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The Billionaire’s Fake Marriage
Romance Boxed Set
10 Billionaire e-books!
By: Amanda Horton
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Details can be found at the end of the story.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Billionaire’s Inheritance Bride
Billionaire’s Competition Bride
Artsy Billionaire’s Curator Bride
Hothead Billionaire’s Convenience Bride
Soccer Billionaire’s Showbiz Bride
My Boss’s Fake Fiancé
Smitten by a Bad Boy
The Billionaire’s Secretary
Her Bossy Billionaire
Billionaire’s Nanny Bride
Billionaire’s Inheritance Bride
It was supposed to be an ordinary day for Miranda Benson. The alarm clock went off at exactly 5:30 in the morning as it always did, five days a week. She knew that if she looked out the window, the sky above would still be shrouded in gray while the horizon beyond, or what little she could see from the ground floor apartment, would be bathing in shades of purple as the sun struggled to erase the remnants of the night sky.
She padded softly in worn bathroom slippers to the room next to hers. She opened the door and grimaced as the door hinge squeaked. It sounded like a screech in the quiet stillness and she was anxious not to rouse the occupant in the tiny bed.
But she needn’t have worried. Sadie, her 4-year old daughter, was in deep slumber. Miranda gazed at her intently. The reddish-brown hair spread like a curtain of ringlets around her pretty face. Her eyes quivered slightly under the pink hue of closed eyelids as a ghost of a smile fleeted across tiny rosy lips.
Miranda never stopped thanking the gods for Sadie. It took five years for her and James to conceive and 48 hours of intense labor pains before Sadie made an entrance into this world. From the moment the nurse placed Sadie in her arms, Miranda worshipped her. It was that love that propelled Miranda through the endless hospital visits when Sadie was diagnosed with asthmatic bronchitis, the same devotion that made her face the challenges of antibiotics, bronchodilators, anti-inflammatory drugs and pulmonary hygiene techniques to ease her daughter’s discomfort.
The doctor suggested that they move away from the city. Miranda was willing, but James was adamant on staying; business was slow and he couldn’t afford the cost of relocating. As James got more entrenched in business, Miranda was left to fend for Sadie alone. The constant business trips put a strain into their relationship. James admitted feeling helpless around their ailing daughter and, while Miranda took sole responsibility in caring for Sadie, she felt a resentment brewing inside for James, the father who was never around.
Resentment developed into coldness until there was a wall between them so thick that Miranda didn’t know where to even begin mending it. A particularly severe bout of asthma sent her rushing with Sadie to her parents’ home far away from the city. They stayed for a couple of weeks and when they returned, things only progressed from bad to worse between her and James.
He started spending nights at the office, reasoning that it was easier for him to manage the midnight deliveries of electronic equipment for the shop. It didn’t take long for Miranda to hear whispers. He was sleeping with his business partner, a young widow who inherited a small fortune when her husband passed away.
James was furious when she asked for a divorce; then he begged for forgiveness and asked for a second chance. Miranda didn’t know exactly when her marriage had started to fall apart but at that very moment when James was begging her to stay, she knew in her heart it was over.
The divorce was ugly. James wanted sole custody of their daughter, claiming Miranda didn’t have the means to care for her. Miranda threatened to divulge his affair in court. The last two years were hard on Miranda; being a single parent always was. But, seeing her daughter sleeping peacefully, looking so serene and well, she knew she was doing something right.
Working as a secretary at Masterson Conglomerate, Miranda was part of a pool of secretaries that helped the company executives with their clerical needs. She expected her two-year temporary tenure to eventually lead to the job of a private secretary at the main office.
The girls in her department referred to themselves as ladies-in-waiting, always wondering where their next assignment would take them. They had a common dream: to work at H.Q. where all the top executives held office.
Miranda sighed as she stroked her daughter’s cheek. She kissed Sadie on the forehead. “I love you, baby girl,” she whispered tenderly, before returning to her bedroom to change for work. Mrs. Tanner, her next door neighbor, would be knocking any time soon. Miranda was thankful for the elderly lady who volunteered to look after Sadie while she was at work. That, and for the fact that Sadie hadn’t suffered any asthma attacks since moving here.
She kissed Sadie and bid Mrs. Tanner goodbye. The city bus had dropped her off two blocks away from work when she felt her cell phone buzz. She groped inside her purse for the phone and read the text message.
“Call me.” It was from James.
“What the fuck? You need something and I am supposed to call you?” She ignored the message with annoyance and plopped the unit back into her purse.
She entered the building and headed to her desk when she noticed a familiar figure. “My day is headed for Shitsville,” Miranda concluded. Bob Norton, a co-worker who had been desperately trying to date her for months, hovered nearby. He refused to take no for an answer and seemed flabbergasted by her unrelenting refusal. It didn’t help that the other girls fawned over him. Bob thought he was God’s gift to women and took every opportunity to make Miranda realize her loss.
Miranda scuttled to her desk; she felt safer with the table between them. Bob had a nasty habit of standing too close for comfort. He thought it was sexy. Miranda thought it was nauseating.
“Have you heard the news?” he whispered conspiratorially into her ear.
Miranda felt her skin crawl, like someone had run a fingernail across a chalkboard.
“What news, Bob?” she asked politely. “Does HQ need our services?”
“You wish,” Bob replied, “there are talks that the memo will come today.”
“What memo?” Miranda asked.
“That I’m dating someone from HQ...” Bob hoped to get a reaction with that joke. Miranda’s expression remained uninterested. He continued, “The Company is cutting back on the number of secretaries and some of us will be losing our jobs.”
Miranda was taken aback. Talks like that have been rife for months but nothing ever happened. “It’s just gossip…” Miranda replied, even as panic filled her chest.
Just then, Mrs. Mason, the supervisor, entered the building. Bob scurried back to his table. Ann Mason ran the pool with an iron hand and discouraged gossip. She was strict with the motley crew. Today she seemed anxious and ignored everyone as she made her way to her cubicle. Miranda wondered why she looked so distracted.
When the bombshell exploded, Miranda understood why.
Mrs. Mason called everyone to a meeting. The supervisor waited for the c
ommotion to die down, cleared her throat, and announced, “As you all know, there have been talks about cutting down the number of secretaries working for the company. A new directive has been given to the executives, for them to write their own letters and memos, cutting down the need for clerical services.”
Ann Mason couldn’t look the girls in the eye, “This,” holding up a memo, “contains the names that will be cut. Everyone on the list is entitled to goodwill money worth three months salary.”
She tacked the paper to the bulletin board, grabbed her purse, and made a beeline for the exit. Eerie silence followed her departure, as though the memo contained a death sentence. No one dared see the reality written on the piece of paper.
“Fuck it!” One of the girls exclaimed, grabbing the memo from the board. A ruckus of voices egged her to read out the names.
It sounded like a roll call of death. Each name was met with a groan, nervous laughter, an expletive, or incredulity. Bob winced as his name was read. Miranda cocked an ear as the roll call continued, “The last one to get the honor of being sacked…Miranda Benson.”
Wooden legs carried Miranda back to her desk. She felt cold inside. The harsh reality of her situation hit like a ton of bricks. She couldn’t afford to get fired. What were her chances of landing another job that had potential? She’d probably end up serving coffee or waiting tables.
The persistent ringing of her cell penetrated her numbed brain. “Hello,” she answered, cautiously avoiding the caller ID.
“Miranda, this is James.”
“Swell!” Not exactly the person she wanted to talk to right now.
She summoned a degree of civility, “Yes James?”
“I was texting you all morning, but I guess you were busy.”
“Not busy. Just didn’t want to have anything to do with you,” said a wayward thought.
“Well…” James continued, “I just wanted to let you know. I’m getting married again.”
“Who’s the lucky lady?” Miranda mused, unable to keep the sarcasm away. Then it struck her, “Oh, you mean to the merry widow, your business partner. Congratulations. You two deserve each other.”
“Mimi, please don’t be that way.”
Miranda cringed at the sound of him saying her pet name, as though they didn’t go through a nasty divorce.
“I’m sorry,” Miranda answered, striving for peaceful ground, “But I do mean it. I hope you’ll be happy together.”
There was silence at the other end. “The-the reason I really called was to let you know I will be contesting the terms of the custody. I want my daughter back.”
A bolt of lightning skewered Miranda’s brain. “You what?” she screeched, as the chance for a peace treaty jumped out the window.
“I spoke to a judge friend of mine. He said that after I remarried and showed evidence that my home is more stable than the one you can provide for Sadie, the court can decide to overrule in my favor.”
“You fucking son of a bitch. You think you can take my daughter because you plan to play house with your new wife? She’s not a toy you can play with till you get bored.”
“But you’ve had her for the past two years.” The whine sent bile up her throat.
“You had her from the day she was born until we divorced. You never showed enough interest for her welfare.” Miranda replied with derision. “Besides, why can’t you just start your own family without taking my daughter away from me?”
Awkward silence.
Then James confessed, “I’ve just been to see a doctor. My, err-swimmers, are not so good. I may not have children again.”
The confession was startling, but Miranda hardly felt any sympathy. “Just because you’re impotent is no reason for me to give up my daughter.”
“I’m not impotent. I just can’t have children.” James snarled back.
“Same difference,” Miranda mocked, “You still can’t have her.”
“I can always try.” James sneered. The threat was obvious.
“You can try all you want, you piece of shit, but I’ll see you in hell first.” Miranda screamed before terminating the call.
She was fuming with rage and knew a breakdown was headed her way. Two double whammies in one day was more than anyone could take. She headed down the hallway looking for a dark hole to crawl into and cry. She spotted a utility closet and entered; it was dark and concealed – what she needed for a good bawl.
Miranda had no idea how long she wept in the dark; the office was empty when she emerged. She went to retrieve her purse. She reached to turn off her computer when an idea struck her.
It was a long shot, but if she could make her supervisor Ann Mason understand her situation, then maybe… just maybe, Ann would sympathize and ask the main office to remove her name from the list. The thought gave her hope, and she needed something to cling on to.
Driven with desire to keep her job, and knowing she needed it to keep her daughter, Miranda poured her heart out in an email. She detailed the conversation with John and the threat he made about getting Sadie. She begged Ann Mason to plead her case at HQ and help save her job.
Miranda glanced at her watch and realized it was late. Mrs. Tanner would be wondering where she was. She ended her email with another plea before scrolling through the company contact list until she found Mrs. Mason’s email address.
She uttered a small prayer, then pressed the “send” button.
***
Ace Masterson glared at his grandfather with furious blue eyes. He knew the old man was being an arrogant, stubborn, asshole.
“Are you even aware of what will happen if you die before you can sign control of the company to me?”
“Yes, I do.” The old man replied, serenely. “The trustees will take over. Sell everything and donate it to my favorite charity.”
“How can you even think of that option when you know how much I’ve put into Masterson conglomerate?” Ace asked, infuriated.
The old man straightened his back against the wheelchair. Rheumy eyes failed to conceal the authority he welded. His voice was firm when he answered: “I am aware. You enjoy the fruits of your hard work. Consider your homes all over the world, numerous cars in the garage, a private jet and a yacht in the marina. You have all that because you work hard.”
Ace ran a hand through his hair. The old man was right. He had everything except the deed showing he owned the company.
The old man continued, “I can sign everything over to you… but you know what I want.”
Ace sighed in defeat. “I’m not ready to settle down and start a family. Besides, it’s your fault. You disapprove of everyone I introduce to you.”
“Bah! Socialites, starlets, models, actresses?” The old man enumerated with disdain. “A pretty face and a wet pussy are not all that a woman is made of. You should know by now, the dumber they are, the more expensive their taste. Those hussies will go through your pocket and leave you with just the shirt on your back.”
“Oh, grandpa, you’re full of shit,” Ace chuckled, then added, “Exactly what is it that we are looking for in a girl?” He added emphasis on the ‘we’.
“A girl who can think for herself, and not those airheads you’ve introduced me to. Someone who will love you for who you are and not the number of zeroes in your bank account.”
The veracity in the old man’s words stung. His former girlfriends had expensive tastes. Vacations in the Maldives, jewelry, couture clothes, and cars - he always picked up the tab.
With the tension between them gone, old man Masterson beckoned his grandson near. “Ace, listen to me. I love you. You are my only heir. With your parents gone, I saw you grow up to become who you are today. A family will only make you stronger. I started Masterson’s conglomerate from nothing. It’s my legacy to you. Protect that legacy and pass it on to your children.”
Ace drew an audible sigh and replied, “I know, grandpa. I love you, too. I have a meeting at the office,” he added, before giving the old man a
peck on the forehead.
Ace prepared to leave when the old man called out, “Better hurry with the search for the perfect wife. I may die tomorrow.”
“Sure! You’ll probably outlive us all, you wily bastard.” Ace replied, as the old man cackled with laughter.
The rest of Ace Masterson’s day was full. He managed a meeting with his top executives, a lunch with a prince from Saudi Arabia interested in buying his aviation company in Jeddah, another meeting with a senator, and closed a deal for a tract of land in India.
He returned to the main office ready to call it a day. A couple of checks needed his signature and Sienna’s note explained it was for the laid off personnel in a downtown office. He grabbed a decanter from a nearby console and poured himself a shot of brandy before signing the checks. All were payable to unfamiliar names. He recalled a memo about cutting the secretarial pool.
“This must be it,” he contemplated.
“I wonder if it’s too late for a booty call.” Ava, a girl he had met in a bar said that he could call anytime he felt lonely.
“Shit, I’m not even in the mood.”
He powered on his Mac, deciding to check his emails. He had over 20 unread messages in his inbox. He scrolled through the names deciding there was nothing urgent that he couldn’t deal with tomorrow. He scrolled to the last email and saw it was from a Miranda Benson.
He didn’t know her, but the name sounded familiar. He clicked the inbox and was surprised to read the first line: Dear Mrs. Ann Mason.
“What the fuck…”
The email wasn’t for him; the sender had typed the wrong address. He wanted to ignore it but curiosity got the upper hand. She sounded distraught, probably the reason for the mix-up of names. Something clicked inside his head as he reached over and rifled through the checks he signed. There was one payable to Miranda Benson.
Ace leaned back on his swivel chair. The glow from the computer illuminated his good-looking face. He felt bad about the woman’s predicament. She sounded like a devoted mom, and spirited enough to coax her supervisor to plead her case. Her email was concise and clear.
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