The Millionaire’s Fake Wedding

She got on the subway and was at the office at 7.10, whole fifty minutes earlier than usual. She was sure that’d be enough, since the boss himself came in at 9 in the earliest. He was a busy man, but he was also a late sleeper by busy men’s standards.

“Morning, Miss Jameson!” It was Louis, the morning guard, who always gave Bella the widest, whitest smile, which she always returned while swiping her pass. “Early today, huh?”

“Morning, Lou. Yeah. Busy bee, you know?” She waved her phone to illustrate the point, and Lou nodded understandingly. Mr. Fogerty rarely noticed him, but Belle made sure to exchange a few words with almost everyone in the office – people skills, remember?

“I’ll see you, Lou!”

“Hey, have a nice day, alright?”

Belle still had the smile on as she rode the elevator to the office. In her experience simple, honest conversations held a lot more weight than any business talk or all the window dressing she had witnessed on TV earlier. Now that she thought of it, it was something she’d never had with Chris, better known as Cheating Bas*ard. So screw him, she thought, which brought even more delight to her morning. Could it be? Were mornings finally getting better? And since the morning was good, would the day be even better? She wondered…

And jinxed it.

The elevator doors opened, and she was met by staring glances. That got her alarmed, but not too worried. It was 7.15, what could have happened? She walked on through the hallway, saying hi to people, who responded with more concerned looks, and only little hi’s of their own.

Then it hit her: had the boss died? She felt momentarily cold all over, but at the same time shamefully relieved. That’d be something, she thought. In her head, Belle was already imagining herself organizing the funeral, trying to contact the boss’s relatives, and canceling all of his meetings, and then – a weekend, perhaps?

But no such luck. In fact, the very opposite of it. Apparently, Mr. Fogerty was very much alive and, to Belle’s horror, present and accounted for. She had never clocked in after her boss, so when she neared the office and saw Carla, Fogerty’s secretary, with her lips tight in a line and eyes big, she began to freak out.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“He’s here and angry as a devil. Angry with you, Bells!”

She felt cold all over again. “I am late, aren’t I? Ah, fuck…” that last bit she only mouthed. “Should I go in?”

“You sure better try! Fingers crossed!” Carla actually did cross her fingers and held them up for Belle to see. Belle wasn’t superstitious or religious, but at that moment there was something along the lines of ‘please God help me’ on her mind. Like she’d read somewhere once: in the trenches everyone is religious. She stepped through the door.

Fogerty was inside, behind his desk, in a brown leather chair the back of which was too tall and wide for the man, making him look small, like a silver-haired child in an expensive suit. Fogerty was fussing with staring into his laptop, his face illuminated by cold light, making it look even paler than it normally was.

“Miss Jameson. How nice of you to finally show up! We’ve been waiting.”

Freaking out, Belle looked around the room, half-expecting someone else to be there, to have been expecting her along with the boss. Then she realized it was just a manner of speaking, mocking her.

“What did I say last night, Miss Jameson?”

Belle remembered word for word what the boss had said: to come in a bit earlier today. She also noticed he was speaking loudly, probably so that everyone gathered outside could hear well, while at the same time choosing his words carefully, not to use any that contained the ‘r’ sound.

“You told me to come in earlier, sir,” Belle answered, like a student being told off. She had never been told off in her childhood, being an exceptional student and all, so this was new and very uncomfortable for her.

“I told you to be here at half past six!” He made a show of checking the time, first extending his arm forward to reveal his fancy wristwatch, then bending it, his hand clenched a fist, and looking at the dial for a few whole seconds. “Seven twenty,” he announced. “Almost an hour late. How come?”

Belle felt her face get hot. If her skin were lighter, she’d probably be red all over by now. Tentatively, she spoke: “Sir, but you did not specify the time-”

“Didn’t I? But I am sure I did!” He did not sound defensive. On the contrary – he looked at her in utter surprise, as if it was unimaginable to assume he could be at fault in any way.

“No, you only told me to come in a bit earlier.”

“Is that so? Then why was I here fifty minutes ago?” He stood up, hands on his waist, and stepped from behind the desk.

“Sir, what’s going on?”

“You’ve been late, that’s what, Ms. Jameson!”

“I was not! My day doesn’t start until 8AM, and I came in at ten after seven!” Her arms were crossing under her bre*sts now, a reflexive defensive mechanism, which she caught herself doing, only too late – dropping her arms down now would look even more helpless. Instead, she took a step towards her boss.

But Fogerty didn’t flutter, accepting the challenge. “Your day stats when I say it stats!” He stepped closer to her and was now just a few feet away. He smelled of the same cologne he always wore – a harsh and unidentifiable smell that men of his age often wore. After a pause, he added, quieter: “You have disappointed me, my bwown sugar. Your ma spoke highly of you, but I think she would be disappointed, as well.” With that he looked at her with his gray eyes, as if waiting to see, out of cruel curiosity, what she’d do next.

What she did next was a couple of things. First, she suddenly got so angry that for a moment she thought she’d faint – she could hear nothing, and her vision began to become blurry. Next, she slapped the hell out of that worthless white-ass piece of sh*t! It was involuntary, and Belle saw the whole thing in slow motion, even though it happened incredibly fast. Her left hand shot left from under her bre*sts, and then shot right, her palm slapping Fogerty straight on his white clean-shaved cheek. The sound of it echoed in the room, as Fogerty’s head turned and he stumbled backwards. When time return to its natural speed, Belle was still holding her hand mid-air, watching her boss as he struggled to catch his balance. For a brief moment she feared that she’d broken his jaw or something, but then he looked back – stunned, holding on to his face and staring.

She realized then that this most likely marked the end of her current employment, and said: “Brown sugar, Mr. Fogerty? Seriously? You know how many opportunities I’ve had to file a harassment suit? Only every week! Brown fucking sugar! Screw you, honky, how do you like that?”

Once again Belle caught herself: she was holding her hand up, as if ready to strike again.