His Fake Fiancee: BBW Romance (Fake it For Me)

Ever since his double bypass almost three months ago, his temper has been even worse. Even when he had a certified nursing aide he liked he resented the need for one. Yet he couldn’t be left alone while I was at work. His sugars were sky high, he forgot his insulin, and there were times he didn’t eat during the day. The aid was necessary. Sharon is also the fifth one we’ve had in three months.

“No, I understand completely she shouldn’t put up with it. Is he home alone now?”

“I sent over Emily since she’s one of the few he’ll put up with. But I’m going to have to bill you for her.”

“I know, I understand. It’s completely fine.” I rush to reassure her, not wanting her to think I’m upset in the slightest. “She’s an LPN, and insurance only covers the CNA rate.” Lynne is already helping me by billing insurance at the lower rate, then sending me the bill for the difference. If she put it through insurance at the higher rate it would be rejected out of hand and I’d have to pay the entire shift out of pocket. “I’ll pay. Is there anyone he hasn’t pissed off yet at the CNA rate?”

“Not this week, I have two new people but next week is the soonest one is available.”

This time I can’t hide my sigh; it will cost almost three hundred dollars for Emily this week. It shouldn’t be a big deal but it is.

“Do you not want me to send her? I understand if you want to try another service. I have a few numbers I can give you.”

“I would appreciate it. At this rate I’ll need it anyway before the end of the year.” I take the numbers for the other nursing staffing companies.

Hanging up, I fight the urge to call Abuelo and tear him a new one. It wouldn’t help or change anything. Abuelo would ignore me the way he always does when I talk about something he doesn’t want to hear. I log on to my banking website and move the necessary funds from savings to checking.

It stings to see the savings balance go down. Every paycheck when money goes into savings, all I can think of is how much quicker I could quit if I used the money to pay down the mortgage. Except I need the savings for times like this. Like when the boiler went out last winter, or when the roof sprung a leak a month ago, and of course all of these issues with the nursing Abuelo needs after his heart attack and double bypass.

My email pings, oh for fuck’s sake. It’s from Simon, an all-caps declaration to behave while he’s out of the office and not forward the proposal to Volkov. What’s his deal about not submitting the proposal? I look through it again; he has the rough draft I sent him on Thursday before I completed the final proposal.

Anna’s accusation comes back to me. Simon is scared. If I were to present it Volkov, the fiercely intelligent, wickedly discerning Ivan will know Simon had nothing to do with it. How pissed will Volkov be?

His formidable reputation proceeds him not just in the company but in the business world. It’s said CEOs hide from him. He is completely and utterly ruthless, unforgiving, eternally demanding, and sees those adjectives as compliments.

Could I make it through the presentation without getting into trouble? I have a slight problem with my mouth, I’m too sarcastic, and I lost my filter somewhere around my teens. I also have no respect for authority of any kind, I ask questions a lot, and annoy people with my refusal to accept because they say so.

Like the whole no going upstairs thing and how Volkov doesn’t interact with any of his staff. It’s just...weird to work for someone who is only one floor up and to know so much about him, but not have met him even once. If I was in a big corporation and in some office in the middle of nowhere, it would make sense, but one floor up, and there being all of fifty employees in the company...

Yet in all the four years I’ve worked here, I’ve never even laid eyes on him once. I refuse to believe it isn’t odd the man never made appearances at the company parties he paid for, that he came and went from his office through a private elevator. He likes his privacy, I get it. No interviews with press, or showing up at the society parties, fine; but no contact with his own employees? It just seems like the ultimate in dickishness.

The bank website times out; I close my eyes as I remember the balance in savings. I could totally make it through the presentation if it meant I walked out of there with Simon’s job.

***

Christina

The alert is loud in the empty room: five minutes until the meeting begins. Fuck, my palms are sweating. I’m going to do it. Deep breath, Christina. You can do this. Get in front of Volkov, give the presentation on the proposal. Show him how awesome you are, that you belong in Simon’s office.

Think of it—the house paid off, no more Simon; I might even get to paint again. Even as I think of it longing wells up inside me, to spend hours lost in painting, not worrying about Abuelo, nurses, bills, or the damn house.

I push up from my desk with determination. I pull out my small mirrored compact and check again even though I checked only ten minutes ago. It’s rare for me to wear makeup at work, I have the bare minimum in my purse. Only a tinted moisturizer, mascara, eyelash curlers, and eyeliner. I don’t even have real lipstick; my previous favorite broke, and I haven’t replaced its place in my purse. All I have is a lip oil.

I’m addicted to the lip oil which has the slightest tint of pink and tastes like watermelon, shiny without being sticky. Still I consider wiping it off, as I’m pretty sure women with shiny lips don’t get taken seriously. Except it also makes my small cupid bow mouth seem bigger, so I leave it on.

I make it to the elevator at the same time as Martin. His eyes widen as they run over me. I try not to take it as an insult. I’m sure it’s because I changed into a dress. I rarely wear dresses. But I know Volkov likes his female employees to wear dresses and skirts over pants, sexist prick.

It’s not uncommon to get to work in the winter with pants soaking wet at the cuffs from the slush and puddles. So I keep an extra pair of black pants and this one dress in case of emergencies.

I don’t actually like dresses. I’ll wear skirts, but those go down to my ankle. I’m always conscious of my legs on show. In this one I’m also struggling with doubt at the way it clings to all my fat curves, and embarrassingly big breasts. I got my breasts at twelve, and at thirty I’m still not comfortable with the way men’s eyes don’t move from them for almost the entire time they are looking at me.

A deep maroon, the color compliments my hair and skin tone. I like how the hem stops two inches below my knees. Long sleeves end at the elbow in a cuff with a gold button fake closure. With an asymmetrical collar high at my neck, I feel more comfortable for it not baring my chest.

The high collar was the only reason I even tried the dress on. I only bought it in what I often think of as a moment of madness because the woman who helped me patted herself on the back for, in her words, knowing I would like a million bucks in it.

Grinning, the saleswoman said it was meant for me. She had just found it that morning, it was a leftover tucked away in the back. Someone had asked for it to be held, only they never picked it up. It was more than half off, which was the only way I could afford a cashmere dress. I have never owned anything this expensive. In the moment I felt like I couldn’t not buy it. I’m a sucker for a bargain.

“So, um, whatcha doing?” Martin clears his throat as I get in beside him.