by Nikki Chase
“You’re mine,” he says as he stares right into my eyes.
“Yeah.”
“Say it,” he groans.
“I’m yours,” I gasp.
I feel his cock twitch inside me as we both explode together. I can only hold on, my fingers digging into his ass cheeks, when he grinds into me and stills.
“Say it again. Say that you're mine.” Ethan gazes at me with tenderness and possessiveness. He wants to own me, and I want to belong to him.
“I’m all yours.” I have no idea if he’s my husband or my lover. Somehow, we’ve skipped the boyfriend-girlfriend phase and jumped straight into this strange, intense live-in relationship.
But as Ethan kisses my temple softly and strokes my hair, I know I’m right where I belong.
“I’m yours, too,” he says.
Ethan
I smile to myself as the clients leave my office.
This has been a really good day, and a lot of it has to do with my fake wife.
I woke up this morning smelling her hair, which put me in a good mood instantly. The big meeting has gone well, ending in a deal that will bring in hundreds of millions of dollars over the next few years.
Now, I can’t wait to go home to see Megan again.
Ah, fuck it. I’ve worked hard enough for long enough. Maybe it’s time to slow down and smell the roses.
Now that the big meeting is done, I can leave the office and be confident that no disaster will happen for the rest of the day.
Maybe I should go home. If I hurry, I might be able to squeeze in some time for a little sexy fun with Megan before we pick Penny up from school.
My cock stirs in my pants as I imagine myself buried balls deep inside her. In my mind, she’s lying spread-eagled underneath me, her eyes squeezed shut and her mouth gaping open as I fuck her hard. Her face grows red and she fights for air as her muscles grab onto my cock like they’re never letting go…
Ah, fuck it. I’m going home.
I get up and grab my car key. I should leave before my imagination goes so wild, the whole office can see me walking around with an obvious hard-on.
Just as I take my first steps toward the door, I hear knocking.
I check the watch on my wrist. Strange. I’m not supposed to have any appointment at this time.
One of the executive assistants in the office has agreed to help out with my schedule. But without a dedicated assistant, some things have been slipping through the cracks. And I’ve been too busy with Megan to mind the little imperfections.
“Come in,” I say as I lean on the side of my desk, hoping this is nothing important so I can still go home early.
When Eliza enters the room, she’s wearing a solemn expression that immediately tells me something big has happened. Something bad.
“You may want to sit down for this,” Eliza says as she marches across the office with purpose. She’s holding something in her hand. A magazine.
“What hateful bullshit did Ashley spew this time?” I ask, drawing a deep breath.
“That’s not the wife you should be concerned with today.”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
Did they print something bad about Megan?
This is what I’ve been afraid of. The last thing I want is to drag her into the media storm I’m currently trapped in. But given the situation, there’s no way for her to stay out of it.
Eliza says nothing. Instead, she sits on the guest chair at my desk and hands me the magazine in her hand.
As I study the cover, my blood runs cold.
What the fuck?
Megan
“Thank you.” I smile at the barista as I grab the two cups of iced beverages: a caramel macchiato for me and a black coffee for Ethan.
This is nostalgic. I used to get these same drinks when I was his personal assistant. Now that I’m his fake-wife-slash-real-live-in-girlfriend, it feels similar but different.
I actually look forward to giving him the drink now. I used to dread going into his office because I was so consumed by my blind hatred.
I imagine Ethan’s face when he takes it with his hand, and the thought makes me smile instead of scowl.
When I decided to become his fake wife, I never would've imagined that it would lead me to this place. I never thought I’d ever fall for him.
Well, maybe that's a little too soon to say. This is all too new for me to say I’m falling for him. But nobody has ever made me feel like this before, and I can’t help but crave more closeness with the source of all these wonderful, new feelings.
Before Ethan, I thought I was frigid or even asexual. Most of my friends had already paired off and had sex, and I hadn't. I also didn't want to. It didn't appeal to me. I was too afraid of men because I thought they were all evil users.
But Ethan's different. And that's why I trust him enough to let my sexual side come out to play.
Of course, it helps that he happens to have the body that belongs on the cover of Men’s Fitness magazine, along with the face and the dress sense of a GQ cover model.
But I’ve always known that; I’m not blind. I just refused to see him for what he is. I used to hold on tight to my preconceived ideas about him.
“Hello, Mrs. Hunter,” Paul says as I enter the apartment lobby.
“Hi, Paul.” I feel weird being addressed so formally, but I am here to be Ethan’s pretend-wife, so it's probably good to let him call me that. Besides, “Mrs. Hunter” has a nice ring to it.
“Special night? Mr. Hunter is home early, and now you’ve bought him some drinks.”
“Maybe.” I give Paul a polite smile as I walk past his counter, remembering Ethan's words about not trusting the guy completely.
I’m glad to hear he's home, though. What a nice surprise. I was planning to hide the drinks in the fridge until he comes home, but now I can just give him his iced coffee while it's fresh.
I walk faster, eager to see Ethan. I enter the elevator with a drink in each hand, sticking a digit out for the fingerprint scanner so it will take me to the correct floor.
It’s funny how I get used to the little things. Yesterday, when we were at the office, it seemed strange to me that someone had to press a button for it to start moving. If I’m not careful, soon I’m going to end up just like those stuck-up celebrities I hate so much.
“Ethan?” I shout as soon as the elevator stops and the door opens. I make my way toward the living room, my heels click-clacking against the white marble floor, which looks golden as it’s bathed by the afternoon sun. I say again, “Ethan? Paul told me you’re already home.”
Strange. There’s no response. This place is big for an apartment, but it’s still small enough for my voice to be heard throughout. Maybe he’s in the shower?
As the living room comes into view, the corners of my lips pull up on their own.
I can see Ethan’s back. He’s sitting on the couch with his back to me. His dark hair traps the golden sunlight, making it appear light brown. He’s looking down, probably doing some work on his tablet or phone. He’s always so focused when he’s working.
““There you are,” I say. “Is Penny home, too?”
I step onto the rug, which muffles my steps. I’m glad I got dressed, even if I was only planning to buy coffee. I like looking pretty for Ethan.
“No, I told the driver to pick her up,” Ethan says in a serious voice.
“Oh, I could’ve done that if you couldn’t make it.” As I get closer, I raise the transparent plastic cup that contains Ethan’s black coffee, the dark liquid swishing inside with my every step.
“That wouldn’t do. Because I got home early to talk to you.” Ethan still doesn’t turn around to look at me.
Is this some kind of a game? Does he have a surprise for me? Is this some kind of a role play scenario, something I’ve only ever heard of in all of my twenty-one years?
When I finally see Ethan’s face, it becomes clear that something is wrong. Terribly wrong.
His face is in the shadows, but it’s easy to make out the lowered dark eyebrows, the pinched bridge of his nose, and the horizontal lines across his forehead.
He’s worried, or angry, or concentrating hard on some complex problem. Or all three.
“What’s wrong?” I ask as I lean down to place both cold cups on the coffee table. The wet condensation from the outside of those cups has stuck to my fingers, so I wipe it off on my skinny jeans before I take a seat.
“I don’t know. You should be the one doing the explaining here.” Ethan stares into the distance, even as he speaks to me. This feels impersonal, like how he used to treat me, back when we were just boss and assistant.
My chest pangs with pain at the lack of acknowledgement. He had been so sweet to me up until this morning. He kissed the back of my neck before getting ready for work.
Like the elevator fingerprint scanner, sweet Ethan hadn’t taken long for me to get used to. I was starting to forget what he used to be like, and now the old, distant Ethan is back.
“What’s going on?” My heart pounds in my chest as my mind races, trying to come up with all the things that could’ve gone wrong.
Did I forget to make up his bed this morning?
No, that can’t be it. He wouldn’t come home early just because of that. Besides, even if I forgot to make the bed, how could he have found out before getting home?
No, it has to be something more serious than that. Way more serious.
Did I leave any trace when I downloaded his files off his gadgets?
Was I recorded on any security cameras?
Did Ethan somehow find out about my mission to bring him down with an exposé? If so, that would be ironic, because I just ended it last night with a quick email to Michelle.
I stare at Ethan for some indication of what’s really happening, but he continues to ignore me. When he finally looks at me, he simply gestures at the stack of thick photography books on the coffee table.
At the top of the stack is a magazine that I haven’t noticed.
It’s thin.
It’s pink and yellow.
The headlines are written in big letters meant to grab attention at check-out lines across the country.
Oh my god. It’s the latest edition of The Goss.
And my face is on the cover, a little off to the side. There’s a small photo of me, Ethan, and Penny.
This can’t be good.
With a trembling hand, I lean forward and take the magazine. It won’t stop shaking, so I put it on my lap. But my legs can’t stay still either.
“Ethan Hunter’s Fake Family” is the title written right below our picture in bright yellow letters. Underneath that, between quotation marks, are the words: “Our marriage is a farce.”
Shit.
“Have you read this?” I ask, my voice shaking.
“Yeah.”
“What does it say?”
“Read it yourself.”
I want to tell him that it’s all a lie, that writers at gossip tabloids make up their own stories all the time.
But that means I’d have to tell him I used to work for one such publication—which also happens to be the one with my face on the cover.
My trembling hands don’t move as quickly as I want them to.
I curse the graphic designers who planned the layout of this magazine. I know those jerks have deliberately made it so there are distracting elements all over the place.
The whole magazine is a trap. It’s designed so the average shopper at the average grocery store would be intrigued by the cover, flip the pages to search for one specific story, and not be able to find it by the time she gets to the front of the line, forcing her to buy a copy.
Finally, I’m on the right page.
Jesus, the first two pages of the article look even worse than the cover.
“EXCLUSIVE” is printed across the top of the two pages in large, capital letters.
There’s a picture of us grabbing breakfast together as a family, and another one of just Ethan and me having dinner at that fancy place.
And there are screenshots. Too many screenshots.
They look familiar.
These are the emails that Michelle and I have been sending back and forth as we discussed the details of my proposed article on Ethan.
In this article, I say that I was “forced” into the marriage—in reality, what I wrote was “forced by unforeseen circumstances,” but of course that doesn’t sound as shocking, so the inconvenient bits have been censored.
I also complain about how much it sucks to work for Ethan. I talk about how he often wouldn’t even look at me, about how he has isolated himself on a separate floor, and about how he keeps a big distance from his staff.
In short, all the things that most of Ethan’s employees already know.
And then, just to make it incriminating, there’s one part where I tell Michelle about how Ethan’s ex-wife showed up at the apartment lobby and how Ethan ignored her. She left out the part of the email about how Ashley never sees Penny and only came here to threaten Ethan.
The only people who witnessed that exchange between Ethan and Ashley were Paul and me. But Paul wouldn’t know anything about Ethan’s habits at the office.
So the only suspect is me.
I realize Ethan has probably worked that out as well.
I slowly raise my gaze from the magazine. I’m afraid to look at Ethan, but I know I have to.
He deserves an explanation.
That’s what he’s waiting for now, as he looks out the glass walls at the city.
I hope the view helps him feel invincible. I hope it makes his problems seem small. I hope he doesn’t see this as an insurmountable obstacle. I even dare to hope that we could get back to the way we were this morning.
But is it fair to ask that of him?
If I were him, would I forgive this level of betrayal?
No, and no. The answers come from inside my own head, but I know they’re true.
I’ve crossed a line that can’t be uncrossed.
Ethan
I’m sitting in my living room, looking out into the city.
I don’t know how I got here. I must’ve driven home, but I have no recollection of it. I remember telling the driver to pick up Penny from school, but that’s it.
Now, Megan is flipping through the magazine. The blood has drained from her face, and her fingers are shaking. In fact, her whole fucking body is trembling.
Had I seen her in that state a few hours ago, I’d be jumping to her side, trying to soothe her. I’d be wishing I were making that sexy little body tremble for a completely different reason.
But right now, with the evidence of her betrayal right in front of me, I can't muster up much sympathy. As far as I can tell, she has brought this upon herself.
Sure, tabloids lie all the time. I’ve been a victim of that old tradition more than once.
But this is different. There are things only my dear wife would know, written on those glossy pages. As much as I want to believe the whole thing is a lie, I can't.
Eliza has looked into it, using her vast network of media contacts. She has discovered that Megan had interned at this particular tabloid and kept in touch with the editor—who, coincidentally, also happens to be the writer of the “EXCLUSIVE” piece.
To add insult to injury, Megan has even used her Hunter Corporation email address to contact this Michelle person.
I should really set up some kind of automated virtual surveillance to monitor what my staff discuss online. Any one of them could be talking to the media. I just never expected it to be her.
I don't know why Megan’s friend at the magazine would blow her cover before she could secure the money I’d promised her, but I guess I should fucking thank her for that.
She’s saving me so much time. If it weren't for this article, we would've kept up this “farce” for another year or two.
I was even thinking about turning this fake marria
ge into the real thing, considering how I felt about Megan and how well she got along with Penny.
Of course that's not going to happen now. Not unless she has a very good explanation for why she did it.
But I don't see how she could possibly have a valid reason to do it.
Megan is probably just another over-ambitious recent graduate, trying to differentiate herself from her peers, who have similar qualifications.
My heart bleeds for this generation, really, but this could hurt Penny. I don't tend to be kind or charitable to people who hurt her, however indirectly or unintentionally.
From the corner of my eye, I watch as Megan gradually slouches more and more as she makes her way through that painful article. I also notice when she's done. She raises her gaze to look at me, her mouth open but not saying anything.
“So? Is it true?” I ask, breaking the silence. I don't feel like saying anything, nor do I feel like listening to her bullshit explanation. All I need is for her to confirm one thing. “Were you undercover the whole time?”
“Well, not the whole time. Last night, I—”
“Did you or did you not start working as my assistant specifically to spy on me?” I cut her off impatiently. What's the use of listening to her drivel when it’s all made up anyway?
I need facts. And I need her to say yes or no. I realize she could still lie about that. I know it's fucking stupid, but I just need to hear it from her.
“Yes,” she says, telling me all I need to hear. Why does it still stab like a blade to the fucking heart, when I knew she was probably going to say yes?
“Okay,” I say flatly. I get up and walk toward the bar cart in the corner, where I store bottles of alcohol. I stand there, mulling over what to drink. What combination of these alcoholic beverages goes with betrayal? Maybe I should hire a fucking sommelier.
