Chapter 1
The elevator door closed on Riley’s smirk. After only three weeks in the office – I’d counted – he had already made me cry in the bathroom twice. And I was not an easy crier. But he’d come into the offices of Rosewater Steed Public Relations with an axe to grind – we’d worked together at my previous firm, and he was convinced I’d gotten both my last promotion and this position at Rosewater not because of my stellar performance, but because of my pencil skirts and the body beneath them. And apparently making me pay for his perceived humiliation mattered more than client satisfaction, because he’d sabotaged my current project – a fact I’d learned mid-presentation, through some very pointed questions delivered oh-so-casually by Riley himself.
The only thing holding me together – a very fine thread – was my interview after work at Wille Corp. It was an internal PR gig, which wasn’t my speed, but I was dead tired of agency work – the hours, the thanklessness, and the new explicitly hostile coworker. Wille was one of the largest international corporations in the world, headquartered in our city, with famously generous benefits packages and salaries to match. Just having them as a bullet on my resume would open doors – and allow me to close a few at Rosewater Steed.
The headquarters was luxe, as expected, and buzzed with a certain liveliness even after hours. The receptionist was coiffed as if she’d just stepped out of a blowout, and she didn’t seem even slightly exhausted as she checked me in and printed my badge. Rationally I knew this meant there were two shifts of receptionists, but it created an air of refreshing zeal – a workplace that didn’t leave you drained at the end of the day, much less smudged with dried tears as you slouched onto a subway car.
She directed me to the elevators, scanned me up to one of the top floors, and gave me directions to the office suite where I’d be having my in-person interview. Even the elevator provided a pleasant contrast to Rosewater Steed – a balmy natural wood to their impersonal metal. And being directed to a high floor, I had reason to hope, was a good sign – after passing the first two phases of online and phone interviews, I had been routed to someone of relative importance. I might be leaving with a job offer.
The elevator was silent, except for the lilting classical music, but it was swift. The doors opened delicately onto a bright foyer, with halls extending to either side, lined with pictures and doors but no windows. Directly in front of me, a wide floor-to-ceiling window exposed a breath-taking view of the city on the cusp of sunset, and I allowed myself to take this, too, as a good omen. A wave of hope crested in my chest.
To the left, as the helpful receptionist had advised, and all the way down the hall to the last door on the right. The door was ajar, but only slightly; I knocked, and a friendly voice told me to come in.
The office was enormous. I saw now why there were no windows in the hall: firstly, because this one room took up the entire space, and secondly, because the exterior windows provided a much better view than that of the hall. I was distracted again, to my embarrassment, by the skyline. “It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?” asked my interviewer, “I could’ve gotten a higher floor, but the views are actually best on this one.”
“It’s beautiful,” I agreed, “It must be wonderful all year round, even in the rain – I bet you can see the clouds –” Turning to face my interviewer, I stumbled. “I’m so sorry, it’s just you look so much like Ezra Willing.” It must be very strange to work at a company with such a famous founder whom you resembled so closely – but at least it had the benefit of being famously, undeniably handsome. Most people would have to pay for hair that shiny and dark, cheekbones and jawline that chiseled, the aquiline nose and vibrant green eyes.
My interviewer smiled and rose from his seat. In one hand he balanced a highball glass, and the other extended to take mine in a firm handshake. “I’d certainly hope so,” he said, “or I’d have to question the photographers. I am Ezra Willing. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Chloe.”
I was gazing at the darkened view with little understanding but – I felt, given the situation – an admirable amount of grace. The CEO of a Fortune500 company had hand-selected me for a job that – while its details were vague – far exceeded any experience I’d even glimpsed. I was to be his personal public relations manager – to transition him from his current image of mysterious perma-bachelor into a more relatable, casual type of celebrity. The type of person who was described as “private” rather than “mysterious” – a George Clooney type, a Tom Hanks.
Ezra – he’d insisted I call him Ezra – had explained certain particulars, but left others muddy. And since this was very much not the interview for which I’d prepared – my portfolio of work samples and references felt pathetically irrelevant – I was struggling to articulate any questions.
“It’s not that I’m not flattered, I just don’t understand why… me.”
Ezra smiled, set down his glass with a satisfying thud, and spread his hands on the table. The intensity of his gaze left my throat dry. “Well, first of all, I know how talented you are. I know that you were the one who fixed the Wilburton hotel fiasco, and I know you let your boss take the credit.” He apparently saw my surprise because he offered another sonorous chuckle. “I wouldn’t be where I am today if I didn’t know more than just about anyone else.”
He leaned back in his chair again. His fingers found their way to the rim of the glass, but he didn’t break eye contact. “The second reason, and this is more… well, I’ve already started crafting my strategy. And the first step is that I’m getting married.”
I sat up in my seat, already framing this from a PR standpoint – it really was a brilliant move. After years of coverage as a mysterious bachelor, he would get at least a year out of the wedding publicity, and then another year out of being a newlywed: two years to transition him into a new image, I’d have to be an idiot to blow that lead. “Congratulations, Mr. Willing,” I said, coming off more effusively than was perhaps appropriate, judging by his amused smile, but I meant it. “Who’s the lucky bride-to-be?” I was sure he’d chosen her carefully, but I wanted to start my own vetting, just to be sure.
“Well, Chloe… you, if you’ll have me.”
The receptionist from downstairs had brought us both dinner, after my stomach had growled quite loudly and with rather awkward timing. I wasn’t used to giving orders – fetching takeout would have been my role at Rosewater Steed – and I had to admit that it felt pretty nice to be delivered my dinner in a top floor corner office. I was pushing the last of my General Tsos chicken around the container and trying to make him see reason.
“It’s not… it’s not just that, Mr. – Ezra, it’s not – it won’t work. We haven’t been dating. I may not be close with my family, but I have friends that would have noticed me dating a famous billionaire. And how… I mean I can’t work for Wille Corp as a wife that’s not a position.” He raised his hands and I instinctively paused, my attention directed naturally as a moth to a flame.
“Admittedly,” he said, “this wouldn’t be a formal position. But you’ll be compensated in recognition of that – you’ll be my wife, with the bank accounts and credit cards that entails. Our prenup, which has already been drafted, is very generous. And I assure you – you may not be able to feature it on your CV, but our marriage and amicable divorce will be very good for your career. And as to your friends – I’d prefer that you tell nobody, but if you must tell a few people, that’s what NDAs are for. We’ll draw up a variation of the one you signed. That can all be arranged.
“I’m not pretending this is an easy decision, and you don’t have to make it today. There are costs – namely that you won’t be able to date anyone else while we’re together, and that you’ll come out of it divorced. Some people would certainly find that a deal breaker. But I chose you for a reason, Chloe. You’re perfect for this. I think we could be quite good friends, for a couple years… or as long as you can stick it out. I’ve thought about this a lot, and I think it’s a fair offer or I wouldn’t be making it. I’d just ask you to seriously consider it, before you say no.”
It was impossible to say no to him – was that a result of some secret hyper-successful CEO negotiating tactic, or the depth of his green eyes? His lips, after hours of smiling and pursing and eating shrimp fried rice, were a tantalizing red, and then were practically pouting at me. It was an insane proposal – in both the business and engagement sense – but there was something intoxicating about the atmosphere he created around him. And would being married to him – a perfectly affable man, undeniably attractive, with infinite petty perks and a huge chunk of money – really be so unbearable, when the alternative was probably getting fired due to Riley’s espionage?
“I’ll think about it.”
