Fake It Real: A Billionaire Fake Marriage Romance

by Zahra Girard

  “He is,” she agrees.

  She steps forward slowly and I watch as she runs her hands over the car’s smooth lines, chewing on her lip slightly while she takes the car in, her eyes bight. This car is the pride and joy of my collection. But even with my Jag being here, Melody is the sexiest thing in this room.

  “And you fixed it yourself?” she says.

  I nod. “All original parts.”

  “I don’t know much about cars, and I’m fine with that. If you try and talk to me about your Lamborghini or your Beemer, my eyes will glaze over, I guarantee you. But this one’s different. It’s beautiful.”

  “Thank you,” I say. And I mean it. Hell, just seeing her appreciate my work has me grinning. “Let’s take a ride.”

  She hops inside and I pull us out of the garage and take us out onto the streets. The sun’s out, the wind starts whipping her hair around, and the edges of her lips curl up ever so slightly in a smile, rising higher every time I press that accelerator down and the rumble of the engine reverberates in our bodies. It’s hard keeping my eyes on the road.

  Right now, driving this car, with this woman by my side, I feel like the luckiest man in the world.

  “Your brother seems like a good guy,” she says, once we’re closer to downtown.

  “He is. We’re pretty proud of him,” I say. “And, if I’m being honest, a little envious.”

  “Envious? How so?”

  “When he was maybe ten, eleven, he was already doing math at the college freshman level. In fact, he was so good at it that even our dad, the all-business Garret Danforth Stone, realized it’d be better for him to go study whatever the hell he wants than to work at Stone Capital. He’s the only one of us that didn’t get sucked in.”

  I know it sounds like I’m bitter — she definitely hears some of that in my voice — but I couldn’t be more proud of my brother. And that, more of than anything else, rings through in my voice.

  “Mike’s a math genius? The same Mike we met at the aftermath of some sex party?”

  “He might be a math geek, but he’s also a Stone.”

  I’m proud of my brother for that, too.

  “So, Mike’s the college student, your brother Alex was the CEO, what’s your role in Stone Capital?”

  I roll my neck and shoulders, trying to loosen them up before diving into more business talk. This shit makes me tense. Still, it’s good to have someone to talk to. Someone that’s on the outside and cares enough to actually listen.

  “I could give you my official title — which is just corporate bullshit — but the truth is, my job is to go to the places where we are having problems and clean house or bribe or do whatever the hell we have to do to get things done. Basically, anything the family can do to keep me out of the country, or at least out of the state, and out of the newspapers.”

  “Do you like it?”

  I shrug. “Parts of it. The money’s great. The traveling, too. And what’s not to like about drinking Chinese or British businessmen under the table? Or taking some Swiss banking regulators climbing?”

  She looks at me out of the corner of her eye. It’s an appraising look, like the kind you’d see across the table in the boardroom. “What don’t you like about it?”

  “All the rest.”

  “Why are you fighting for it if it doesn’t make you happy?”

  It’s refreshing as hell not to have someone fawn over me, or to drool over the things I have and talk about how great it must be to have all the money I have and blah blah blah. Of course it’s fucking great to have money and power, why the hell else would people spend their whole lives working for it?

  Instead, it’s just the two of us, talking like equals. The way she is — smart, gorgeous, perceptive — is miles ahead of any other woman I’ve ever been with. There isn’t a thing about her right now that isn’t beautiful.

  “Because I love my brothers. Seeing Alex get fucked over like he has been — and then seeing other people swoop in to try and take advantage — you can bet I’m going to fight. I’ll go to hell for my brothers, even to the boardroom at Stone Capital.”

  We hit a sharp turn and I pull the wheel, cornering around those steep San Francisco angles, and the momentum presses her into me. There’s this perfect second with her body against mine, held there by the force of our turn, that seems to carry on forever. And even though it’s abrupt, and I’d expect her to be tense, she’s relaxed and comfortable.

  She leans into me, her eyes flicker and meet mine and I catch this subtle lavender-vanilla scent off her as her hair flutters by my face. She smiles lightly before moving back to her seat. My heart is pounding.

  “You’re a good man, Julian,” she says quietly.

  I take a quiet second to just appreciate her words. It feels good hearing someone say that for once. I’m so used to hearing the opposite. Hell, it’s been my job to be the kind of person that gets as dirty as it takes to get the job done.

  “Thanks, but I wouldn’t go that far,” I say.

  We turn another sharp corner and I slam on the breaks to avoid hitting some idiot who’s going ten under the speed limit even though there’s somehow almost no traffic, which is a miracle this close to Union Square and has me thinking that maybe there was some sort of apocalypse or Leftovers type event that I missed.

  “What about you? What’s the real reason you’re doing all this? Who in their right mind sells themselves for a few months?” I say.

  I don’t know a delicate or polite way to phrase it — probably because neither of those words exists in my vocabulary — and, the look she gets on her face, tells me I’m pretty damn close to stepping in it.

  She watches the Victorian rowhouses and high rises roll by, though her eyes have this far-off look in them that tell me she’s hardly seeing anything around us.

  “I’ve got a lot of reasons,” she says, her voice withdrawn. “But put yourself in my shoes for a second. How far would you go if you finally had what you want the most and you were on the verge of losing it?”

  We pull to a stop by Union Park and she hops out right away. Her demeanor changes, going from distant to present and happy and her eyes light up.

  “Anyways, my fiance, it’s time to go ring shopping.”

  * * * * *

  Twelve shops.

  Sixteen different salespeople.

  Thirty-seven different rings.

  We run a marathon of jewelers until we find a ring that suits her.

  And to top it off, it’s at the first shop we visit and I am reasonably certain she’s dragging me around from shop to shop just to mess with me.

  But I don’t mind. There’s something about the way she plays up being my overjoyed fiance, going on and on about how grand our wedding is sure to be, that feels really good.

  There’s something nice, too, about seeing her doted on by every salesperson we come across. I get the feeling that it’s been a long time since she’s had people other than her friends go out of their way to make her happy. Laughing, joking, with light in her eyes and her smile.

  I could get used to this.

  Plus, at each shop we go to, once they find out our budget and get an idea of the kind of money I’ve got, they’re more than happy to offer us wine or champagne to drink while we check out rings.

  By the time we get back to the first shop, we’re plenty buzzed on both booze and our upcoming never-going-to-happen nuptials.

  “Darling,” Melody says, standing over the display case, hand outstretched, with some shimmering-like-a-star diamond adorning her finger, “this is the one.”

  It fits her perfectly.

  “It looks beautiful on you,” the salesman says. Then he turns to me, “sir, that particular ring does cost around —”

  I stop listening and whip out my wallet to hand over a credit card. The price doesn’t matter. “We’ll take it.”

  Melody kind of freezes for a second and her smile wavers. She probably heard the price, and, when the salesman leaves to g
o run the card, she hisses to me, “are you sure? I can find something less expensive.”

  “Do you think I’m going to have my fiance wearing anything other than the ring she wants?” I reply. “You deserve the best.”

  She looks at the ring for a second, then back to me. “Thank you,” she whispers and she means it.

  Then, she’s beaming again.

  I know this is all fake, I know it’s temporary and will be over in a month or two and then I’ll probably never see her again, but for now, it feels right to treat her.

  “You’re welcome.”

  I mean it, too.

  Chapter Nine

  Melody

  “We’re not done, yet,” Julian says, once we get back to his car.

  I’ve hardly been paying attention during our walk back to the car from the jewelery store. I know I shouldn’t be flaunting my ring in public like this, but I just can’t stop gawking at the thing.

  Who cares if it’s all fake? Right now, it’s real and it’s sitting on my finger and it’s elegant and beautiful and it, somehow, always seems to be catching the light just right so it has this shimmer.

  “What?” I say, still dazed.

  “We need to get you some clothes,” he says, opening the door for me.

  I sit. I’m still staring at my ring.

  “Ok,” I feel like a puppy on tranquilizers, the most malleable, cooperative thing on earth.

  “You like the ring?” he says, sitting down next to me.

  “What do you think?” I say.

  There’s a glint in his eye that I can’t quite figure out, and a smile twisting his lips that I haven’t seen before. He doesn’t answer, instead, he turns the key and presses the gas, letting the Jaguar purr as we peel away from our parking spot.

  We aren’t driving long, hardly enough for the Jaguar to stretch it’s legs, before we pull up in front of some boutique. There’s hardly a sign on the place — just a small scrawl above the door saying ‘Lilliana’ — but the place doesn’t need a sign. What’s in the windows speaks for itself.

  We enter and my jaw drops.

  Brands that I’ve heard of but never even indulged in the idle fantasy of owning, like Versace and Valentino, sit side by side with Italian and French fashion labels that I don’t know, much less even have any idea about how to pronounce.

  “Are you sure about this?” I say to Julian in a breathless whisper.

  I feel like even the air in this place has got to be expensive.

  He just chuckles, places his hand on the small of my back, and ushers me forward.

  “Can I help you? Or, maybe, I should say, can I help you find the store you’re looking for?” a saleswoman says to us when we’re not more than ten steps in the store. Her accent’s hard to place, but it’s every bit as snobby and condescending as I’d expect. I’ll bet she calls herself ‘madam’ even when she’s alone.

  But I try not to take too much offense to it, because I’m still wearing the same shirt and jeans that I washed in the hotel bathroom this morning.

  “You can,” Julian says. “We’re here to get my fiance several new outfits, both formal and casual. But, first, can you tell me, do you work on commission?”

  The woman, Jaqueline, by her name tag, frowns. “Yes, sir.”

  Julian nods, but doesn’t respond otherwise. He takes out his wallet, opens it, and pulls out several solid black credit cards and shuffles through them, completely ignoring Jaqueline, who now has eyes the size of saucers.

  Finding the card he wants, he hands it over to me.

  “Buy whatever you want, spend as much as you want, because you deserve it and I want to see how fantastic and sexy these clothes look on you,” he says, his voice intense and earnest. I can feel my cheeks start to turn pink. “But not with Jaqueline — don’t ever accept disrespect like that. Go talk to one of the other saleswomen, and the first that gives you a genuine smile and the respect you deserve, shop with them. Spend all you want. If none of them treat you right, fuck ‘em, we’ll leave.”

  I take the card and wrap him in a hug, and he squeezes me back.

  The next saleswoman I go to — a brunette woman, tall, slender, and maybe ten years older than me, with a kind smile — is perfect.

  “Hello, how can I help you?” she says in a voice that’s refined and classy and then her eyes flicker to the sparkle of my ring and her voice gets warm. “That is a stunning ring. Can I take a look?”

  I hold out my hand and smile. “Of course. Thank you,” I say.

  The nametag on her shirt says ‘Stephanie’.

  “So — and sorry for getting distracted, your ring is just fabulous — what can I do for you?” Stephanie says.

  “I really need to add to my wardrobe. I need some formal outfits, dresses, and some casual stuff,” I say.

  I feel like entirely the wrong sort of person to be shopping here, and I have no real idea of what I want, but there isn’t a single hit of judgment coming from Stephanie.

  She looks me over with an appraising eye, then nods.

  “And how much time has he given you?”

  I shrug. “The whole day, if we need it. He hasn’t really set a limit. As long as we get the job done is all he cares about. Oh, and he gave me this.”

  I hold out the black card and suppress a smile as her eyes widen a bit.

  “Your fiance must really, really love you,” she says.

  “I’m a lucky woman,” I reply.

  “Well, let’s find you some clothes. I’ve already got a few outfits in mind for you. And, if there’s anything you see that you really like — let me know. We have a tailor and a dressmaker on staff, both trained in London. Everything you buy will be made to fit you exactly as it should.”

  Stephanie treats me like I’m a queen, and the hours of haute couture whisk by in a whirlwind of dresses and skirts and blouses and cardigans and, at one point, even a cape.

  I buy more than I should, which I’m sure is about what Julian expects. It feels extravagant and excessive and yet, it’s exactly the kind of thing I’ll need to get used to if I’m going to live in his world for a while.

  I know I shouldn’t get too adjusted to this sort of thing, because in a month I’ll be back to my old life, but for now? It feels good. It makes me feel confident just being around him.

  We get back to the front of the shop and Julian is there, shooting the breeze with a man wearing the kind of suit I’d expect to see on a 1930’s bartender. There’s a tape measure dangling from his pocket and he has a handlebar mustache.

  “—So, then he says to me ‘on the other hand, you have different fingers’ —,” Julian says, then he stops, noticing me. “We can finish the story later, Oscar. Darling, are you ready?”

  I nod. “I am. Thank you.”

  He shrugs, but there’s a lighter, kinder version of the usual smirk on his face. “I enjoy seeing you treated well. Besides, this is necessary — you can’t have a piece of fine art in a crappy frame, it’d be a crime.”

  “Sir, there’s just a matter of the bill,” Stephanie chimes in quietly. She pauses for just a moment, taking a second-look at Julian before proceeding. “And there are a couple pieces our dressmaker is going to make some minor adjustments to. It should only take a few hours, but we’ll need an address for our courier to deliver them to.”

  Nodding, he signs the receipt and gives her his address. Stephanie flips over the credit card to the signature strip and compares Julian’s John Hancock to one on the receipt.

  “Wait. No. Hold on. Excuse me, sir, are really you —?”

  He nods. “Yes.”

  “And she’s —?” Stephanie says, blushing and stuttering.

  He smiles mischievously. “Yes. She is.”

  Stephanie looks at me for a second, open-mouthed, gaping, and for the first time since meeting him, I’m starting to understand just what kind of reputation he might have.

  She takes a look around the store to make sure no one’s watching and then leans in c
onspiratorially. I can barely hear her whisper, and I’m standing right behind Julian.

  “Do you think I could get an autograph?”

  He laughs in a way that’s genuinely delighted. “Of course.”

  “Would you sign my chest?” she whispers, handing him a sharpie. Then, apologetically, she looks over at me. “If that’s ok with your fiance?”

  “Knock yourself out,” I say, more amused than anything.

  Stephanie undoes the top couple buttons to her blouse and pulls them aside and Julian signs her chest. It’s well above her breasts, so it’s pretty modest as far as chest signatures go, and I get the feeling that the only reason Stephanie is being so restrained is because I’m here.

  We leave the store carrying a bundle of clothes and I wait until we’re almost a block away before I say anything. “Just what kind of reputation do you have?”

  He shrugs and rolls his head from side to side. “A complicated one. But, like I told you, I’m pretty well known. If you read anything other than veterinary and professional journals, you’d know.”

  “Yeah, but, you signed that woman’s chest.”

  “It’s not the first time. A few years ago, I signed four different asses at the Davos conference. One of them was a guy’s.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “I wish I was. But that thing is seared into my memory, it was so damn hairy. We had to shave a spot for me to sign.”

  “You shaved a man’s ass, just to sign it?”

  “It was a wild night. Plus, he was Italian minister of finance. Or maybe it was Greece. Either way, I wasn’t going to say no to him. It was pretty flattering, actually.”

  “I really don’t need to hear anymore. Thanks.”

  “Then I won’t tell you about the time Warren Buffett and I got tattoos.”

  She frowns at me. “You’re joking.”

  “Do you think it’s possible for a man to be that much of a boy scout? Warren’s got a wild side, you just need to get him in the right environment.”

  “Then what tattoo did he get?”

  “Like a good Nebraskan, he got an ear of corn tattooed right above his ankle.”