The Millionaire’s Fake Wedding

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Blurb:

A fake wedding, millionaire, BWWM romance book. Belle Jameson has reached a breaking point in her career. Her intolerable boss’s racism has pushed her to quit her job leaving her without a source of income. She fully thought her life couldn’t get any lower than this. But fate takes an unexpected turn when she meets basketball star Allen Rodgers!

Allen’s reputation has gone through the wringer, and the only way out of it is for him to settle down and marry. So he gives Belle an offer: marry him and she can have more money she could ever want… But as they navigate this unconventional arrangement, they begin to discover a genuine and unexpected connection, leading their hearts into uncharted territory.

Will Belle and Allen’s growing feelings complicate their fake marriage beyond repair? And can they maintain the façade in the face of unexpected love? Find out in this interracial marriage romance story by Steffy Shaw.

Chapter 1

Nights were bad. Lonely. Last night, for instance, Belle under-cooked spaghetti, and ate it alone, half-listening to the evening TV.

Thrilling. Every since she’d broken up with Chris (aka A Cheating Prick), the house has felt empty. During their two-year relationship she had gotten used to having company in the evenings, somebody to share dinner with and go to bed with afterwards. But – no more!

She washed the dishes and splashed some wine into a glass, just to unwind after the long workday. With the glass in her hand, she landed back on the couch in front of the flashing screen. She had her phone close by on the coffee table, and was expecting a call from her da. He usually called around ten (later, if Belle wasn’t available), before he and ma went to sleep. A quick chat, to make sure everything was okay. Normally, she’d be mildly annoyed with it (she was twenty-six, after all, was there really a need to check up on her every night?), but the wine, albeit not that tasty, had done its job.

At precisely ten on her phone, the size of a paperback book played Hollaback Girl, displaying a picture of Belle with her da from their trip to the beach last summer. Belle picked up.

“Hey, Da.”

“Hey, little girl! How was your day?”

“Same old – emails, phone calls, making reservations…” This was the line Belle told him every night. She worked as an assistant for one busy gentleman, Mr. Fogerty, and all his communications went through her. She didn’t mind – she had always been good with people, plus the pay was good for that sort of work. There was a catch, however, and that catch explained why there had been an assistant’s position in the first place: Mr. Fogerty, while he was a brilliant businessman, could hardly communicate with others. He’d speak quietly, often swallowing words, and still expect you to hear him well. There was an inside joke at the office that Belle was a professional translator from Fogertian to English and back. The boss, of course, had no idea about it, nor was he curious to find out. But the list went on: besides the slightly amusing speech impediment and awful irritability, Mr. Fogerty also had terrible memory and, like many old white men, was a bit racist without even knowing it. The first time he had called Belle ‘my dark chocolate’ she wanted to strangle him. Then she remembered how good the pay was and kept quiet. Fogerty, however, kept making awkward remarks from time to time, making her more and more mad and impatient.

“Good, good,” Belle’s da replied. That, in turn, was his daily phrase in response to his daughter’s. “Your ma sends you kisses, girl,” he added.

“Send her back a bunch, da!”

“I’m glad you’re okay, honey, sleep tight!”

There was swishing on the line, presumably as ma took hold of the handset. She said: “And don’t drink too much! You think I can’t hear that glass clinking?”

“I won’t ma, don’t worry. You guys sleep well.”

Belle hung up. It was mostly her father who called in the evenings. Ma had never been into the touch-feely stuff, leaving that to da. She was a pragmatic woman, calling only every so often, and swinging by Belle’s place to share some day-to-day wisdom with her. Ma always knew what to do and when to do it. It had proved effective, Belle had to admit: it was through her mother that she’d connected with Mr. Fogerty, and it was her ma who’d vouched for her, which got her the interview. The rest was Belle’s natural charm and people skills.

She put her phone down and finished the wine. Already she felt better, if still a bit lonely. She barely reached the sink to wash the glass when the phone rang again, only this time instead of Gwen Stefani it was Aretha Franklin’s Respect, which Belle thought was very ironic, since the ringtone was set for her mildly sexist and racist boss.

With a tipsy smile on her face, she hurried to the coffee table and answered the call.

“Mr. Fogerty?”

“Belle. Hello. Please, cavamel, come in a bit eavlier tomovvow, all vight?”

“Okay, you got it.” She wanted to ask if there was a specific reason for that, but decided she didn’t much care.

“Tevvific. Appveciate it.”

Fogerty ended the call, and Belle splashed some more wine. If she had to come in early, she thought she’d go to sleep earlier, and what better remedy for that than wine?

She drank slowly, partly because she wanted to cherish the taste (now that she was working on the second glass, it got better) and partly because she didn’t want to go to bed. Because nights were bad. Lonely. The bed was empty, cool, and, even though it wasn’t, it felt too big for her. She finished the glass, washed it with water and went to bed.

Nights were bad, but mornings were even worse. At least lonely nights ended with her falling asleep and dreaming, whereas lonely mornings would go on to become lonely days. Belle woke up at six sharp and went straight to the kitchen to drink a glass or two of water – wine had been bad after all. Once that was done, she took a quick shower and brewed coffee with the TV on (it promised good weather and bad traffic). Then some morning talk show came on, and Belle heard the host speaking urgently, making a point of sounding almost dramatically concerned about the situation. He once again refreshed in the audience’s memory the scandalous story that had taken place a last year: Allen Rodgers, a hotsh*t b-ball player, went on an all-night frenzy that involved cocaine and hookers. That was the story, although the host, of course, used more TV-friendly words. He also promised a shocking new development for everyone watching: next up was an interview with Candice Turley, one of the ‘escort workers’ who attended the same party as Mr. Rodgers.

“Yeah, right,” Belle muttered. Speaking plainly, Candice was one of the three hookers from Rodgers’ posse that night. Candice was the one who documented the whole thing and later posted it to Instagram for the world to see. And see it the world did! From hero to zero in just a few hours – that was the journey Allen Rodgers had to take after the scandal had broken out. He still had millions of fans all around the country, but the media feasted on the story for months and, thanks to everyone carrying a high-quality camera in their pocket these days, provided countless photo and video evidence of the whole ordeal. TMZ had a blast, and other, more respectable media outlets, such as the one Belle was watching this morning, made Rodgers the poster child for immoral and spoiled celebrities.

The commercial ended, and the host asked to please welcome in to the studio Ms. Candice Turley! Applause followed, and to the sound of it, a tall girl, suitable for a Victoria’s Secret runway, walked out and to her assigned chair in the middle of the studio. She was dressed modestly in white suit pants and a lilac shirt, in contrast to the infamous Instagram photos, in which she wore a bra (once), but mostly a bed sheet wrapped tightly around her, effectively demonstrating all her curves. Candice held the host’s hand briefly, as if she was a nun, and landed in her chair. She starting saying something in a rather annoying voice, but Belle was too busy getting dressed to listen. The coffee was steaming on the kitchen counter, and the morning outside was still dark.

Belle returned to the room in time for a little slideshow of the Rodgers’ frenzy night (all indecencies blurred out), complete with author’s commentary.

“Gross,” Belle said out loud, referring to the whole situation. Then she took a sip of hot, sweet coffee, and the morning began getting better.