The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée: An Older Man, Younger Woman Romance

by Arlo Arrow

  Eight

  Sophia

  Okay. I'm about to meet Grant's family wearing a dress I bought at a thrift store and the biggest engagement ring on the planet. Perfect.

  And as we enter a large foyer outside what I assume is the dining room—or, dining hall, from what I can see through the arched doorways—I see a large group of people assembled.

  "Who are all these people?" I whisper. Thank God Grant is next to me, so tall and strong and calm. I hope he can't feel me shaking. He must, though, because the next thing I know, he puts his arm down and around my waist. His hand rests on the curve of my hip, as if we've walked into rooms like this, together, a thousand times before.

  I look up at him and smile. And when he smiles back, and winks, it really does make me feel better.

  "I have no fucking idea," he whispers back. "A couple family lawyers over there near the bar. I have to assume that group of dour-looking business people in the corner work for my grandfather. Ah, and a few privileged second-cousins." He nods toward three younger men, probably closer to my age than Grant’s. They smile back and walk toward us. They look like they're ready to play a round of golf, followed by dinner at the country club afterward—and maybe a visit to a strip club after that.

  "Well, if it's isn't the prodigal son!" the tallest of the three says. He seems to be the leader. He reminds me of a villain in a 1980s high school movie: rich and shallow and sneering, with an undercurrent of self-loathing and violence.

  "Sophia, this is Roger," Grant says. He keeps his arm firmly around me, holding me close to him so that I can't even raise my arm to shake Roger's hand—which is fine with me. "He's my father's younger cousin."

  "Much younger," Roger says, winking at me. "And who is this delicious little thing?"

  I frown. "This delicious little thing is a fan of being spoken to directly. And, I'm Sophia, Grant's fiancée."

  Roger's face pales, and I don't miss that his eyes momentarily dart toward a tall, stately man on the other side of the room. The other two cousins are equally shocked, but they don't look toward the grey-haired man standing near a massive fireplace to our left.

  They just look at me—and my chest. And then, at the ring on my hand.

  "Is it—is that the Dominique Sapphire?" one of them gasps.

  "Of course," Grant says easily. "It's my mother's, and the only other woman I can imagine wearing it is this amazing woman by my side."

  I smile awkwardly. No one has actually congratulated us or asked about our relationship—they just wanted to know about the diamond.

  Weird. I can see why Grant moved thousands of miles away from these people.

  "Have you introduced Sophia to your father yet? Or Grandfather Blackstone?" Roger says. He takes a sip of his drink, and his eyes are cold and calculating.

  "Not yet. I heard Grandfather wasn't feeling well today, but that he's coming down for dinner."

  "Well," Roger says slowly. "That's…wonderful. He must be feeling better, then."

  Grant nods and they make awkward small talk, while I surreptitiously try to check out his father. All I can see is the man's back. He's wearing a suit, and his hair is thick and gray. He's tall, like Grant.

  "Darling, can I get you a drink?"

  Grant's question pulls me from my snooping, and I smile broadly.

  "I'd love one." As he pulls me away from his cousins and toward the bar—there's an actual bar, with a bartender!—I add, "Make it a shot."

  "Let's make it a double." Grant winks. But when he orders from the bartender, he only gets Seltzer for himself. I say I'll just take ice water. I feel like I need to have my wits about me.

  When we turn around, Grant's father is bearing down toward us.

  I almost gasp in surprise. Both because the man looks exactly like an older version of Grant—the same tall frame, strong body, blue eyes and strong jaw—but also because his eyes are cold. There's no warmth, no love. The man stares at his own son as if he…hates him?

  "Grant," the man says, coming to a stop inches from Grant's personal space.

  They don't hug.

  "Dad," Grant says. "I didn't know you and your minions would be here."

  "Where else would I be?" he spits out. "My father is dying. Of course I'm here. Someone has to be in charge." He doesn't sound upset by the thought. Not at all. In fact, the excited look in his eyes makes me shiver.

  "Yes." Grant's entire body is tense next to mine. "Someone does have to be in charge."

  I clear my throat and decide to try and relieve some of this crazy tension. "Hi! I'm Sophia. I'm so happy to meet you." I sound like a Disney character, I'm so frickin' cheerful.

  Grant looks down at me, an amused expression passing over his face for a moment. "Ah, yes. Sophia, let me introduce you to Grant Montgomery Blackstone the Second…my esteemed father."

  "And who is this?" the older man asks, staring down at me.

  I smile and put my left hand on Grant's arm, hoping the darn sapphire—and all those little diamonds that surround it—blind him. Grant looks down at me, and even though I know he's acting, the supportive, private look we share warms me to my core.

  "This," Grant says, his blue eyes on fire, "Is Sophia Martinez, the love of my life—and my future wife."

  "What. The. Fuck," his dad growls.

  I gasp. I can't believe he just said that! Grant laughs, as if he expected it all along.

  "Where the hell did you hire her from? Craigslist? You think you'll fool your grandfather and get the inheritance that way?" The sneer across the older man's handsome face is chilling. I can't fathom having grown up with this as a father. This time when I press my hand onto Grant's arm, I don't do it for show; I do it for support.

  Jesus, these people are fucked up.

  "When you learn to speak to my fiancée with respect, then you'll earn our story," Grant says, his voice as cold as the ice slowly melting in my glass.

  Mr. Blackstone sneers. "I heard you needed a wife in order to secure your inheritance. I didn't know you'd already…met someone. I thought I might be helpful, so I invited Cara."

  Next to me, Grant's body turns to stone. "How considerate."

  Just as I'm thinking who the heck is Cara, my question is answered. Mr. Blackstone beckons to someone across the room, and I swear the small crowd parts as the most glamorous, beautiful woman I've seen outside the pages of a magazine slowly struts toward us.

  "Fuck," Grant says under his breath.

  I look up at him, a bit panicked. Even after all the intimidating men I've just met, Grant never lost his cool.

  "Who is she?" I whisper.

  Mr. Blackstone smiles. "Oh? Grant never told you? Cara is an old family friend. She and Grant were engaged, before he ran off to California."

  I try to school my face into an expressionless mask, but I know I fail when Mr. Blackstone looks at me and a cold smile spreads across his face.

  "Oh, poor girl. He didn't tell you about Cara, did he?"

  "Father," Grant growls. "There's nothing to tell."

  I have a feeling Grant wants to say more, but Cara has crossed the room and he abruptly stops speaking.

  "Hello, Grant. Fancy seeing you here." Cara is tall—nowhere near as tall as Grant, but at least six inches taller than me. She's wearing a sexy, midnight-blue cocktail dress. Her perfectly highlighted blond hair is swept back into a perfectly formed chignon. She's wearing huge diamond studs in her ears, and her perfectly painted red lips open as she completely ignores me and looks up at Grant.

  "It's been too long!" she coos, walking right up to his chest and somehow breaking my hold on his arm. She wraps her arms around him, pressing her ample breasts against his chest. And then she kisses him on the cheek, leaving a big, red lipstick mark in her wake.

  What. The. Hell.

  "Cara," Grant says, stepping back and wrapping his arm around me, again. "What a surprise. Sophia, this is Cara Delaney. We grew up together. At one point—when we were foolish children—we thought we'd get marr
ied. Of course, we'd never left home and had no idea about the real world. Or real love."

  Cara's eyes narrow at his words, but her voice is smooth and unruffled when she replies, "True. But we're all grown up now, aren't we?" She looks Grant up and down, and I'm surprised she doesn't lick her damn red lips.

  "We are," Grant says coldly. Then he turns to me and smiles. "And I'm lucky to have found Sophia. Allow me to introduce my fiancée."

  Cara's better at masking her emotions than me. Her face doesn't change in the slightest as she turns toward me and nods. "How delightful to meet you, Sophia. I love what you've done with your…hair."

  I refuse to self-consciously touch my curls, which I can basically never do anything with. I also refuse to give her the reaction she’s looking for. I just smile. "What a pleasure to meet you," I say.

  Grant squeezes my side, and even though I know it's not real, it’s still comforting that Grant's hand is on my hips, not hers.

  "How long have you known each other?" Cara asks.

  It hits me: she knows about the will. Everyone in this room knows about the will. They're all like vultures, circling a poor, dying man. It makes me feel sick to my stomach.

  "Over eight years," Grant says. Both Cara and Mr. Blackstone react with subtle shock. I take a moment to gesture at Grant's face, so he can wipe off Cara's lipstick. Grant's father is about to say something when a ripple goes through the crowd. I look over Mr. Blackstone's shoulder and see a frail man in a wheelchair being pushed into the room by a nurse in a white uniform.

  "It's my grandfather," Grant whispers. "And his personal assistant, Geoffrey."

  The old man speaks to Geoffrey, a tall, distinguished man with pale blond hair. He looks to be about fifty, while Grant's grandfather looks like a remarkably well-preserved octogenarian. After the two confer quietly, Geoffrey stands up and announces in a surprisingly loud voice, "Dinner is served."

  Then Geoffrey's pale gray eyes find Grant and me, and he adds, "Our two honored guests will sit with Mr. Blackstone."

  Nine

  Sophia

  There are about seventeen pieces of silverware laid out neatly next to my china plate.

  I glance across the table at Grant, trying not to convey my panic. We are sitting at a long, highly polished dining table. Grandfather Blackstone is to my right, at the head of the table. He has seated his son, Grant's father, all the way at the other end of the table. I'm sure it's a place of honor, but it's also nice that it feels like it's fifty miles away.

  But all this silverware…I'm going to mess up, I just know it.

  "Just take the one on the outside. That’s what I always do."

  I look up to find Grant Montgomery Blackstone—the original, the first—staring at me with a kind, understanding expression. He winks at me before picking up the outside spoon and holding it over his soup.

  "Thank you," I whisper. "I mean, I normally like to have at least ten pieces of silverware—but seventeen's really pushing it."

  The older man stares at me a moment, and then a huge grin takes over his face. He begins to chuckle. And then laugh—loudly. All the guests at the table turn and watch him, apparently in shock. Does no one laugh around here?

  But then Grandfather Blackstone turns pink, then slightly red, and begins to choke. Grant and I both rise up out of our seats, concerned, but Geoffrey appears out of nowhere, handing his boss some special drink and actually wheeling in a portable oxygen machine.

  I catch Grant's eyes, and he looks as panicked as I feel.

  "I'm fine, I'm fine," Grandfather Blackstone grumbles. "You can all stop staring and start eating."

  Admonished, all the guests return to their food and drink, and the slow din of conversation fills the well-appointed room.

  "Are you alright?" Grant says, turning to his grandfather.

  The old man rolls his eyes. "I'm dying and I'm surrounded by these jackasses. What do you think?"

  I snort, but try to cover it up by taking a quick spoonful of soup. Oh my God, it's disgusting. I choke slightly, then grab my water glass and try to make the taste go away. Oh my God, the water's disgusting, too! Now I'm gagging, but trying to look like I'm not gagging.

  "What is wrong with this water?" I whisper to Grant.

  Grant bites his lip and I can tell he's trying not to laugh. But he quickly passes his water to me and—thank God—it tastes normal. Grandfather Blackstone begins to chuckle, but this time at least he doesn't choke.

  "I like you," the old man says to me. "You're honest. Yes, the soup is disgusting. I don't know why my cook keeps making cold cream of asparagus soup, but she says it's 'perfect for summertime.' Whatever the hell that means. I just want a cheeseburger."

  I giggle and sip more water.

  "They must have given you sparkling water," Grant adds. "Next time, I'll make sure you get flat."

  "Flat?" I say.

  "Normal, non-carbonated goddamn water!" Grandfather Blackstone thunders. "So, my future granddaughter-in-law didn't grow up with a silver spoon in her mouth?"

  I glance at Grant, whose face is set like stone. Betraying nothing.

  "Grandfather," Grant says. "Respectfully, don't interrogate my fiancée. I brought her here to meet you, not fill out a job application."

  "Fiancée," the man muses. "As lovely as she is, how convenient that you now have a sweet young thing you're going to marry. Just in time for my demise, and you inheriting everything."

  I sigh as the waiter takes away my soup bowl. I had thought Grandfather Blackstone might be the only pleasant person here. Guess I was wrong.

  "It's not like that," Grant growls. "And you know—you know—I don't give a shit about the money, or inheriting all your worldly goods. I just don't want him," Grant jerks his head toward his father at the opposite end of the table, "to ruin your legacy. And run all of our companies and foundations into the ground."

  Grandfather Blackstone sniffles, and within a second, Geoffrey is there with a monogrammed handkerchief.

  "That's all well and good, boy, but where have you been the last twenty years? You .appear, and only now, when all the money's on the line, do you come home again."

  Grant rolls his eyes. "I didn't disappear off the face of the earth. I was in California."

  Grandfather Blackstone huffs. "Same difference."

  "Why don’t you guys just donate everything to charity?" I say.

  "What?" both men blurt out, simultaneously.

  I shrug, glad that the waiter has returned with a salad—it gives me three seconds to collect my thoughts. "Neither one of you think Grant's father can or should run things.” I look over at Grandfather Blackstone. "And you’re too mad at Grant to want him to inherit everything.”

  I glance back to Grant—his face is still immobile, but those blue eyes are now twinkling at me. The fact that he approves of what I'm doing shouldn't make me so happy, but it does. I can't deny it.

  "And if that’s the case,” I say, “I'm sure there are at least a hundred different companies or organizations—right here in New York, even!—that would be happy to take control of your foundations and charities, and do good works with them around the world."

  I know I sound unbelievably naïve, and now that both men are gaping incredulously at me, I start to get tongue-tied. "I know I'm not a business person, and I don't know what charities your family runs, but there's got to be a way to set up a trust, right? And as far as the companies, you could either use the majority of the profits to, I don't know, buy a rain forest or something? Pay for every child in the entire state to go to college? Why are you worrying about all this money? No one here actually needs it. Just do something good with it!"

  Grandfather Blackstone suddenly comes alive again, banging his fist down on the table. He's been staring at me for the past two minutes, but now he looks quickly at Grant. "Did you train her to say all that?" he growls.

  "I don't train her to do anything," Grant snarls back.

  "No," I say. "And if you have a questi
on about me or anything I said, you can ask me."

  Grandfather Blackstone turns back to me and says, "Sophia, you're a young, ignorant woman who knows nothing of businesses or business protocol. But, dammit, I like your style. Now tell me how you met my grandson."

  I spend the rest of dinner chatting with Grant's grandfather, making them both laugh, and listening to Grant once again tell the story of how I "saved his life." We argue vehemently about that, but it doesn't feel like either one of us loses at the end.

  More than once, I get lost in Grant's blue eyes, and the smile and warmth that shine from them when he stares at me. It's almost enough to make up for the distrust and anger I see when I happened to glance down the table at Cara, or Grant's cousin Roger, or most especially his own father.

  Just a few more days, I think, listening to Grant describe his latest venture-capital project. Just a few more days to keep up the charade…while staring lovingly and openly into Grant Blackstone's beautiful eyes.

  "What do you think, Sophia?" Grant asks, and I jerk back to the present moment.

  "Um, yes?" I say.

  Both men laugh, and I realize the dinner party is finally breaking up. I stand and hug grandfather Blackstone goodnight, and Geoffrey wheels him away. We can hear his hacking cough echoing down the gilded halls.

  "What was the last thing you asked me?" I inquire as Grant leads me back out into the fancy foyer.

  “I asked if you were ready to go to bed.”

  "Oh," I squeak. "Um, yes?"

  Ten

  Sophia

  Grant says goodnight to various people around the room. I'm too tired to join him, and I decide to play the part of the younger, ignorant fiancée. I lean against the wall, waiting for him. I'm next to a giant statue of a naked woman that's as big as I am.

  I don't realize, until I hear Cara talking around the corner, that I'm hidden by the statue.

  "I'm sure it's all an act," Cara hisses. "It must have been last-minute, too. He didn't even buy her a decent wardrobe."