Second Chance Bride: A Fake Fiancee Romance

by Samantha West

  “Jason,” I cry, throwing my arms around his neck, “that was fucking stupid of you. Don’t you ever do that to me again!”

  “I won’t,” he says, “I won’t.”

  As I feel his arms around me, a spark of calmness ignites deep inside me. He senses it, too. He always knew what I was thinking before I said it. He always knew how I felt before I showed it.

  “Cassie,” he says softly, “I missed you. I missed you before I had you”

  I sigh, letting my breath come out shakily. My eyes are burning deep inside, and I know that if I blink, big, hot tears will come out.

  But I can’t allow that to happen. I can’t cry. There’s no crying in beauty pageants.

  Unless you win, and then there are tears of joy.

  “You good?” he asks, his strong hands roaming down my shoulders, past my arms. He takes my hands in his and looks into my eyes with that signature gaze that’s always driven me crazy.

  “Yeah,” I say, “more than good.”

  Jason smiles at me and squeezes my hands.

  “Let me grab a drink for you. And we’ll keep talking. We’ll talk all night.”

  I walk back over to our table and he walks away from me, heading toward the bar. I turn back to look at him and he flashes me a smile as a wave of giddiness rolls through me.

  This really is our second chance. And there isn’t a damn thing fake about it.

  23

  Jason

  “Two, please,” I say, holding up a couple of fingers like a peace sign.

  The bartender tops off two glasses of champagne and hands them to me as I slip a bill into his tip jar.

  I’ve wanted to tell Cassie the truth for five years. I knew it was a risk, because I knew there was a possibility she’d think of me as a fucking joke when I told her. Sometimes I think I’m a fucking joke for having acted the way I did.

  But I just don’t care anymore. I can’t help myself anymore. The desire for her has festered for long enough, and I need to be with her with the whole, inconvenient truth out in the open.

  It’s not quite an ugly truth. More like slightly-blemished. And I know we can get past it.

  I turn around and take a sip from my glass, leaning back against the bar. I feel like a new goddamn person, like a literal weight has been lifted from my shoulders.

  And then, just as quickly, an annoyance creeps over to me.

  “Hey, Jason,” Cynthia says, sauntering over to me at the bar.

  She’s dressed in this obscenely short dress, covered in red sequins. If she weren’t such a bug up my ass, I’d say she looks really nice tonight. Her long black hair is styled in waves cascading down one shoulder and she looks classy and put together, even if the dress is way too short.

  “I didn’t know they let your kind in here,” I say, taking a sip of my drink. It’s my second drink, and I could use something stronger. I turn to the bar and order a whiskey rocks, and the bartender flashes me a knowing look as he pours it for me.

  “They don’t, not usually,” she says, plucking one of the champagne glasses from me and taking a sip, “but I have a few connections. No big deal. The real question is what the hell you’re doing here.”

  I take a sip of my drink and purse my lips, the cold liquid burning as it flows down into my belly. Scanning the crowd, I see Cassie sitting at our table alone, moving around whatever is on her plate, but not eating.

  “I’m here with my fiancee,” I say, raising my glass in the general direction of the ballroom, “and if you’ll excuse me, unless you have any additional questions or journalistic inquiries to make, I’ll be going back to her now.”

  “Oh honey,” she says as I start to walk away. Her words freeze me in my tracks as an eerie feeling drifts through my veins, slowly infecting me. “Really?”

  “What?” I ask, turning around with gritted teeth, watching her as she walks toward me.

  “I know your secret,” she says darkly, slowly, a hint of sick humor in her voice. A sing-song cadence that makes me feel ill inside.

  “I have no secrets,” I spit, taking a big step toward her. “Just try me.”

  “I don’t have to ask you anything at all,” she says, reaching into her purse, “because I have the hard proof right here.”

  She thrusts a piece of paper toward me, and I know what it is before I see the writing on it, before I see my and Cassie’s signatures on it. I know what it is because it’s got those damn-near-perfect creases on it where Cass folded it.

  “How the hell did you get this?” I say, snatching the paper away from her.

  “Your little girlfriend over there should really be more careful about leaving her purse unattended,” she says, “or I guess I shouldn’t really call her your girlfriend. What is she to you, Jason? Just some random girl you’re fucking who needed your help?”

  “You can fuck off,” I say, crushing the contract in my fist.

  I try to keep my cool the best I can, and I try, more importantly, to not draw unneeded attention to me and Cynthia. But my blood is crushing through my body with sheer anger, my heart pounding inside me, making me feel it between my ears.

  “You know, this doesn’t have to get out,” she taunts me as I start to turn around. “This doesn’t have to make the papers.”

  I feel my fists clench and unclench at my sides as I tip my chin over my shoulder, slowly turning around to face my adversary once again.

  And now, suddenly, I remember her. The memory of her trying to climb into my lap on one of my first tours comes rushing back to me. I think she went by another name back then, which is probably why I didn’t remember her before. One of my pals told me she was crazy, and I didn’t ask any questions because it wasn’t any of my business. I gave her the benefit of the doubt. I didn’t call her out on it or try to embarrass her. All I did was politely, and firmly, reject her advances.

  “You followed one of the first bands I worked for,” I say, “you came onto me. And you were really fucking pissed when I rejected you.”

  “Guilty,” she smirks, taking a sip of her champagne.

  “But this is next-level shit,” I say, putting my hand on my forehead, “this is crazy even for you. This can’t all be because I turned you down.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself, baby,” she quips, inspecting her nails and rolling her eyes, “I saw a good story and I went after it.”

  “Cynthia, or whatever the hell your real name is, just leave me and Cassie out of your little story. The contract means nothing. The fact is that she and I really are together. We grew up together. And we really are getting married.”

  “Oh, isn’t that sweet?” she says, batting her eyelashes, “but the fact is that I have a copy of a contract where you and Cassie agree to pretend to be together.”

  “What do you want?” I say, “you want money? Is that what this is about? You want to be a journalist who takes bribes?”

  “No,” she scoffs, “I don’t want money. But I do want something else that you can give me.”

  She walks toward me and slowly puts her hands on my chest. I tense up and put my hands around her wrists.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I ask, my voice low and steady.

  “Spend the night with me,” she says plainly, her eyes roaming easily over my face, “and I’ll forget I ever found that contract. You’re good at pretending, aren’t you? You can be bought. The contract is proof of that. But I won’t even make you sign anything.”

  I am stunned. Fucking speechless. I force her hands down to her sides and break myself away from her, and as I’m about to turn around to get the hell away from this woman, she throws herself at me.

  And I mean throws. Her arms come around my shoulders and she gets me in her grips as she stands up on her toes, her lips coming up to my cheek.

  I feel like all the blood has been sucked out of me and is pooling at my feet. I feel fucking cold and a nervous, sick feeling churns through me.

  “Write the fucking article,” I s
ay, shrugging her off of me, “do it. And I hope you’re proud of yourself.”

  I just want to get the hell away from this woman. I turn around quickly and start to walk away from her, looking at the ground.

  I walk back toward the ballroom. I have to find Cassie.

  I have to tell her we’re fucked.

  24

  Cassie

  What the fuck am I looking at right now?

  First, they exchange some tense words. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him get so pissed off at anyone before. And this isn’t just casual anger on my behalf. He isn’t just telling her off because he’s mad about what she’s done to me - to us - this week.

  This is the kind of anger you show toward someone you know.

  I watch as he tries to walk away, and I swallow hard to try to get the lump in my throat to go down.

  But she won’t let him walk away.

  She is all over him. I feel my throat tighten up as I watch them. Her lips come up to his cheek. He hesitates for a second, and more words are said.

  It all happens so damn fast. I think he pushed her away because he didn’t want her on him. But I just don’t know what the hell that was.

  He begins to stride away from her, his fists balled up, hanging tensely at his sides.

  Jason is looking down at the ground, and I feel like he’s walking toward me in slow motion.

  And then he looks up, finds my eyes, and freezes.

  “Cassie, I’m sorry you saw that,” he says, coming up to me, getting so close. He smells like whiskey and her perfume, and I feel the smell hit my brain, making me feel dizzy.

  He tries to hug me, but I can’t let him. He tries to wrap his big arms around my waist, but my body takes over and I push him away.

  “What the hell was that?” I say, wiping the corners of my eyes with my fingertips. These tears cannot be happening right now.

  If anyone saw…

  “Cassie, it’s not what you think,” he says confidently, trying to get close to me.

  But there is fear in his eyes, too. There is something telling me that something very fucked up is going on.

  And Cynthia saunters up behind him, walks past us like nothing happened, and shoots him a little smirk.

  “See you on the road, baby,” she says. She ignores me. It’s like I’m less than invisible.

  “Wait,” I sputter, “the road? You know her?”

  Jason shakes his head and takes another small step toward me.

  “I didn’t remember her,” he says, “until just now. She used a different name back then.”

  I feel like a ton of bricks has been dumped on top of me. I feel utterly defeated. I don’t believe his bullshit for a second, and even if he really didn’t remember her, here he was, allowing her to get close to him. Allowing her to jump all over him.

  And I am now realizing that he pushed her away because I was here. Because he saw me.

  Yeah, of course he didn’t want me to see.

  Of course he didn’t want me to see.

  “How could you forget someone like her?” I whisper, my voice coming out hoarse and ragged. “That’s the kind of person you remember. The kind of person who sticks in your brain.”

  “I don’t know…” he trails off, his eyes pained.

  “How many more secrets are you keeping from me?” I ask, desperate for answers. I search his face. I do more than search. I beg him silently with my eyes, and I feel the tears spilling out. I am unable to stop them.

  “Cassie, please,” he says, coming toward me again. I feel weak. I am weak not only in his presence, but I’m weak thinking about what the hell I’m going to do.

  “After that big speech you gave me a few minutes ago?” I cry. “After you tell me you fucked up royally five years ago, you just come back? You show up out of the fucking blue and tell me that you made a mistake?”

  “Yeah,” he says, grabbing my arms gently, “that’s right. I did fuck up. And I’m done with regretting it. I’m done with thinking you’re too fucking good for me. I’m done thinking I’m some piece of shit fuckup without a future. I’m done thinking you’re this perfect girl who’s too good for me. Because you know what, Cassie? I’m not going anywhere this time.”

  “You can’t just come back into my life like this and expect me to sweep everything under the rug,” I whimper.

  His hands feel so strange on me now. He takes my face in his hands, but he doesn’t kiss me. I won’t let him. Instead, I push him away.

  I feel like all the color has been sucked out of the world. There’s already a crowd assembling around us, the other girls and some of the other guests of the contest, and the looks on the girls’ faces are something between pity and amusement.

  I want to tell them to get a really good look at the girl having her heart broken.

  Because as much as I want to believe Jason, how can I? How can I trust him, now that I’ve witnessed whatever the hell that was between him and Cynthia?

  The truth is that my heart broke five years ago, and I only learned about it tonight.

  The truth is that he lied to me. About five years ago, about Cynthia.

  “I know I can’t,” he says. “I came here to win you over, Cassie. And I haven’t stopped trying yet.”

  I swallow the thick lump in my throat and turn around, watching him disappear from my view in slow motion.

  “Don’t do this, Cass,” I hear him say. But I don’t turn back around. I’ve spilled too many tears over him. It’s enough.

  I squeeze through pairs of girls talking and whispering as I move quickly through the bar, and when I finally reach the ballroom, you could hear a pin drop. Flashes of cameras go off, making me see stars as I make my way through the hotel lobby. I feel like I am walking on lava; the ground beneath me is hot and bubbling and uneasy and if I’m not careful I could fall down and be burned to ashes.

  But at the same time, inside, I feel nothing.

  “Cassie, stop. I really need to talk to you. It’s about Cynthia,” I hear Jason say faintly behind me. He’s speaking in a whisper, as if he doesn’t want the reporters I know are following us to hear.

  Of course it’s about Cynthia. Of course there’s more he isn’t telling me.

  “It’s enough,” I cry, turning around. Behind him, at the entrance to the hotel, hung high on the wall, is that stupid banner with my freaking face on it. “I don’t want to hear anymore.”

  I can’t believe I ever thought this whole thing was a good idea.

  Jason is a womanizer. Jason is no good. Jason will only break your heart.

  I step into the elevator as it arrives quickly and watch as the doors close between me and Jason, replacing his face with the mirrored wall of the elevator, allowing me to finally see the mascara and eyeliner streaming down my tear-soaked face.

  And I take a good look.

  This is what perfect looks like.

  25

  Jason

  After the elevator doors slam in my face, I turn around to see a fucking cacophony of reporters. And in front of them all is Cynthia.

  “Happy?” I say as I shoulder past her. I need to get the fuck out of here.

  I push my way out of the hotel, but no one follows me. I’m not the fucking story. I’m nobody. I look behind me and watch as the revolving door I just came through spins and finally slows to a stop, and behind it, through the glass and the gilded gold, all of the beauty queens are giving statements to the press.

  Beauty Queen Has Public Fucking Meltdown. That’s sure to be the headline tomorrow, along with the breaking news that our engagement was bullshit.

  No one gives a shit about me anymore. I don’t think they ever did, which is fine with me. More than fine, because I never asked for this. I never asked to be thrust into the spotlight with Cass. She likes the spotlight. She wants all the attention on her. There’s a reason I chose a line of work that puts me behind the stage, off in the shadows and behind the curtain.

  I don’t like the attention.
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  I did it for her.

  And now it’s blown up in my fucking face.

  And I fucked everything up for her, just by being here.

  This was my fault. If I’d never come here, none of this shit would have happened.

  Her reputation would still be intact. She’d be a shoo-in for the crown tomorrow. In twenty-four hours from now, she would be walking across that stage and smiling with the crown on her head, the flowers in her arms, and she’d be waving to all her adoring fans and I’d be watching her on the fucking TV, knowing that I could never have her.

  She still doesn’t even know that she’s fucked, that Cynthia is going to blow up her chances and her reputation and everything Cass has worked for her whole damn life.

  I pull out my phone and my pack of cigarettes, pinching one of the filters between my fingers. I light it with the lighter she bought for me years ago and start to text her.

  Still really need to talk to you, I write. Cynthia knows about the contract. That’s what we were arguing about. I’m sorry. Please believe me.

  I hit send and wait for her to respond, finding my way to the edge of the boardwalk as I suck the hot, calming nicotine from the end of the cigarette into my lungs. It doesn’t matter if she responds or not. She has to know what I learned, and she has to make a decision about how she wants to move forward.

  My feet find the sand as I stagger across it in my suit, taking another drag of my cigarette.

  I really fucked up.

  I sit down on the sand, watching the ocean waves roll in and out. It should calm me. My pal Dylan has told me this is the place to be if you need to calm your damn soul.

  But I keep watching the waves, and it isn’t calming me down. It’s making me sleepy, but it isn’t calming me down.

  I lay down on my back and throw my phone onto the sand next to me.

  I close my eyes, listening closely to the waves crashing against the sand.

  And I listen for my phone to buzz, for her to call, text, anything to let me know what the hell is going on.