in dickishness.

  The bank website times out; I close my eyes as I remember the balance in savings. I could totally make it through the presentation if it meant I walked out of there with Simon’s job.

  ***

  Christina

  The alert is loud in the empty room: five minutes until the meeting begins. Fuck, my palms are sweating. I’m going to do it. Deep breath, Christina. You can do this. Get in front of Volkov, give the presentation on the proposal. Show him how awesome you are, that you belong in Simon’s office.

  Think of it—the house paid off, no more Simon; I might even get to paint again. Even as I think of it longing wells up inside me, to spend hours lost in painting, not worrying about Abuelo, nurses, bills, or the damn house.

  I push up from my desk with determination. I pull out my small mirrored compact and check again even though I checked only ten minutes ago. It’s rare for me to wear makeup at work, I have the bare minimum in my purse. Only a tinted moisturizer, mascara, eyelash curlers, and eyeliner. I don’t even have real lipstick; my previous favorite broke, and I haven’t replaced its place in my purse. All I have is a lip oil.

  I’m addicted to the lip oil which has the slightest tint of pink and tastes like watermelon, shiny without being sticky. Still I consider wiping it off, as I’m pretty sure women with shiny lips don’t get taken seriously. Except it also makes my small cupid bow mouth seem bigger, so I leave it on.

  I make it to the elevator at the same time as Martin. His eyes widen as they run over me. I try not to take it as an insult. I’m sure it’s because I changed into a dress. I rarely wear dresses. But I know Volkov likes his female employees to wear dresses and skirts over pants, sexist prick.

  It’s not uncommon to get to work in the winter with pants soaking wet at the cuffs from the slush and puddles. So I keep an extra pair of black pants and this one dress in case of emergencies.

  I don’t actually like dresses. I’ll wear skirts, but those go down to my ankle. I’m always conscious of my legs on show. In this one I’m also struggling with doubt at the way it clings to all my fat curves, and embarrassingly big breasts. I got my breasts at twelve, and at thirty I’m still not comfortable with the way men’s eyes don’t move from them for almost the entire time they are looking at me.

  A deep maroon, the color compliments my hair and skin tone. I like how the hem stops two inches below my knees. Long sleeves end at the elbow in a cuff with a gold button fake closure. With an asymmetrical collar high at my neck, I feel more comfortable for it not baring my chest.

  The high collar was the only reason I even tried the dress on. I only bought it in what I often think of as a moment of madness because the woman who helped me patted herself on the back for, in her words, knowing I would like a million bucks in it.

  Grinning, the saleswoman said it was meant for me. She had just found it that morning, it was a leftover tucked away in the back. Someone had asked for it to be held, only they never picked it up. It was more than half off, which was the only way I could afford a cashmere dress. I have never owned anything this expensive. In the moment I felt like I couldn’t not buy it. I’m a sucker for a bargain.

  “So, um, whatcha doing?” Martin clears his throat as I get in beside him.

  I keep my eyes ahead of me, not looking his way. Although Martin is in the office next to Simon’s and he’s in and out talking to Simon almost every day, he’s one of those guys. The guys who look through me as if I’m not there. The rare times he interacts with me, he keeps his eyes anywhere but on me. The message is clear: Don’t meet my eye, fatty, don’t dream of me as a potential boyfriend, don’t like me, don’t fall for me. I know you want me but I don’t want anything t
o do with you.

  Despite him being one of those guys, I don’t hate him. I’m too used to it. I’ve returned the favor, looking through him, refusing to meet his eyes. If I have to acknowledge him it’s without any type of warmth.

  I can see in the reflection of the elevator doors Martin’s eyes running over my long hair flowing down my back. It’s rare for me to leave it loose because it’s so long, ending only inches above the base of my spine. And if I do, it’s straightened. From it being up in a bun, it’s falling in waves I managed to convince myself are pretty. The way he’s looking at it, I’m wondering if I was delusional.

  “Going to the meeting to present the proposal for Simon.”

  “Did you let the solar system know?”

  The solar system is how the rest of the company refers to Ivan’s three assistants who are always at his side, constantly revolving around him. Rumors are one of them even follows him into the restroom.

  Again, I don’t look his way. “Nope.”

  “Hmm.” It’s barely a sound.

  The doors open; I step out of the elevator then wonder where the hell the meeting is.

  “It’s this way.” Martin indicates to the left.

  I nod then follow him. It isn’t far to a large conference room. The outside wall is glass with a dark film, while the inside wall is also glass, this one clear. The conference table has twenty chairs around it. The other acquisition managers are already there, four in total. Only one of them is a woman. I’m surprised when Martin holds out a chair for me.

  With a murmured “thank you” I take the seat. Careful to keep my eyes down, I ignore the curious eyes on me. I’ve encountered all three of the solar system at various times, and none of them have done more than acknowledge me. When Tim enters, his eyes widen at the sight of me, yet he says nothing. My palms are beginning to sweat. Rebecca enters, and her eyes run over me with disdain.

  Heat hits me, sending the hairs on the back of my neck up. I fight not to visibly shiver. Without thought, I look up and right into fierce, unfathomable black eyes. Ivan Volkov steps to the head of the table.