Fake Fiancée, Bride Forever

by Holly Rayner

  She supported me, and yet I used her as an excuse not to try. It was easier to tell myself that I needed to stay home, that Gran couldn’t manage without me. Who would make her dinner? Who would make sure she was taking her medicine at exactly the right time? What would happen if she were to fall? If something happened to her and I was out having fun with my friends or trying to advance my career, I would never be able to forgive myself. So I stayed home, cared for Gran, and let everything else fall by the wayside.

  The truth is that I’m glad I did it. My parents died so suddenly, when I was just six years old, that I’ve never felt I spent enough time with them. I’ve never gotten over that twisted feeling of loss and regret. Since Gran’s passing last year, I’ve missed her terribly, but I know the time I spent with her was valuable and important to both of us. It was the right thing to do, even if it does mean I’m still in this stupid job.

  Gran. What would she say if she were here now? It’s hard to go through each day not knowing the answer to that, not being able to talk to her.

  Without realizing it, I’ve been staring off into space.

  “Leah!”

  I jerk upright. It’s Ian again, looking down at me with a disapproving frown.

  “You do realize that I don’t pay you to take naps at your desk, right? Do you need to take an unpaid sick day?”

  The unkindness in his question wouldn’t be obvious to everyone, but I pick up on it immediately. Ian’s goading me for the time I took off work after Gran died. The company provided me with just two bereavement days since she wasn’t classed as an immediate family member. I tried to argue that it was a special case, that she had raised me since I was six years old, but my pleas fell on deaf ears. As a consequence, I was forced to take several unpaid sick days to plan and then attend her funeral. When I returned, Robert told me that Ian had spent those days mocking me for my self-indulgence.

  I wish I could snap at him for his cruelty, but I can’t afford to lose my job.

  “Give me an hour,” I say. If I work hard, at a steady pace, I can finish the report before lunch. “I’ll have it on your desk before I take my break.”

  “This isn’t your break?”

  Ian saves me from having to respond by walking away. Thank goodness. I’m not sure I could have kept the irritation out of my voice.

  As soon as he’s gone, I open my desk drawer and pull out a framed photo of Gran and me, taken at my college graduation. I run my thumb over the glass covering Gran’s face. She looks so happy here. She was so happy that day. But then, Gran was always happy. It was part of what made her so wonderful. Even at the end, when she was so sick that she couldn’t leave her bed, she always had a smile and something cheerful to say.

  I really should try to be more like her.

  It’s been six months since my grandmother passed. Is it normal to still be grieving, or should I have started to heal by now? I don’t know. I have friends who have lost grandparents, and they’ve reached out to me, but I don’t know anybody my age—myself aside—who has lost a parent. That’s what this feels like.

  Maybe I’m not grieving. Maybe there’s just so much of me missing now that I’ll never regain enough confidence, enough strength, to reach out for the life I used to dream of. Maybe it’s gone forever.

  Chapter 5

  Magnus

  I know that there are people who are able to be in the office without working. I don’t mean they’re lazy, just that they allow themselves to take breaks now and then.

  It’s a healthy behavior pattern, and one I encourage in my employees. It’s not a good idea to come to work and keep your nose to the grindstone for eight hours. That’s how people burn out. So for my employees, I’ve made it mandatory—three fifteen minute breaks throughout the day, and a full hour for lunch. And if I’m walking through the office and I see them relaxing and talking to each other, I certainly don’t hold it against them. Creative minds need time to refresh.

  But what I expect of myself is different from what I expect of my employees. After all, I’m the head of this company, the CEO. The whole organization is only as strong or as weak as its leader. And I cannot allow work to sit around unfinished. My aggressive leadership is what’s made this company such an unmitigated success over the past five years. And it’s important to demonstrate—to my employees and partners as well as my clients—that we’re able to work quickly and efficiently. Given that we’re a delivery company, speed and efficiency are vital aspects of our brand.

  So it is that I find myself flipping through the pages of a business proposal that was handed to me late last night, even as I’m packing everything in my office into boxes.

  Today is the day of the big move into the skyscraper on Eleventh Street, just a few blocks away from my current office building in downtown Seattle. The building we occupy now is an ugly, old, red brick thing. I bought it three years ago when I first set up the Seattle office, when I didn’t have quite as much money to my name and had to make more compromises. But it was never my intention to keep us here permanently. Now, finally, the day has come when we can leave and take the company to the next level.

  We’ve been moving non-essential equipment into the new building for about a week now. The new desks have been installed, ready for the employees to take their places. The R&D department has been outfitted with top-of-the-line equipment, and of course, our warehouse is stocked with plenty of inventory. We’re already shipping out from the new location, fulfilling our many orders from our new address. All that remains, really, is to move the rest of our people into the beautiful new building.

  And how beautiful it is! Smooth silver all the way up the outer walls, interrupted only by the huge picture windows that look out over the city on all sides. The natural lighting inside the building is gorgeous. I’ve had the interior walls painted a soothing taupe, with the occasional accent wall of dark blue. It’ll be a fantastic place to work, the kind of office space I’ve dreamed about managing since I started this company five years ago.

  We’ve been growing so quickly in recent years that it’s hard to believe. Sometimes I think back on my humble beginnings—tinkering with a single drone—and I can’t believe my package delivery service has grown to rival even those run by the U.S. government.

  I have drones of all sizes now—large ones that can cross state lines and carry packages containing huge machine parts or shipments of food, smaller ones that can deliver packages between residents of the same city, and even tiny ones that can be used to covertly surprise someone with a gift, not at their home or place of business, but out on the town. We do a roaring trade in marriage proposals; the groom carefully positions the object of his affection at a certain place at a certain time and then plucks her ring down from the whirring drone above.

  Today’s proposal is something else altogether. I thumb through the pages. It comes from a clothing manufacturer and suggests partnering with them and dedicating a small drone to ferry replacement buttons to those who need them.

  I frown as I think about it. Is there really enough of a market for such a thing that it would be worth the dedication of an entire drone? Would people make use of a service like this? I know that all my shirts come with little packets of spare buttons in case I rip one off somehow, but I never have, and those buttons sit in a drawer in an empty bureau in my attic.

  Then again…the clothing manufacturer is a big name. Maybe there’s enough to be gained simply by working with them, by attaching my name to theirs. I imagine that’s all they’re really after too.

  There’s room for negotiation in this, I decide. It benefits us both to declare ourselves partners. Maybe we can find a more sensible and constructive way to work together.

  I tuck the folder carefully into a box in between a row of other file folders ready to be taken away and place the lid over the top. One of the movers sees that I’m done with this box and lifts it in his arms, heading out of the room to load it onto the truck. My desk has already been taken away, b
ut my leather chair is still here, and I sit down and pull my laptop onto my lap to check my email.

  It’s overloaded, as usual, and about half of the messages are in Norwegian, which gives me a faint twinge of nostalgia. These are not letters from home, I remind myself sternly. They’re nothing more than business propositions, Norway trying to lure me back and claim me as her own. And though my heart will always belong to my homeland, my profit opportunities are better here in the United States. I would be a fool to go back.

  I click into the program that allows me to oversee what all of my drones are doing right now. There are, of course, far too many of them for me to hope to track them all at once.

  Fortunately, the monitoring program’s home screen has some helpful shortcuts. I know how many drones are supposed to be in the air right now, and I can see by the number on the screen that they’re where they should be. Nothing to worry about, then…and yet it’s so hard, sometimes, to sit back and think about other things.

  Sometimes I think it was easier when it was just me and my tools, building my very first drone, taking it on test flights…

  I still have that drone. It’s tiny, small enough to fit into my shirt pocket, and I scoop it up from the top of the file cabinet now and deposit it there. This little drone goes everywhere with me. It’s almost like a lucky charm since, without it, I would never have seen any success.

  Though the prototype has never been and will never be a part of my delivery fleet, I like to fly it around sometimes. During the holidays, I use it to deliver cards to my employees at their desks, something I think everyone enjoys. I’ve also been known, in moments of weakness, to send it down to the break room to collect a muffin for me. I am a busy man, after all.

  My email pings and, unable to resist, I move back to the computer. I know I should be packing it up too, that I should go ahead and take it over to my new office in the magnificent new skyscraper that will be home to this company after today, but I can’t leave this office while the movers are still here boxing things up. A part of me recognizes that I’m being controlling; it’s a habit that has only gotten worse over the years.

  I’ve put my vice president in charge of supervising unpacking at the new building, so I know things are going smoothly on that end. Keenan Martin has never let me down. He’s been a thoroughly reliable and trustworthy second-in-command, and I’m confident that under his watch, the new office will be fitted to my admittedly exacting specifications.

  I hear a rattle then and look up from my computer. One of the movers has just unplugged my antique floor lamp with the stained-glass lampshade and is lifting it, winding the cord around the base.

  “Be careful with that, please,” I say, half rising out of my chair.

  “Don’t worry, sir, we’ve got it.”

  The moving man removes the lampshade and tucks it under his arm before heading out of the room.

  The office is empty now except for my desk and chair, and when the movers return to take those, too, I close up my computer and place it carefully in my leather satchel, ready to go down to the car I know awaits me outside and ride over to the new building.

  I take one last look around the office that has been my home for the last three years, allowing myself to ponder everything that has been accomplished here. The building may be ugly, but a part of me will truly be sorry to leave it behind.

  Then I spot something on the floor. A scrap of paper? I crouch down to pick it up.

  It’s a photograph. A group of people, all in business suits, mostly young, standing in the kind of formal clump strangers arrange themselves into when they’re being photographed.

  My eyes automatically find my own face, standing in the back row, serious, unsmiling. I’m young here, maybe twenty-five, my hair longer than it is now, my muscles less defined. That suit…I remember that suit. I remember buying it before…

  “Mr. Johansen?”

  I look up. My secretary, Evelyn, is peeking around the door frame. Evelyn is a nice-looking woman in her mid-forties, with a matronly air about her that makes me feel as if she truly enjoys caring for me. She often looks at me in a mildly disapproving way I associate with my own mother when I left vegetables on my plate as a kid.

  Now Evelyn steps into the room, her purse slung over her shoulder, and favors me with a smile.

  “Are you ready to go?” she asks. “The car’s waiting downstairs.”

  “Just a minute.”

  I can’t stop staring at this picture. I’ve placed it now. It’s the photo that was taken at the Vipers’ Nest press meeting prior to the party the first night. I can’t believe I’m seeing it again after all this time—it must have slipped behind the filing cabinet that’s just been carried out.

  This picture represents a pivotal moment in my life. If I hadn’t gone to LA, met the men who were running the competition, and secured their backing for my drone, I would never have been able to create my first fleet. I would never have been able to expand the enterprise into the massive business I run today.

  And there’s a familiar face here, too. It takes me a few moments to recall the name of the young woman at the front of the group. She’s practically a child, in her early twenties, with soft-looking blond hair and startling green eyes, and she’s smiling at the camera like it’s the best day of her life. She’s stunning, even in two-dimensional form, and her effect is so powerful that my mind grinds to a halt for a full minute.

  And then a name floats to the top of my mind. Leah. I know in an instant who she is, and all the memories come flooding back.

  This is the girl who sat at the bar, who looked in irritation at the men on either side of her, obviously willing them to go away and leave her alone. This is the girl I flew my drone to. She left with me… We drove around for a while and then made our way to the Hollywood sign.

  And now I’m digging in my bag, my hands closing around my phone. My photos are carefully sorted into organized folders by date, but I quickly scroll back five years and find the appropriate file. There. The selfie I took. There I am, and there’s the girl, Leah. The sign rises high behind us, and the two of us…we’re kissing.

  I’d forgotten all about that part.

  I wonder what she’s been doing since Vipers’ Nest? I wonder about the app she told me she was developing. Did she ever get it off the ground? Is she still working in this field, or has she given it up and gone on to other things, perhaps to an industry that’s more inviting to women? Wherever she is, whatever she’s doing, is she happy? I can only hope so.

  My phone rings, bringing me out of my thoughts. I tuck the photo of the Vipers’ Nest contestants into my bag and accept the call.

  “This is Magnus Johansen.”

  “Magnus,” a familiar, clipped voice says.

  I know at once that the call is coming from my financial advisor, Barry Sullivan. Barry and I have a strange relationship. We work extremely well together, and all of our business dealings are highly functional and even successful. But on a personal level, I can’t stand the man. He’s thrice divorced, and he hasn’t learned a thing from any of his marriages—he keeps cheating on his wives. I don’t think he likes me much either, probably because I’m more interested in the success of my business than I am in women.

  “Barry,” I say. “What can I do for you?”

  “Do you have time to meet with me this afternoon?”

  I frown. “It’s not ideal,” I say, thinking of all there is to do at the new office. “It’s moving day, and I’m not sure I can afford to get away.”

  “Figure it out, Magnus,” Barry says, and there’s a bite to his tone. “You’ve got a problem, and we need to discuss it. I’ll be at Bar Nine at two.”

  He hangs up and the line goes dead, and I’m left staring at the phone in my hand, wondering what on earth this could be about.

  Chapter 6

  Leah

  We’ve been working overtime for weeks now, and I’m exhausted. Even the extra money on my weekly paycheck doesn’t
make it worth it to spend all this extra time in the office.

  Ian claims it’s the busy season and nothing can be done about it, but I’m not fooled. I’ve been working here for six years, and I know perfectly well that this time of year is no busier than any other. Ian is putting us through our paces for personal reasons, to show us who’s really in charge around here. I can’t believe it was Gran’s funeral that triggered this—not even Ian could be that heartless—but something must have happened recently to make him feel he’s got to flex his muscles.

  I’ve been assigned dozens of reports in addition to my usual data entry, twice my usual workload, and I spend my days with a heavy feeling of pressure on my chest, making it hard to breathe. I know I can’t leave for the day until my plate is cleared, and with so much work, that’s an incredibly daunting feeling. I keep my nose down and work hard, but even as I do, I’m always aware that Ian will heap even more on me the following day.

  Robert and I have more or less stopped chatting altogether, having very little time to check in with each other beyond a quick “good morning,” and I haven’t spoken to any of my other friends around the office in weeks. Even my best friend Aimi hasn’t come by. I’m not sure whether Ian is heaping the same amount of extra work on her, or if it’s simply that she’s heard about my situation and is trying to help me by steering clear. It’s strange that I don’t know; Aimi and I usually talk about everything.

  My stomach rumbles unpleasantly, and I sigh. Although Ian hasn’t been ordering me to skip lunch, I’ve been doing it so I’ll have a chance of getting off work before the delivery restaurants start to close. I order dinner every night these days, so exhausted am I when I come home from work.