by Nikki Chase
“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 marriage 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.
“I’m sorry, Ethan,” Megan says. How could she still sound like such an angel when she's done something this destructive? She continues, “It began as an undercover assignment, but somewhere along the way it turned into something more. I swear.”
I remain silent. I can't even look at her right now. There's nothing I hate more than backstabbers. I prefer someone who openly hates me, like those people who come to my office just to scream at me, rather than someone who pretends to be on my side.
“I know it sounds like a shameless lie right now, but everything that has happened between the two of us is real.” Megan’s voice gets more frantic. She's beginning to realize that her source of both money and story is slipping away, and she's panicki
ng. She admits, “Yes, I used to send Michelle progress reports, but I stopped that last night. I cut her off. That's why she's lashing out by writing this article. It's because she knows she won't get anything from me anymore.”
“Save your breath,” I say. Instead of pouring something into a glass, I grab a random bottle.
“Ethan, I’ve never faked anything with you. The person you've been talking to, the person you liked up until this morning, I’m still that person. I’ve been nothing but real with you.”
“How am I supposed to believe you, when you’ve been doing something dishonest since the first time we met?”
“Ethan, please.” Megan’s voice starts to shake as she approaches—I can hear her footsteps getting closer. “Please listen to me. I'm so sorry about how we began. But you have to admit that what we have is real. I know you feel it, too.”
“I don't know what's real anymore.” I chuckle wryly. “Maybe you weren't even a real virgin. Maybe you just said that to gain my trust. I heard virginity restoration surgery is a thing now.”
Megan stops in her tracks. Her eyes grow red and start to water. God, she's good. So fucking good. Maybe she's an actress, too, in another one of her secret lives.
I unscrew the cap of a bottle of whiskey and raise the bottle as I stare her down. “Congrats, you fooled me real good.”
I take a swig of the whiskey straight from the bottle, and make my way toward my bedroom. This time, though, nobody's invited, especially not the fake virgin.
I should've known not to trust anybody who’d agree to a fake marriage. I should've kept her at arm’s length, instead of holding her tight against my chest.
I close my bedroom door and lock it. This is what I should've been doing the whole time. She has to live in my apartment as my fake wife, but she has no business burrowing herself any deeper into my personal life.
I put the bottle of whiskey on the nightstand and sit on the bed, leaning against the headboard.
Damn it, the whole fucking bed smells like her. How am I supposed to drown my sorrows when I’m surrounded by her, even in my own home?
If it weren't for Penny, I would've left. Maybe I’d spend the night at some hotel.
On second thought, though, that's probably not a good idea. Megan might decide to invite a whole crew of photographers and writers into the apartment while I’m gone.
One thing’s for sure, I have the worst luck when it comes to marriage. I sure can pick them.
I swear, for as long as I live, I will never get married again. There’s no wedding in my future—whether it’s real or fake.
Megan
Ethan,
Or Mr. Hunter, if that's what you want me to call you, now that you know who I am. Or maybe you don't want me to even utter your name ever again. That's okay, too. I understand completely.
I’m sorry for what I put you through. I will never stop being sorry over that. Every time I hear your name, I will always be gripped by guilt, and I will always yearn for your forgiveness, even if I know it will never come.
I should apologize for not saying goodbye in person, but I don't think you want to see me or hear my voice. I think I’m doing you a favor by leaving, and that makes me sad.
I’m sorry I have to leave. I can't face Eliza or Lana, and I especially can't face Penny.
There's an address on the back of this letter. If you need me to sign anything, just send it over.
In the divorce paperwork, please add that I won’t receive any payment for the fake marriage. On top of that, I’ll pay you back all the money that you have ever paid me. Consider it financial restitution for the hurt I’ve caused you.
Going forward, I’ll make it my new mission to clear your name. Seeing as I’ve failed my previous mission in spectacular fashion, I might not manage to accomplish it. But I’ll try. I’ll do my best.
My pen hovers over the notepad as I think about how to sign off. Best? Regards? Thanks? XOXO? Or…
I draw as much air into my lungs as I can. Maybe there's courage floating in the air that I can absorb. God knows I need it.
It’s dark outside, but there’s just enough light from the neon signs on the skyscrapers for me to make out the letters on the page. I lower my pen and strengthen my resolve.
Love,
Megan
I bite my bottom lip and read the letter again, from beginning to end.
I’ve been stopping to re-read it every time I write a new sentence. At every new paragraph, I decide the whole thing sucks, crumple up the paper, and throw it onto the marble floor of this bedroom.
I won’t call it my bedroom because it’s not my bedroom anymore—not now. I’m not wanted here, so I’m neither family member nor guest.
Ethan doesn't want me in his life, much less in his home. So I need to go.
I keep circling back to this line of thought. It's like there's a debate going on inside me, and both sides keep throwing argument after argument, telling me to stay or go.
I keep coming back to my decision to go, only to question it again after five minutes. As much as I want to believe this can be fixed, in the back of my mind I know that won't happen.
This short letter has taken me two hours to write, so far, and I'm not even done yet.
There's more I need to say to him. Since I’ll never see him or talk to him again, I want to say everything that needs to be said.
I bite the top of my pen as the words start to form in my mind. I repeat them a few times in my head before I write them on the letter.
P.S. When I was living with you, I was real and honest most of the time, except for a few minutes at night when I was sending those incriminating emails to my editor. It became impossible for me to play pretend once you accepted me as a member of your family, but it took time for me to realize that. I wish I’d cut off my editor sooner and came clean with you myself. I was starting to hope we could be an actual family, but I guess that was wishful thinking.
Okay.
That’s done.
I could sit here all night and let my compulsive editor side run wild, but then I wouldn’t be able to finish the letter before Ethan and Penny wake up.
I tear out the page from the notepad and fold it. Picking up the balls of paper strewn all over the floor, I stuff them into a pocket in my luggage. I pull my luggage upright with the handle out and give the bedroom one last look.
It’s a beautiful bedroom, especially when the blinds are pulled up like this and I can see the entire city through the glass wall.
I don’t think I’ll ever sleep in a room like this again. Hell, I might not even get to step another foot in a space this luxurious, except if I make it as a journalist and secure an interview with someone rich and famous.
I’ve spent a lot of time in this bedroom, just admiring both the interiors and the views, but right now I don’t really care how nice it is. What matters more is the memories I’m leaving, the hopes and dreams of finally belonging to a family.
I pull my luggage slowly out of the bedroom. One of the little wheels squeaks a little bit, just like it did on move-in day. It’s dead quiet right now, except for that little noise.
I drag air into my constricted lungs as I try to remember every little detail of this apartment. For once in my life, I was happy here. I was too dumb to realize how rare and precious that is. And so I carried on like I always had, plotting against Ethan Hunter without a second thought.
I put my folded letter on the dining table. Pulling the wedding band off my finger, I place it on top of the letter, as if it was a common paperweight.
There’s already a piece of paper on the table, I realize as I squint in the dark. It has my name on it. The writing is small, neat, and rounded.
Dad & Megan,
Your dinner is in the fridge, in the yellow boxes. Matt said to microwave for three minutes.
Penny
I smile as I notice the way Penny has replaced the dots over her i’s with circles. There was a time when I used to do that, t
oo.
My heart clenches. Penny knocked on my door earlier tonight, at dinnertime, and I pretended to be asleep. She must’ve had dinner alone, because I didn’t hear a peep from Ethan either. Maybe he’s passed out on his bed, drunk out of his mind.
I wonder what Penny thinks about the situation.
I let out a deep sigh as I realize she probably doesn’t know yet about what I’ve done. That’s why she’s still so sweet to me, remembering to set aside my dinner and leaving a note.
I’ll probably never see Penny again. In a few years, she’ll be all grown up and she won’t even remember me.
Oh, maybe she’ll tell her friends about that time she impulsively made her dad marry his assistant.
And she may even remember how I turned out to be a liar and a backstabber.
But she won’t remember what I looked like, or what my voice sounded like, or what we used to talk about at the dinner table.
I won’t be a part of Penny’s life, or Ethan’s. I’ll be a stranger, who’ll be lucky to be recognized if we ever bump into one another.
I’ll just be watching them from afar. It’s for the best. I won’t be able to hurt them if I can’t even see them.
I tear my gaze from Penny’s sweet little note and make my way out of this place. It’s not my home anymore. I put my finger over the scanner and wait for the elevator to arrive. Soon, my fingerprints will be erased from the database, and I won’t ever be able to come back here.
When the door opens, I have to squint because the light from inside the elevator is so bright.
“…tell me why?” A woman’s voice comes from inside the elevator, loud enough for me to worry that she might wake Ethan or Penny up.
“It’s not that I don’t want to kiss you, Piper. But that smell is vile. You know I hate pickles,” a man says in a hushed tone.
When my eyes finally adjust to the brightness, I realize Raphael Holt and his wife are in the elevator. They step back to let me and my luggage inside. They smile politely at me, looking like they feel bad about how loud they were.
