Fake Bride Wanted

by Holly Rayner

  “What is this really about?” I ask. “You can’t be this pissed at me just because I forgot to return your phone call.”

  “You didn’t forget, Julian,” she retorts. Her voice rises up slightly, echoing off the entryway walls.

  I’ve set a table for us out on the patio by the pool, with tall glasses and a pitcher of iced tea. I can tell now that we’re not going to make it that far.

  This is happening here and now.

  “You’re avoiding me. You’ve done this before…ever since we were at school. Whenever I got upset, you would skate around the subject, as if it was a hole in the ice that you didn’t want to fall into. Just like the girls you liked, when we were back in school. You wouldn’t talk to me about Catarina, but I knew you were going to the dance with her. Just because we don’t talk about something, doesn’t mean it’s not happening.”

  I’m having trouble following her. “This is about Catarina?” I ask.

  “No! This is about avoiding the issue. I’m tired of it.”

  “I’m not the only one who avoids things,” I say. I feel heat rising up into my cheeks. “You used to just get up and leave every time I asked you to be direct with me. Every time I suggested that you might like me…more than just a friend…you wouldn’t look at me. You would hide. You would run.”

  Shelby stands perfectly still. I see her swallow and set her jaw. “Well, I’m not going to run this time, Julian.”

  “Okay, then,” I say, not sure where this leaves us.

  Shelby steers us into the choppy, stormy seas, and I have no choice but to join her there.

  “I…have feelings for you, Julian. I think it started when we were teenagers, but now that I’m getting to know you as an adult…it’s even stronger.”

  I can’t look at her. I don’t know why. I don’t know if I can follow her into these deep and tumultuous waters.

  Her voice is shaking, still charged with energy. But now, it’s slightly quieter. The hard, sharp edge of anger is gone. All that stands is raw emotion. “I think…I think I’m falling in love you Julian. Again.”

  These words hit me full-force, a rolling wave that leaves me tipping upwards, sliding down, and then finally leveling out. She loves me?

  I don’t know what to say.

  This isn’t safe, Shelby. We can’t go here. We could hurt each other. I try to tell her with my eyes, but she won’t look me in the eye.

  She looks down to her hands. “I know that I’ve signed a contract to pretend to be your wife…but Julian, what if that’s just the beginning? What if there’s more here for us? Don’t you want to open yourself up to that possibility? Don’t you want to find out?”

  Now, finally, she looks at me.

  And her look—open, vulnerable, completely exposed—makes me feel even worse about what I have to do next.

  Before I can speak, she goes on. “I know that we were pretending to be a real couple on Monday. In that office. But Julian, what I said in there—about why I love you—that was real. That was the truth. I meant all of those things.”

  I have to do this.

  “Shelby, I know that you got caught up in that interview, just like I did. Of course I care about you…as a friend. You’ll always be my friend. I meant what I said in there, too—but I meant it in a platonic way. You are special. You always will be. But this is about a ring…a ring that’s very important to me, and my family. The Meijer Ruby, Shelby. That’s it.”

  Her face falls, crumpling as if in slow motion.

  All of the openness in her expression is suddenly gone. Her shining eyes dart away from mine, as if she can’t stand the sight of me.

  I keep talking. “That’s all this is about. I’m sorry if that’s been confusing for you.”

  She looks like she’s in pain. A crease forms in the middle of her brows, and she presses her lips together like she’s holding back tears. I step forwards. I want to comfort her, somehow. Hurting Shelby is the last thing that I want to do. I’ve said what needed to be said, but now I want to help her recover. I want to wrap my arms around her in a hug. But she steps away before I can advance.

  “Don’t,” she says.

  “I’m sorry,” I repeat.

  “You don’t have to be sorry, Julian. I’m not asking for your pity. I’m trying to open up to you.” She throws her hands up in frustration. She lets them fall, then shakes her head. “I feel sorry for you.”

  She looks around the room we stand in, her neck arching up at the vaulted ceilings, the expensive sculptures, paintings, and tapestries that adorn every surface area.

  “Look at this.” She waves her arms, gesturing to the walls. “Look at all you have! You’ve acquired so much, Julian, and yet you think that you need more. You think that you need another valuable item to add to your collection. You think that this stuff is going to make you happy?”

  With that, she walks forward, past me.

  “You have changed, Julian, and maybe not entirely in a good way. You never used to be so materialistic. Back when we were poring over wise old poets, you knew what was important. People. Experiences. Joy. Now, you surround yourself with your massive house, rows of cars, and employees who run to do your bidding. But really, you’re alone. You’ve forgotten what’s really important.”

  I can’t speak.

  I can’t move.

  I’m frozen to the spot, watching her walk towards the door. I have to admit that her words have cut into me, opening up deep wounds. I am alone.

  She places her hand on the door handle and turns towards me to deliver one last, painful truth.

  “If the ring is all you care about, Julian, then you don’t deserve me.”

  With that, she yanks open the door and marches out of my home. The door swings closed, the sound of the latch closing ringing through the entryway with an air of finality.

  I stand where I am, the aftershock of her words continuing to move through me, around me.

  I thought that I was steering us back to the safety of familiar ground, but I see now that no such safety exists. I’m in new and dangerous territory, whether I like it or not.

  Alone. I’m alone.

  It’s at least five minutes before I feel I can walk, and when I do, I shuffle blindly into one of the gaping, echoing rooms of my mansion. I keep walking, moving through another room.

  I can’t stand the sight of the empty couches and chairs, the tables perfectly staged with objects to make them look used—a magazine here, a vase of flowers there. It looks so contrived, now. Not lived in. Not filled with love.

  I can’t stop. The energy of those rooms is too dense and heavy, layered with the lack of love in my life.

  I keep walking until I get out to the patio, and I drink in a deep breath of fresh air. My body falls into a seat at the table that I set for Shelby and me. Shocked. Numb. I reach for an empty glass and fill it with iced tea.

  After taking a sip, I pull my phone from my pocket. I’m searching for a distraction, but I also want to prove to myself that Shelby’s wrong.

  When I pull up my call history, I see a disturbing pattern. Max. I’ve called Max fifteen times over the past three days alone.

  I groan out loud. It’s not that I don’t love Max; he’s been with the company for so long that we’ve passed the point of being colleagues, and I do consider him a friend.

  But really? I’m the kind of guy whose closest buddy is his personal assistant?

  When did I turn into this man?

  I place my head in my hands. I thought I had it all figured out, when I decided to keep the relationship between Shelby and me out of emotional waters. I thought I was keeping us clear from sure disaster. But now, things have gotten incredibly messy, and for the first time, I wonder if that’s a good thing.

  Maybe things needed to get this out of control before I could surrender to the feelings that dwell deep inside of me.

  Shelby asked me if I could open up to her, and now I realize that, on the deepest, purest level of my being, that’
s what I want to do.

  But—I lift my head, staring into the still, aquamarine water of the pool—how?

  When did I become so comfortable with being alone? I think over Shelby’s words, and suddenly, I know.

  Chapter 16

  Shelby

  I haven’t cried since I left Julian’s house. I’m too filled with self-righteous anger to cry.

  I meant what I said. If all he cares about is a dusty old ruby, he doesn’t deserve me.

  That’s not the kind of man I thought Julian was. That’s not who he used to be, anyway. Maybe I don’t know Julian very well, after all.

  When we were on our river cruise and he pulled off his shirt to reveal his breathtaking torso and chest, and that sprawling tattoo, I thought it was a good thing—how little I knew, how much I had to learn.

  I was amazed at how much more there was to this new Julian—the adult Julian. It was like standing before a pile of gifts, knowing that each was mine to unwrap. What else could I uncover about him? What else would he reveal to me?

  But now, as I burn off some of my anger by stomping up the stairs to my seventh-story hotel room, I consider the downside. Maybe Julian has changed for the worse. Maybe he has become selfish, egotistical, cold, and materialistic. It certainly seems that way.

  Maybe we all do, I think, my legs becoming heavy by the time I get to the sixth story. Maybe it’s a natural part of growing up. We start out as children, excited and open to sharing our love with the world. And then, over time, we get hurt. We learn to hide away, keep ourselves guarded and safe. We learn to replace real love with other things—things that have no value, yet we desperately need to replace the real treasure that we’ve allowed ourselves to hide away from.

  It’s inevitable.

  It’s part of growing up.

  I trudge up the last set of stairs, and my strategy has worked; I’ve burned off some of my anger. Now, I simply feel exhausted.

  Back in my hotel room, I lie down on the bed, kick off my sandals, and stare up at the spinning ceiling fan above me. It goes round and round, like the thoughts in my head.

  There’s no use fighting it. It’s part of growing up. I’m not any different. There’s no use fighting it.

  I feel hypnotized by the rotating blades, and I just lie there, dazed.

  When I finally sit up, there’s a sadness inside of me. I feel so tired that I can’t resist it anymore. I feel weak as I lift my purse and take out my cellphone. All I can think of is Julian, standing before me, telling me that he doesn’t love me. Not like I love him.

  Not like I loved him.

  That’s over now. I can’t love him anymore. I have to move on. I have to protect myself. And I know just how to do it.

  I pull up my social media account and open up Fleur’s message. I can’t read it again—I’ve read it so many times already, I practically have it memorized. Her manipulating compliments, her plea for sisterhood.

  This isn’t about sticking it to male entitlement or supporting each other as women, I think as I hit reply. If it was, I would feel better about it.

  But I feel about as low as I ever have in my entire life.

  No.

  This is about protecting my heart from any more pain.

  I type quickly, before I can change my mind.

  I’ll do it, I write. I hit send. It’s done.

  I don’t elaborate on what I’ll do, because I know that Fleur will understand.

  She’s probably been waiting all day for my response, checking her phone for a little icon indicating a new message. Greedily eyeing her feed, waiting for me to submit to my own greed.

  Well, now I’ve done it. I hope that she’s happy. I hope that she’s sitting somewhere, reading my message now, rubbing her hands together with a smile on her face. Maybe she’ll hold her hand out and look down at her finger, imagining the legendary stone glistening like a drop of royal red blood.

  Almost instantly, she replies.

  Great. I’ve already had my lawyers draw up a contract, in hopes that you would agree. I’ll attach it here.

  A second message comes in, following on the heels of the first. It’s an attachment, and I open it in disbelief.

  This woman works fast.

  It’s a two-page contract, detailing exactly what I’ve agreed to, plus every imaginable excuse I could give for not going through with it. If I sign this, I’ll be handing the ring over to Fleur, or else I’ll owe her my firstborn child. At least, all of the legal jargon says something like that, though in my state, I’m barely able to understand it.

  I scribble my signature electronically, and send the file zooming back through to Fleur. There. It’s really finished, now. It’s over.

  What’s so special about a ring? I think. I stand, wearily, and place my phone back in my purse. I shed my clothing and slip into a nightgown.

  I could care less about that ring at this moment. I don’t even care about the money, I realize, as I finally slip between the sheets and lie my head on the pillow.

  After all these years of holding Julian up on a pedestal, comparing all relationships to the bond that he and I once shared, I finally told him how I felt. I told him that I was falling in love with him.

  And he told me that he didn’t feel the same.

  Finally, curled in fetal position with my head heavy on my pillow, I let myself cry. The tears flow down my cheeks, and my back and chest rise and fall as I sob, hard, until sleep mercifully comes.

  Chapter 17

  Shelby

  Someone’s knocking on the door. My eyes hurt—they’re sealed together with the salt of my tears. When I manage to open them, I see that the room is pale grey with the light of predawn.

  It’s early. Who is at the door?

  At first, I can’t even remember where I am. My throat hurts, and my mouth feels dry.

  The night before comes back to me, filtering into my consciousness in bits and pieces. Storming into Julian’s house. His look of pity as he said he didn’t share my feelings. Arriving back at the hotel room…and messaging Fleur.

  It all seems like a terrible, terrible nightmare.

  I wish fervently, as I lie there motionless, that it was just a dream. But I know—from the sadness in my gut and the salt on my cheeks and lips—that it wasn’t.

  Knock, knock, knock. The incessant knocking continues.

  Who is it? Could the company have botched my reservation? Maybe I was supposed to be out yesterday, and no one told me.

  I’m in a silky slip of a nightgown, so once I get out of bed, I make my way to the bathroom. “One minute!” I call out as I move. My voice sounds hoarse and thick with sleep.

  In the bathroom, I wrap a terrycloth robe around me. It’s monogrammed with the hotel’s insignia, and it feels soft and comforting around my shoulders. I brush my teeth in a few seconds and swallow some water to soothe my parched throat.

  Slightly refreshed, I walk to the door, expecting to speak with a hotel manager.

  To be honest, I’m feeling a bit annoyed. Unless I’ve accidentally overstayed, as part of me fears, it’s highly unprofessional of the staff to be disturbing me so early in the morning. The sun isn’t even up yet, for goodness’ sake! Maybe I’d be more forgiving on another morning, but I’ve had a rough night.

  I’m prepared to say that as I sweep the door open. My hand is already on my hip, which juts out to one side.

  My posture changes the minute the door is opened wide. It’s not a hotel manager standing in the hallway.

  It’s Julian.

  He’s holding a massive bouquet of flowers. The tulips cascade over his arm—probably two dozen of them in all. He cradles the long, green stems like one might hold a baby, and the blossoms burst out over his arm and shoulder in a rainbow of purples, pinks, yellows and reds.

  I feel myself gasp.

  My eyes travel from the beautiful flowers up towards his neck, his chin, and his eyes. He looks…nervous. I reach a hand up and rub my own blurry eyes. It is so early
. What is he doing here? And why does he have flowers?

  Suddenly, I remember.

  It’s Thursday. We’re supposed to carry out our fake engagement today, before I depart for the States.

  I sigh heavily and open the door wider. “Well, you might as well come in,” I say, my voice deadpan.

  I don’t know how to get out of this. I don’t know how to make this nightmare end. After everything that happened last night—after the heartbreak of it all—I still have to carry on with this plan. Why did I ever sign that contract?

  Julian walks past me into the hotel room.

  “I’m guessing you’re here to parade me in front of the media? I suppose it won’t make for a good photo shoot if I turn up wearing a robe. I’ll get dressed.”

  I let the door close.

  Julian, who has been walking into the middle of the sitting room, turns. “We won’t be making any announcements today,” he says.

  What does he mean? It’s so early, and I wonder if my pre-coffee brain is missing something obvious.

  “Isn’t it Thursday?” I say. “I thought we were going to do the whole fake engagement thing today? Didn’t you notify the press and hire that photographer?”

  Julian speaks softly. “I canceled.”

  I feel myself suck in a breath. I don’t understand. “Why?”

  Julian steps towards me.

  “Shelby, I made a mistake last night—a mistake I’ll never be able to take back, and I’m sorry for that. I hurt you, and I want to make it up to you. If you’ll let me.”

  When we were at the bank, I saw Julian become vulnerable. I heard him speak from the heart. And now, as he stands before me in this hotel room, I am seeing it again.

  I can’t be angry with him, not when he is baring his soul to me in such a daring way. The anger that I felt the night before, the effects of which lingered over me this morning like the black cloud of a hangover, begins to dissipate.