His Fake Fiancée

  Copyright

  August 22, 2020

  Fiona Murphy

  Written by Fiona Murphy

  This is a work of fiction.

  Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental

  *

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  His Fake Fiancee (Fake it for Me, #1)

  1

  2

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  4

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  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  His Fake Fiancée

  Ivan Volkov is a wickedly intelligent, ruthless, and devastatingly gorgeous billionaire with a sexy British accent. He also owns the company I work for. The plan was simple: get his attention to show him I was the one behind all my boss’s awesome proposals that have been making the company hundreds of millions of dollars for the last three years. I’m the one who should be in the big office making a six-figure salary.

  It worked. I definitely have Ivan’s attention. He’ll put me in the big office with a six-figure salary—once he’s done with me. He needs a personal assistant until he can find a replacement. It won’t be long, he assures me, no more than a few weeks.

  Close proximity to Ivan Volkov for a few weeks? Sure, I don’t need my dignity. I wasn’t using it anyway. No matter how many times I tell myself to stop staring at him with lust, I can’t.

  Volkov turns down the offer I never even made; he saw me staring, he’s used to it by now. An unrepentant user of woman, all he wants is for them to satisfy his need, then be on their way. He can get that satisfaction from any woman. The money I make him isn’t worth losing when he’s done with me.

  Until the moment he needs more: a shield from a woman who won’t take no for an answer. He will do anything to protect his little sister from having her wedding ruined, even faking an engagement with me. Brilliant tactician that he is, he comes up with the answer to both of his problems. For the next three weeks we can satisfy the lust we both feel, while at the same time making it clear he isn’t available.

  But before long what’s between us feels all too real. Can this lead to forever, or will the billionaire choose money over love?

  1

  Christina

  Sonofabitch. I mouth the word I want to scream as I consider not answering the blaring, ugly multiline black phone on the corner of my desk I’ve grown to hate. Simon demanded it be set to its highest volume so he could hear it ring, in order to berate me if I took too long to answer. The only thing I like about the thing is the caller ID display is large enough I can see who it is at first glance. Kathy’s name flashes as if she were in person, demanding I pick up.

  It’s only just past seven thirty in the morning—there’s no way Kathy would know I’m ignoring her call. Yeah right, she knows I’m here. There’s a reason she’s calling the office line, not my cell. Considering she’s called my cell before at hours when I wasn’t in the office, there’s no hiding from her. She’s probably doing her monthly check to make sure Simon isn’t sleeping around on her, again. Of course he is, and of course I’m not going to tell her. Even though I hate his guts it’s none of my business. I had told her the first two times she asked. After that, if she wants to stay with a guy who can’t keep it in his pants, it’s on her, not me.

  Pressing the button to answer the line, I leave it on speaker. “Simon Kent’s office, how may I help you?”

  “Christina,” Kathy sniffles, then hiccups. Aw crap, she caught him this time. “It’s Simon, he’s been hit by a bus. He’s in the emergency room now.”

  My jaw drops. Holy shit, dreams do come true. “They’re trying to tell me he’s going to be fine, but what if he’s not? It was a bus, for Christ’s sake.”

  Her babbling drones on, but I’m not really listening. I’m taking down my hair from the tight bun it’s almost always in, kicking off my black flats, then putting my feet up on my desk as I imagine the next few weeks of peace and quiet without Simon.

  “Christina!”

  “What? Sorry, I’m just so upset about Simon.” I force the words out, trying not to gag on them. “I lost focus for a minute. Alrighty then, keep me posted.” I’m ready to hang up.

  “Wait, Simon was adamant you make sure HR knows it’s because he’s injured that he won’t be in and can’t submit today. He wants you to hold on to today’s proposal. He’s crazy, he thinks he’ll be back at work in a few days. The doctor says no way, he’s got a broken leg and a lacerated liver. He’s in the hospital for at least a week. Simon’s phone was destroyed so the office can call me if anyone needs anything. I’ll get him a new one tomorrow.”

  I stopped listening as soon as she said not to submit the proposal. Not turn in the submission for acquisitions today? The company I picked is perfect. It’s one of the best buys I’ve found all year. Volkov needs to move on it fast in order to get it for the steal it is. By the time Simon gets back, the painstaking research I put in will be for nothing. Volkov might even pass on it completely. Fuck that.

  She finally stops talking. I force a smile to my voice that isn’t on my face. “Of course, I’ll take care of everything. No worries.”

  “I knew you would. Simon always says you—never mind. Um, okay, talk later.”

  Hanging up, I roll my eyes. I know exactly what Simon says about me. While managing to insult my weight, he would have also insulted my intelligence, the way I dress, my lack of makeup or anything else he could think of. I take a deep breath as I roll my shoulders. Another three years, and I’m out of here. So close, I’m so close to paying off the mortgage. The day I do, I’m going to flip the fucker off and walk out. At this point I don’t even care if I have a new job.

  I bring up an email to send to human resources as Simon so desperately wants me to do. HR will let Volkov know about Simon because god forbid any minion dare to approach him or bother the great dictator. Volkov Holdings is spread over the forty-third and forty-fourth floor of a skyscraper in downtown Chicago. The forty-third floor has the admins, HR, research, and the acquisition team. The forty-fourth floor is the legal department, IT, mergers team, and Ivan Volkov.

  Those from the top floor rarely come down to this floor. It’s an unspoken rule no one from this floor goes upstairs without invitation. The members of the acquisitions team go upstairs at ten on the dot every Monday morning and present their proposals. They’re all back on their floor by no later than ten minutes after eleven—no one dares to linger.

  So if I took this upstairs myself, I wouldn’t be welcomed with a smile and thanks. It wouldn’t matter if I said it was from Simon, the golden boy of the team, or that I was the actual person behind the golden boy for the last three years of the four he’s been a part of the team.

  Simon’s line rings directly, flashing through the display on the work phone, and I chuckle. His side piece is calling for her morning check-in. I’m not answering if she calls my line. Since I came to work for him, I’ve had to deal with his trash. Not today.

  Four years ago, only a week after graduating from the University of Illinois at Chicago with a bachelor’s degree in business, at the ripe old age of twenty-six, I managed to get a job as an administrative assistant for the research team here at Volkov Holdings. I couldn’t believe it, it was like winning an award saying you were awesome. The company is extremely competitive, it was made clear the only reason I got an interview was due to a professor of mine who recommended me.

  The position was as difficult as I
had been warned but far more fascinating than I ever thought it would be. I learned pretty much everything I needed to know in order to identify the best companies for takeover or purchase. That’s what Volkov Holdings is all about, the acquisitions team finds floundering companies. Then the mergers team goes in and tears the company apart or builds it up, staying in only until Volkov feels he has made as much money as he can before selling it, in whole or parts, whichever makes the most money.

  I was asked to sit in for Simon’s assistant while she was on vacation for two weeks. He was a dick from day one, but over the two weeks he realized how good I was. In the beginning Simon was almost nice—as nice as he could be, anyway.

  He talked me into taking over as his assistant with the casual mention of me working my way up. I would bring him the companies, he would make sure Volkov knew how good I was, then before long I would have my own office. This all came with a significant pay raise, of course. Like an idiot, I believed him; I was also desperate for the increase in salary. I had no idea he was on the verge of losing his job, as his proposals rarely panned out and Volkov found him lacking.

  Enjoying the quiet of the office, and not being forced to listen to Simon’s fake laughs and uttering “baby” every fourth word, I click into a music station before pulling up the acquisition for next week I’m already working on. While I’m pretty sure Volkov doesn’t know it’s me behind the proposals, that I shouldn’t loathe him as much as I do for not giving me the credit, position, and money I’m due, I can’t help it.

  How could he not know? He’s supposed to be all-knowing, all-seeing, like the eye of Sauron. How could he not have figured out that once I started working for Simon, his submissions drastically improved?

  Maybe he isn’t as intelligent as everyone says he is. Maybe he also isn’t as scary as everyone says he is. It’s really annoying the way everyone in this company talks about the man in reverent whispers. I don’t get the big deal.

  Okay, he did make it from poverty-level asylum seeker arriving in England at the age of five from Russia to billionaire by the time he was thirty-five. Then again, he learned it at the side of Dmitri Markhoff, another brilliant businessman from Russia and also a billionaire who did the same thing. He had some help.

  I can’t concentrate on the next acquisition when I know the one in front of me is the best I’ve found so far this year. I tap my pen on the proposal as I consider my options. There’s no warning when the door opens and I freeze. People have to come through my office to get to Simon, so it’s not uncommon for people not to knock, yet it never fails to annoy me when they don’t. At least I’m sitting up with my feet off the desk, even if I haven’t put my hair back up. I exhale with relief at the sight of Anna.

  Anna is a petite, curvy, fellow Latina who makes my workday a little less like hell. It’s kind of pathetic she’s my only friend when she only started two years ago. I used to have friends, not a lot, I’ve always been too much of an introvert to make friends easily. Just enough for me not to feel like a loser. But when I left school to take care of Abuela as she went into end stage breast cancer, my friends fell away.

  I woke up one day to realize the only person in my life was my Abuelo. Even though I wouldn’t change a thing or resent what my life has become, sometimes it feels incredibly boring. With Anna, however, things are never boring.

  “Oh my god, I heard about Simon.” How the hell did she hear? I barely have my mouth open to ask her. “Martin lives in his building, remember?” Oh right, Martin got Simon the job.

  “It happened when Simon was leaving their building this morning. Martin saw it as the ambulance came and was loading him in the back. Kathy was there losing her shit. Simon was running to get a cab and didn’t see the bus. How the hell do you not see a bus? And it wasn’t like he was run over like Kathy was screaming. The bus lurched forward, the driver didn’t even have his foot on the accelerator. He got the lacerated liver from his briefcase getting smashed into his side when he fell. Drinks tonight to celebrate?”

  I laugh. “First round is on me. Best Monday ever.”

  “You are so lucky. I can’t count how often I’ve wished Martin would get run over by a bus, and he’s not even half as bad as Simon. I swear, I don’t know how you do it.”

  We’ve had this discussion before. The first time was when she was in the office one morning early. Simon yelled at me to shut my fat mouth and get to work, I wasn’t being paid to gossip. I told Simon to suck a dick. It was only seven thirty. Until eight I’d do what the fuck I wanted on my time. Her eyes went wide as she looked at Simon, who called me a bitch before slamming the door to his office.

  I shrugged and told her the only reason I was here was because of the pay and benefits, not caring if Simon heard me or not. Simon was well aware, the bastard taunted me often about not having the money to quit when he pushed me too far. No way would I find something as good as this company or this salary. I was a fat-ass loser and no one would pay me what he paid me.

  No matter how much I hated Simon, I was afraid he was right. I earned more than the other assistants did by a significant amount. There were also the benefits that no other company came close to. Volkov grew up in England, so he set the benefits to what they are there: Employees had five weeks of vacation every year. Sick leave was thirty days a year, and we could use our vacation if we ran out of sick. There was also three months of full pay maternity leave and then a further six months at eighty percent of salary, for men and women. And to top it all off we didn’t pay for healthcare, any of it, not a doctor’s visit or single prescription. It wasn’t a crappy healthcare plan either—the best doctors in the city took our plan.

  “You know why. Three more years and the mortgage is paid off and I can breathe again.”

  Anna’s eyes narrow on me. “What’s that look? You should be a whole lot happier.”

  I tap the proposal in front of me. “Simon doesn’t want me submitting the proposal for acquisition I put together for today’s meeting. Which is bullshit. It’s really good.”

  “That’s because he doesn’t get control of the whole this-is-all-me scam he’s running. Of course it’s good, Martin low-key hates you for how good you make Simon look. Simon is the golden boy with almost all of your picks getting scooped up and making this company hundreds of millions. Submit it, fuck Simon. I bet if you do Ivan will finally figure out it’s all you and fire Simon’s ass.”

  “I wish. Knowing my luck, it will be me who gets fired.”

  Anna plops down on the edge of my desk. “You are such a pessimist. How are you going to get fired when Simon’s the one who has been passing off your work as his? Show up to the meeting and present it and blow Ivan away.”

  “Are you crazy? I can’t go upstairs.”

  Anna rolls her eyes. “Why not? You are seriously harshing my view of you as a badass and my hero for telling Simon to fuck off on a weekly basis. Come on. Look at the risk scenario here and tell me the risk versus reward aren’t metric ton. You’ll be doing Ivan a favor. He could use more women on his team instead of lower on the totem pole. And he’d be getting a minority at that.”

  We both laugh. Despite my mother being a black Cuban, I also had an Irish father from Cork who had green eyes and red hair. No one looking at me would ever guess my parentage—my complexion is barely tan, only growing slightly darker if I spend hours in the sun, which doesn’t happen often because this is Chicago. Not everyone assumes I’m Latina, as I consider myself to be considering it’s the classification for Cuba. Added to all that I have thick, dark, reddish-brown hair and hazel eyes that are often more green than brown. That doesn’t mean I haven’t felt the sting of racism. My worst experience came from the people in this office.

  At first, I was accepted, even welcomed by almost everyone. Except the people who thought I was disgusting because I’m a size sixteen, but that was something I’ve been used to since I was a teenager. Then someone had caught sight of the picture of my grandparents on my desk. They were stan
ding proudly in front of the home they bought. The question was asked, who were they? The moment I said my grandparents, the surprise was clear along with the aggressive accusation it meant I was black and was hiding it.

  I wasn’t ashamed of my mother or my grandparents. I never tried to hide my race. Though my grandparents are black, their identities were as Cubans. I grew up in a household of rice and black beans, speaking Spanish; when I looked in the mirror, I didn’t see a black person. None of that mattered. The shift in attitude toward me happened almost overnight. It shouldn’t have surprised me, but it did. It shouldn’t have hurt, but it did.

  “Come on, chica, there’s no reward if you don’t take a risk, as everyone is so fond of quoting Ivan. I dare you.”

  The phone rings, I don’t recognize the number. With a last mouthing of I dare you, Anna waves goodbye. “Simon Kent’s office. How may I help you?”

  ***

  Ivan

  A calendar alert goes off from my computer. I bring my head up from the report I’m engrossed in to check the time. Interesting, Connor is usually prompt. He should be in my office now to discuss the alert. More than my personal assistant, he’s my right hand. I punch the button on my desk phone for Connor’s desk. No answer.

  Rebecca enters through my almost always open office door. “Sir, Connor still isn’t back from the doctor. Remember the appointment for Sara was this morning?”

  I check the time. The appointment was for almost two hours ago. “He hasn’t called in?” This is unlike Connor. I check my cell phone, no call or text.

  “No, nothing. Should I call him?”

  “Do not bother him. Obviously there is a deeper issue with Sara. His daughter should be his primary focus.”

  Whatever the issue is, I will not add to it by contacting him before he is ready. Connor has been with me from the very beginning, almost twelve years. His loyalty is unwavering; I will not repay that by harassing him while his daughter is ill.

  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.