Boardroom Bride: A Fake Fiance Secret Pregnancy Romance

by Alexis Angel

  At the same time…as much as I hate to admit it, she’s kind of fucking right. The man knows how to carry a suit, I'll give him that.

  But that's all I'll give him.

  One thing became perfectly clear to me, once our disaster of a relationship ended: I can never, ever fucking trust that jackass of a man-boy again.

  Not with business and, certainly, not with my heart. Not again.

  I catch sight of one of the television cameras—yes, that's right, I was able to secure a television special for my spring fashion show. Tanner the Man Whore can't say that, can he?

  So, I smooth my blond hair, and smile my most alluring smile. Who am I kidding? All my smiles are alluring.

  Sitting on the front row surrounded by socialites, award-winning actresses, and even goddamned royalty, I'm trying to let all this sink in.

  I did this. I made this happen. All the sleepless nights, the gallons and gallons of coffee to get me here are all worth it.

  This just proves that I fucking rock.

  I smile, assuringly, as I watch my designs practically float down the runway on my gorgeous models, and everyone is eating them up.

  I can feel it. I'm a fucking hit.

  It reminds me of the days when I used to rock the runway myself.

  Hell, I still could if I needed to. I have the body for it.

  I was one of the hottest and most in-demand lingerie models just a few years ago. Thanks to Pilates and barre classes, I could still pull it off if need be.

  But I’m a different kind of woman now. Corporate. Suits and pencil skirts, strictly speaking.

  Even if I do still wear my own lingerie designs beneath the business casual.

  My eyes light up when I see one of my models, Katerina, working the runway in my blush lace teddy and garter set.

  She knows how to get all the men in the room hard, and all the ladies wet. And hard dicks and wet pussies sell lingerie, frankly. That’s just how the industry works.

  My mentor, Jackson Halo, taught me that much.

  Kat and I go way back. We started modeling around the same time, and we always seemed to compete for the same jobs.

  I didn't think you could become friends with your biggest rival, but that's just what Kat and I had become.

  If I had a female friend, she'd probably be the closest to me. But unfortunately, even Kat and I aren’t so close now.

  It's true what they say, it's lonely at the top.

  Sure, the occasional one-night stand is satisfying, but companionship is not what I'm looking for.

  Maybe, I should have a few female friends. I mean, Monique is a friend. Except that I pay her…to do whatever I say.

  Okay, mental note to put another item on my endless to-do list: cultivate female friendships.

  As Kat leaves the stage and heads back to change for the big finale, Evan makes her entrance in a daring cut-down-to-there red satin slip with matching kimono.

  I love the feather boa trim on this ensemble. I think that was a 3 a.m. touch of genius. It seems like my best ideas come in the middle of the night…And this piece is proof.

  Evan is a newbie, but she's handling the pressure of model life like a champ.

  It's adorable how she seems to look up to me. Just this morning, she was asking me advice on who among photographers are best to work with.

  That part of the job—helping young models become as successful as I was—is probably my favorite part.

  Forget that crap Tanner said in his press release about empowering women.

  Please. What a crock of shit.

  I'm the one actually doing it.

  Tanner Sharpe is all talk, and always has been. He'll say whatever he needs to to melt your defenses, and get you into bed. I learned that the hard way.

  “The finale's next, boss,” Monique says, refocusing my attention back to the stage.

  I turn to look just as all ten models I handpicked strut on to the stage in two perfectly in-sync rows.

  They work the stage as they make their way down the narrow runway right beside me.

  My heart starts beating faster in anticipation of the finale, and they begin to do their sassiest turns just as we’ve choreographed.

  They head towards the widest part of the stage to pose for the finale, where I’ll join them for my big bow.

  I start to stand, but pause when I see that they’ve gone off-script. Um, why are they turning their backs to the audience?

  I freeze, unable to catch up with what's happening on stage when, I kid you not—they lift up their matching satin robes to show off…

  I can't even fucking say.

  Scratch that. I don’t want to fucking say.

  All my models—my models!—are sporting a property of stamp on their left ass cheek.

  Not just any stamp, either. It says, “Property of Tanner Sharpe.”

  What the fuck?!?

  I feel like everything slows down, accentuating the loud gasps and camera flashes coming from the stunned audience.

  Bile begins creeping up my throat, and I become light-headed.

  If the ground could open up and swallow me whole, I would gladly, gleefully even, go down the pits of hell to get away from this tent, this city, this moment.

  I suddenly wish there weren't a million cameras and reporters all around me. It feels like every camera in the world is being shoved right in my face. Well, except for the ones pointed at my models' ass cheeks.

  “What the fuck, Tanner?! What kind of immature ass pulls a prank like this?” I hate-whisper to Rebecca, as if I didn't already loathe him enough.

  “I don't think the prank's over yet,” she says, pointing across the runway to Tanner's now-empty seat.

  I follow her finger as it points to the stage where Tanner is jumping up in the middle of the models.

  He's holding a microphone.

  Who the fuck gave him a microphone?

  “Good evening, ladies and gents. I’m afraid I need no introduction—but suffice to say, I have the highest sales and the hottest designs when it comes to women’s lingerie,” Tanner is announcing to the crowd.

  The female reporters are practically cooing at his feet. Pathetic.

  “The only thing missing was the sexiest models. And now, I have those as well. It’s my pleasure to announce the newest models for Pretty Little Vixen—straight from the Dirty Little Angel line.”

  The audience is applauding his childish stunt, and he’s milking it for all it's worth.

  Seriously?

  He looks at me with his devastatingly gorgeous grey eyes and says, “No hard feelings, Elsa, Angel. It's nothing personal. Strictly business.”

  “'Nothing personal,' you ass?!”

  When did I get on stage beside him? I must have rage climbed up there in my Louboutins.

  I see nothing but red—as red as the soles of my heels—and it’s only him that I’m focused on.

  “You piece of shit,” I sneer. “You couldn't fight fairly in business, so you stooped to stealing my models?”

  “Not at all,” he says, smugly. “I merely saw a business opportunity and took it. That's the kind of thing they teach you at Harvard. Not that you would know, cupcake.”

  “Here we go,” I snort, “When in doubt, show off your Harvard pedigree. How pathetic.”

  “Funny, I remember you calling me lots of things…but never pathetic, funnily enough. The best ever…Your stallion…the only one who could make you come…”

  “The only one? More like ‘only once.’ You were as inept in bed as you are in the boardroom, Tanner! Don’t fucking flatter yourself.”

  “Then that must mean I rocked your world, 'cause Pretty Little Vixen is killin' it, Elsa. The sales speak for themselves.”

  “You are infuriating,” I yell. “That's not what I mean, and you know it.”

  And that's when the flash from a camera goes off directly in my face.

  Fucking reporter. I'm guessing my face won't look very alluring in that picture.


  You know how someone explains deafening quiet as ‘it's so quiet that you can hear a pin drop’?

  I’ve always thought that was an unrealistic saying.

  Well, I'm here to tell you it's right on the nose. That's exactly what it feels like right now. You can hear a pin drop, and you can cut the tension with a damn knife.

  All those stupid sayings are—in this moment—infuriatingly true.

  To sum it up: I'm fucked, and not in the satisfying way I like.

  I glance around, and am met with either gaping, expressions of disbelief from the crowd, or people staring intently, like we're the juiciest bit of Page Six gossip come to life.

  Except for my board of directors.

  They're the ones who can really royally fuck me, and they look like they want to do just that.

  I feel like I'm about to be called into the headmaster's office, or worse, executed.

  Of course, the one who placed me in the line of fire to begin with had to be my gorgeous, heartbreaker of an ex, Tanner Sharpe.

  So, at least, I won't be facing the firing squad alone.

  Chapter 2

  Tanner

  A subtle and annoying pulse throbs at my temples, making my eyes sensitive to any light or sound. I pinch the bridge of my nose, avoiding my sunglasses, and take a sip of hot coffee, praying that it’ll ease the pain.

  “Ah, fuck.”

  Nope, too hot.

  Fucking hangovers. You’d think I’d learn when too much is just that—too much. Or know that the eighth body shot off a random club girl is excessive.

  But apparently not.

  I never know when to stop. Fuck. I honestly never want to stop.

  Who in their right mind wouldn’t want to take advantage of being the prince of lingerie? I’d argue it’s almost as good as being Hugh Hefner—almost.

  Regardless, the last two nights—or mornings—haven’t been in vain. They’ve been in dedication to my victorious moment and the night that’ll go down in history.

  So, it needed to be celebrated accordingly.

  Let’s be honest, I wasn’t going to just go home after seeing Elsa’s reaction to my retaliation. Attacking me for not knowing what I’m doing is offensive, but I can take it. And I did by responding professionally, with my dignity still intact.

  But when I get accused of buying people off—women or business associates—I see red.

  That’s low, and I don’t do well with low blows.

  Especially from Ms. Dirty Little Angel herself. Though, Elsa did make it easy for me to figure out how best to enact my revenge. It was as if she had planned the whole thing for me.

  Honestly, Elsa deserved everything she got that night. In fact, I find it hard to believe that she didn’t see it coming. She’s smart enough—or at least I thought she was—to know that I wouldn’t take her bullshit lying down.

  Even if I would’ve preferred to.

  My body tenses in both irritation and arousal at the sheer thought of her.

  She might be one of the most irritating and frustrating women I’ve ever met. Yet there is something about her—there always has been.

  Look, clearly I’m not a saint.

  I’ll admit that pissing her off turns me into a fucking teenage boy with raging hormones.

  Fortunately, I know how to handle and control my urges now. But I like my women fiery and strong. I prefer that they’re appeasable, but with her it’s different.

  It’s the tension between us that makes me hard as a fucking rock. And there’s no denying that she’s fucking drop-dead gorgeous. Her long, toned legs and tight ass make her storming away one of my favorite things to watch.

  It’s become a fun hobby of mine.

  And fuck, those pouty pink lips that always pucker when she’s thinking, ready to spew another insult my way? I’ll always remember how they felt wrapped around my dick.

  The amount time I’ve spent imagining it—imagining her—is honestly absurd.

  But let’s be honest; I waste my time on much worse things.

  “Sir! Where have you been!?” my grumpy old secretary screams at me as I open my office doors.

  “Ahh! Shush Marge,” I say, sternly, grabbing onto my head, my headache now pounding.

  “No, Mr. Sharpe, I will not shush. I’ve called you more than ten times this morning. Where have you been!? Did you read The Capitalist Chronicle article yet?”

  Jesus, this woman is maddening. It’s like the world suddenly stopped turning just because I didn’t answer my damn phone.

  I tightly smile and nod at her, slowly taking off my sunglasses.

  Her voice knows exactly how to slice right through me, especially when it’s still in the process of de-numbing itself.

  Oh, how I wish I could get the hot blondes I used to have. Unfortunately, the higher-ups didn’t appreciate the extra-curricular activities they participated in with yours truly.

  I, on the other hand, had found it very productive.

  Now, I have Marge...shit, I forgot her full name. Anyway, it’s the secretary from the nursing home of hell.

  “Mr. Sharpe!”

  “Marge, calm down. Everything will be fine. And good morning to you, too, by the way.”

  I smirk at her, hoping that my charm will calm her the fuck down.

  I take my phone out of my back pocket to check for her calls. And it’s there—fifteen missed calls from Marge, ten text messages from random numbers, and one URGENT email from Mark, an executive board director.

  Fuck.

  “Would you care to tell me what is so pressing that you had to call me fifteen times? Or would you like to continue to yell at me for not answering them?” I ask her, my charm quickly dissipating and evolving into anger.

  My condescending tone doesn’t go unnoticed.

  She moves her feeble and tiny self from behind her desk to meet me head-on. She straightens her shoulders and pats down her blouse, looking as if she is preparing for a show-down.

  I ready myself as well. She might be small, but damn she is mighty and slightly scary.

  “Mr. Sharpe, if you’d care to get your head out of your ass—or the bottle for that matter—I would like to inform you that the board of directors, including Elsa Blakely and her board are here to speak with you.”

  She crosses her arms to polish off her informative insult.

  I ignore the part where she calls me an ass and focus mainly on the cluster fuck that is gathered in my conference room.

  I knew there’d be a backlash from my stint the other night, but I never imagined that the whole goddamn board—including hers—would come here to reprimand me.

  I run my hands through my hair in exhaustion and frustration and take a sip of my coffee.

  I secretly wish I made my coffee Irish this morning.

  “Tell them I’ll be there in a minute. I’ll drop my things off and head over there,” I instruct Marge as I enter my office.

  I mentally prepare for the onslaught of bullshit I’ll have to go through in the next hour—across from her.

  I’m not afraid of losing my job. Hell, if I get fired, she should as well. It was her mouth that started that sparked this feud.

  Thinking of her, sitting there, and waiting for me—I start to get jittery.

  Again, I’m like a hormonal boy. I can’t help it.

  Every time I see her, I get these fucking man-butterflies, and it’s irritating.

  But I have to shake this off. I need to bury these old pestering feelings before she eats me alive. I’m sure her teeth are already sharpened.

  Grabbing my coffee, laptop, and phone, I head down the hall to the conference room. I can see the whole line-up through the glass walls—all ten suits and one damn fine dress.

  I swallow hard and take a deep breath before I open the door. Thankfully, the surge of adrenaline smothers my headache.

  “Good morning, gentlemen and Elsa. To what do I owe this honor?” I ask, putting on my most professional and charming smile to win the crowd.
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  Mark, the man who emailed me earlier, clears his throat.

  “Your sideshow the other night, Tanner, was unacceptable.”

  Damn, getting right to it, isn’t he?

  “How so?” I say sarcastically.

  I’m not an idiot. I know what I did would cause some waves. It wasn’t the most professional act, although it was the most reasonable response to Elsa’s formal attack.

  “I’m not sure where to begin or how else to describe it to you. But to summarize, your actions do not represent who we are as a company.”

  Fuck. This doesn’t sound like a slap on the wrist type of conversation.

  But there’s no way in hell that I’ll be the only one held responsible for this. If I go down, she’ll go down with me. Petty or not.

  “I see. You must understand that my business decision was in response to a defamatory statement made by Elsa.”

  I glare at her, throwing fucking daggers straight at her direction.

  Her eyes widen in shock, possibly surprised that I told on her, and her cheeks redden.

  From anger, I’m assuming.

  She looks pissed, though I can feel her body gravitate toward me.

  I gaze down at her tits, not hiding my wandering eyes, and her nipples harden underneath the cream-colored Michael Kors dress.

  Yes, I know designers—I am one, after all. I would be a fraud if I didn’t know what a Michael Kors dress looks like.

  Mark slams his fist on the table, and my attention is immediately redirected.

  Fuck, he’s fuming. I think I almost see steam coming out of his ears.

  “I don’t care who started this feud. All I know—all that we know,” he says, gesturing to the other ten suits in the room, “is that this will end now.”

  He pauses for dramatic effect or to stifle his anger—or both.

  “Either you both grow the fuck up and fix this, or you will be fired.”

  My body stills, and I immediately turn toward Elsa who looks just as petrified.

  Suddenly, her deer-in-headlights look turns to fury. Her body now radiates anger, and she meets my gaze, fire burning in her eyes.

  God, that temper—it’s a frightening turn on.

  “If anyone should go, it’s Tanner. He’s the one who’s immature enough to pull off such a stunt during New York Fashion Week. To even think of doing that is mental.”