His Fake Fiancée
Ivan Volkov is a wickedly intelligent, ruthless, and devastatingly gorgeous billionaire with a sexy British accent. He also owns the company I work for. The plan was simple: get his attention to show him I was the one behind all my boss’s awesome proposals that have been making the company hundreds of millions of dollars for the last three years. I’m the one who should be in the big office making a six-figure salary.
It worked. I definitely have Ivan’s attention. He’ll put me in the big office with a six-figure salary—once he’s done with me. He needs a personal assistant until he can find a replacement. It won’t be long, he assures me, no more than a few weeks.
Close proximity to Ivan Volkov for a few weeks? Sure, I don’t need my dignity. I wasn’t using it anyway. No matter how many times I tell myself to stop staring at him with lust, I can’t.
Volkov turns down the offer I never even made; he saw me staring, he’s used to it by now. An unrepentant user of woman, all he wants is for them to satisfy his need, then be on their way. He can get that satisfaction from any woman. The money I make him isn’t worth losing when he’s done with me.
Until the moment he needs more: a shield from a woman who won’t take no for an answer. He will do anything to protect his little sister from having her wedding ruined, even faking an engagement with me. Brilliant tactician that he is, he comes up with the answer to both of his problems. For the next three weeks we can satisfy the lust we both feel, while at the same time making it clear he isn’t available.
But before long what’s between us feels all too real. Can this lead to forever, or will the billionaire choose money over love?
1
Christina
Sonofabitch. I mouth the word I want to scream as I consider not answering the blaring, ugly multiline black phone on the corner of my desk I’ve grown to hate. Simon demanded it be set to its highest volume so he could hear it ring, in order to berate me if I took too long to answer. The only thing I like about the thing is the caller ID display is large enough I can see who it is at first glance. Kathy’s name flashes as if she were in person, demanding I pick up.
It’s only just past seven thirty in the morning—there’s no way Kathy would know I’m ignoring her call. Yeah right, she knows I’m here. There’s a reason she’s calling the office line, not my cell. Considering she’s called my cell before at hours when I wasn’t in the office, there’s no hiding from her. She’s probably doing her monthly check to make sure Simon isn’t sleeping around on her, again. Of course he is, and of course I’m not going to tell her. Even though I hate his guts it’s none of my business. I had told her the first two times she asked. After that, if she wants to stay with a guy who can’t keep it in his pants, it’s on her, not me.
Pressing the button to answer the line, I leave it on speaker. “Simon Kent’s office, how may I help you?”
“Christina,” Kathy sniffles, then hiccups. Aw crap, she caught him this time. “It’s Simon, he’s been hit by a bus. He’s in the emergency room now.”
My jaw drops. Holy shit, dreams do come true. “They’re trying to tell me he’s going to be fine, but what if he’s not? It was a bus, for Christ’s sake.”
Her babbling drones on, but I’m not really listening. I’m taking down my hair from the tight bun it’s almost always in, kicking off my black flats, then putting my feet up on my desk as I imagine the next few weeks of peace and quiet without Simon.
“Christina!”
“What? Sorry, I’m just so upset about Simon.” I force the words out, trying not to gag on them. “I lost focus for a minute. Alrighty then, keep me posted.” I’m ready to hang up.
“Wait, Simon was adamant you make sure HR knows it’s because he’s injured that he won’t be in and can’t submit today. He wants you to hold on to today’s proposal. He’s crazy, he thinks he’ll be back at work in a few days. The doctor says no way, he’s got a broken leg and a lacerated liver. He’s in the hospital for at least a week. Simon’s phone was destroyed so the office can call me if anyone needs anything. I’ll get him a new one tomorrow.”
I stopped listening as soon as she said not to submit the proposal. Not turn in the submission for acquisitions today? The company I picked is perfect. It’s one of the best buys I’ve found all year. Volkov needs to move on it fast in order to get it for the steal it is. By the time Simon gets back, the painstaking research I put in will be for nothing. Volkov might even pass on it completely. Fuck that.
She finally stops talking. I force a smile to my voice that isn’t on my face. “Of course, I’ll take care of everything. No worries.”
“I knew you would. Simon always says you—never mind. Um, okay, talk later.”
Hanging up, I roll my eyes. I know exactly what Simon says about me. While managing to insult my weight, he would have also insulted my intelligence, the way I dress, my lack of makeup or anything else he could think of. I take a deep breath as I roll my shoulders. Another three years, and I’m out of here. So close, I’m so close to paying off the mortgage. The day I do, I’m going to flip the fucker off and walk out. At this point I don’t even care if I have a new job.
I bring up an email to send to human resources as Simon so desperately wants me to do. HR will let Volkov know about Simon because god forbid any minion dare to approach him or bother the great dictator. Volkov Holdings is spread over the forty-third and forty-fourth floor of a skyscraper in downtown Chicago. The forty-third floor has the admins, HR, research, and the acquisition team. The forty-fourth floor is the legal department, IT, mergers team, and Ivan Volkov.
Those from the top floor rarely come down to this floor. It’s an unspoken rule no one from this floor goes upstairs without invitation. The members of the acquisitions team go upstairs at ten on the dot every Monday morning and present their proposals. They’re all back on their floor by no later than ten minutes after eleven—no one dares to linger.
So if I took this upstairs myself, I wouldn’t be welcomed with a smile and thanks. It wouldn’t matter if I said it was from Simon, the golden boy of the team, or that I was the actual person behind the golden boy for the last three years of the four he’s been a part of the team.
Simon’s line rings directly, flashing through the display on the work phone, and I chuckle. His side piece is calling for her morning check-in. I’m not answering if she calls my line. Since I came to work for him, I’ve had to deal with his trash. Not today.
Four years ago, only a week after graduating from the University of Illinois at Chicago with a bachelor’s degree in business, at the ripe old age of twenty-six, I managed to get a job as an administrative assistant for the research team here at Volkov Holdings. I couldn’t believe it, it was like winning an award saying you were awesome. The company is extremely competitive, it was made cl
ear the only reason I got an interview was due to a professor of mine who recommended me.