Corporate Assets_A Fake Marriage Romance

  Corporate Assets

  A Fake Marriage Romance

  Stephanie Brother

  Stephanie Brother

  © 2018 Stephanie Brother

  All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is purely coincidental. The characters are all productions of the author's imagination.

  Please note that this work is intended only for adults over the age of 18 and all characters represented as 18 or over.

  Kindle Edition

  Book cover designed by Kasmit Covers

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  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  1. Sage

  2. Case

  3. Sage

  4. Case

  5. Sage

  6. Case

  7. Sage

  8. Case

  9. Sage

  10. Case

  11. Sage

  12. Case

  13. Sage

  14. Case

  15. Sage

  16. Case

  17. Sage

  18. Case

  19. Sage

  20. Case

  21. Sage

  22. Case

  23. Sage

  24. Case

  25. Sage

  26. Case

  27. Lauren’s Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Stephanie Brother

  Sage

  My foot tapped against the slate colored tiles, creating an impatient rhythm of their own. They definitely didn’t move with the pace of the clock on the wall.

  It was my first day at this new gig. It was only 10:00 AM. It wasn’t even lunchtime. It wasn’t even my first payday.

  But fuck this shit. I was already desperate to go home. And the office assistant wasn’t helping.

  I found this job off Craigslist, and in the middle of Mercury Retrograde, both of which should have been my first warning signs. The gig was 40 hours, but paid $13 per hour, and didn’t involve benefits.

  It was video surveillance, easy enough, I guess.

  Actually, it was too easy. That was the problem. We watched videos of school buses making stops in the morning and the afternoon. We would check to see if any cars disobeyed the stop sign, record their license plates, and submit the information. The city would issue tickets to the offenders, keeping children safe, and raking in dough.

  Not to be mean, but I had one Master’s degree, and another one would be complete from an Ivy League school within the next few weeks. But I was laid off from my job, and I was struggling to make ends meet, so I didn’t have much choice. This job was well below my experience level and pay grade. But such was life.

  The other problem was that the manager who had hired me quit within one hour into my shift. She was super nice, but this was another big red flag to run. I guess this wouldn’t have been so bad if the other higher-ups weren’t people who treated me like I was rank scum beneath their shoe.

  Tiffany was at the top of that list. She was the manager’s assistant, but took it upon herself to be an overseer. She often stalked the spreadsheets and left comments in obnoxious blue and red font and plenty of exclamations. She also made it clear within the first hour I was there, that my presence wasn’t welcome. She criticized and snapped on me for everything, from wearing headphones while I worked, down to not straining my eyeballs to figure out an extremely vague license plate.

  I didn’t know what her problem with me was, but it was made more clear with the introduction of the marketing guy.

  “We have to talk about your performance,” he started. “You’re on your phone, you’re not moving at the speed of the others, and you don’t seem to be interested in this job.”

  “Everyone else uses their phone to listen to music, and they even get up for frequent smoke breaks. It’s my first day. I’m simply learning the rules.”

  “You should worry about yourself.” Tiffany chimed in with a stern glare. I wanted to slap the glasses off her pointy face. She looked like a misplaced giraffe and it annoyed me.

  Long story short, the man became even more of an asshole, and he said, “We’re going to have to let you go.”

  They might have been used to low-wage employees crying and begging to keep their job. I immediately stood up, and walked out. Their jaws dropped as I grabbed my bags and left without another word.

  Fuck that crazy ass place.

  I’d do better. Somehow.

  Case

  Earlier today, my father sent a private email to the advisory board. Only the utmost of management had been CC’d on the message. Within it, there were a few simple sentences, and one clear truth. My father was considering an early retirement; he was currently reviewing everyone to see who the next CEO would be.

  As his oldest, I was naturally on this list. The fact that I was intelligent, focused, and a top performer also helped. But, there were a few problems to sealing the deal.

  My father didn’t want nepotism to appear obvious on his behalf. I found that funny, as nepotism funded his career. He began as an employee in my grandfather’s company, and this one was built of the legacy and capital raised in that one.

  Others in the C-suite looked around excitedly, determined to make their best effort at a shot for CEO. I smirked at their jokes of beating me to my father’s throne.

  Deep down, I knew I didn’t have any competition. The biggest problem was personal. Dad didn’t want me to tarnish the company’s wholesome old money reputation with playboy antics. I was 29, nearing 30, the perfect age to grab a trophy wife and settle down.

  “No mistresses. No wild parties. No open marriage.” He gave me a warning look one day. “I need you to be settled down and married before you even think you have a hand of ownership at this company.”

  When I protested, he went on some spiel about optics and the company needing a beacon of stability to appease customers and shareholders. That beacon could only come from someone married with 2.5 kids, I supposed.

  I blew air through my mouth, and made it look natural. He was frustrating me with this “settle-down” shit. As many hours as I worked, when was I supposed to find a good – no, excuse me – “beautiful woman” – who would happily marry me?

  Long days and busy evenings would keep me from being able to spend time with her. A trophy wife would be married to the image, more or less. Probably kick out two or three kids to keep me happy, and the facade convincing to the outside looking in. But it would be nothing more than a transaction, as soulless as me buying my morning coffee.

  Except with wedding vows.

  That conversation was exactly six months ago. I perceived that I had another six to twelve months before we even got to this point, to where we would have to make a decision fast.

  But that new woman of his changed everything. Marissa was everything Dad had been missing since my mother died. He dabbled with a few women, but I could tell they were filling an unfillable void. The fact that a good few of them were barely older than me didn’t help.

  Marissa was different. She was older, around my mother’s age. She was vibrant and beautiful, blessed with the youthful glow of a college girl on Spring Break, sans bikini and ultra-tan.

  Most of all, she was genuinely lik
able. I didn’t take to my father’s other women at all. They were snotty, egotistical, and downright empty-headed. I could smell the opportunistic tendencies within them, their desire to live the good life by keeping “some rich old man happy.”

  “Aye, Case, you ready to lose your spot?” Mike taunted. He was 42, married with two kids. He was the only one a hair’s length closer to beating me over the rest, who were nowhere near me to begin with.

  I snorted. Of course Mike lived at the company. His wife was a bore. Her pussy had to be drier than the Sahara, because he'd never be one to get a woman wet for him.

  I’d be damned if I let Mike and his sandpaper pussy wife take over my family’s legacy.

  “Let the games begin, gentlemen.” I announced jokingly. I held my arm up as I spoke, commanding the attention in the room. “May the best man win, and may the odds be ever in your favor.”

  I walked out cheerfully, allowing them to laugh off the moment. But I meant what I said.

  The best man would win — but that man was me. I was the best of the best of the best.

  I just couldn’t fuck around anymore. I didn’t have another six months to find a wife. I didn’t even have another three months.

  I needed to find her ASAP.

  But I had a few tricks up my sleeve to make that happen.

  Let the games begin, gentleman.

  Sage

  “You have to put your pride to the side, young lady.”

  “Mom, I’m doing the best I can right now. They fired me because they knew I didn’t belong there.” I sighed as I stretched myself out on the bed I'd slept in since before I was a teenager. “The girl was a bitch to me from the moment I walked in.”

  “Well you know that you have to play by the rules when you’re on someone else’s territory.” Mom replied. I could hear the frustration lace her voice as she spoke. “I know this is new to you, but there’s a lot you have to work with these days in order to have job security.”

  “Job security doesn’t exist, Mom. That’s the thing. You can spend hundreds of thousands of dollars to go to school, only to end up jumping through hoops for a $13 an hour office job that doesn’t even have benefits.”

  “That’s life honey.” She sounded exasperated.

  I listened to her continue to lecture me on “playing by the rules,” even though it was clear she had no idea how jacked up the rules were these days.

  I listened to her. Got good grades, stayed in shape, and was intelligent and polished. It wasn’t enough to keep me from being abruptly laid off.

  Everything in the career world was competitive these days. I thought about that job I’d been fired from and my heart blackened at that experience.

  I was jobless, once again, but I was growing used to it. My unemployment checks would pay up, and the food stamps would keep me afloat too. My tax return would also float me for a while, once it came.

  I wasn’t in a bad position, just an uncomfortable one, given my current status of living in my mother's house after college.

  What would I do when the money ran out? If it ran out?

  I didn’t even want to think about it. I couldn't mooch off my mother forever.

  “Thanks, Mom. I guess you’re right. I’ll work on it,” I promised.

  “Okay honey, but you never answered me about dinner?”

  “Oh, dinner. When? Tonight?”

  She sighed a frustrated sigh, one that let me know she realized I was in my own world for the past ninety-seconds. She repeated herself again.

  “I have someone I’d like you to meet.” She used a melodic tone. “He’s become a very important part of my life.”

  “Mom!” I squealed in disbelief. “You’ve been dating and haven’t told me?!”

  “I needed some privacy first. I can’t bring every potential man around me.” She spoke reasonably, and I decided I couldn’t fault her for the surprise.

  “Well, when do you want me to meet him?” I asked.

  “We’re going to dinner next week. I’m meeting his son for the first time too.”

  My stomach roiled. Meeting this potential family would put a lot of pressure on me. At the same time, free dinner would be great.

  They say the best way to get a job is through networking these days, right?

  “Sure, just tell me when and where.” I made a note to look extra presentable, just in case they were worth impressing. You know — for a job.

  I'd called Mom for a pep talk of sorts, but I only got mixed results. Sitting back up, I groaned, forced with the problem of the never-ending job search.

  I started going through Craigslist. There were nothing but low-tier options on there. I needed $60,000 or higher to really make it on my own, but anything tolerable that could help me cover something while I got it together would keep my sanity in check.

  Every listing was for scammy things. Marketing jobs where you honestly went door to door soliciting and getting paid per lead. Appointment setting jobs with tons of cold calling. Jobs that require a bachelor’s degree for $11 per hour.

  Pure trash, all of it.

  Then I saw an ad that made me giggle. An ad for an actress to play fiancée. I knew better than to click it. A situation like that would be nothing but drama. Playing some dingy guy’s wife? Until when, his trust fund ran out?

  Psh.

  But I did it. I clicked anyway.

  Seeking attractive woman with great smile and natural beauty to play my wife. Business arrangement with possible perks. I come with a 401K, hefty savings, and enough money to keep you happy.

  You can’t be a complete airhead. I’ll need to know of your career history, so please respond with your picture and current resume.

  Serious inquiries only.

  “He has to be kidding. What sane individual puts an ad like this in the job section?” I was intrigued, but I scoffed and giggled some more, determined to shake the idea from my clutches.

  This was a big city, full of opportunities. There were plenty of beautiful women ready to marry a man for this arrangement – or play as if they were his wife already.

  But still, the intrigue of his post dug its nails even further into me. I had nothing to lose, and depending on what happened, everything to gain. He couldn’t expect me to play his wife without some form of compensation, right?

  “What’s the worst that could happen?” I taunted myself, attaching my photo and resume with the click of a button.

  Case

  It was a simple post, yet effective enough that I woke up to 500 responses in my email account.

  I was careful enough to create one specifically for this, because I didn’t want anyone to search my name on the Internet, scour for my information, and learn more than I’d allowed them to.

  I controlled the show.

  I skimmed through the emails, looking directly at photos before reading. If they weren’t my type, what they had to say lacked importance. I was a handsome man, and generous, but I could afford to be selective.

  Within the first twenty minutes, I’d already deleted 250 of those emails. Another twenty-five came in. I deleted the ad. If the remaining two hundred and seventy-five weren’t suitable, I’d upgrade to my next tactic.

  It was already 8:30 AM, so I hit the shower, dressed, and made my way down the street to work. It was a sunny day in the city, which made for a pleasant walk. One of the benefits of living in the city was the ability to avoid rush hour traffic with a simple walk.

  Healthier anyway.

  I listened to Nipsey Hussle’s “Victory Lap” on my way in. Hilarious. To the world, I was a straight-laced white guy. Dark curly hair, blue eyes, and a sharp jawline, tall and a slightly muscular build. What would I have in common with gangster rap?

  Hustle.

  Nipsey was full of hustle. He had a sharp mind. His lyrics were more profound than fucking women and selling drugs. He was a rapper who studied business strategies from the ground up, and came back ready to talk about them, implement them, and win.


  Flying out to California, so I could smoke and share thoughts with him. Yeah, that vision was high on my bucket list.

  “Good morning!”

  “Hey, Lauren.”

  My secretary smiled. She was in her mid-thirties, and newly divorced.

  We’d gone to lunch a few times. I didn’t date women with kids, nor pissed where I ate, so anything more would be off limits. But she’d become a very good friend of mine over the years. She was also the only person in that entire building who understood me.

  She also had a vision that went beyond waiting twenty more years for her retirement. And I supported it. When the time was right, I would help her.

  “How’s your morning? Do you need me to order your coffee?”

  I stopped, and paused. “I want bulletproof coffee, with an egg and cheese sandwich. Get it from that new place around the corner. Get your green juice and something else while you’re at it.”

  She winked. I disappeared into my office. Mirrored glass in a high corner office allowed me to see everyone, without letting anyone see me. I enjoyed the privacy it bestowed. Especially when I knew my morning would be spent working on the other two hundred plus emails left in my account.

  After another hour, I’d gone through the rest of the emails. Of these responses, only twenty-five women were suitable, between 22 and 27 years old, and had supplied actual photos and resumes.

  Of these twenty-five, I became really selective. Throwing out the resumes without four-year degrees, I thought to myself, since I could choose the creme de la creme, why settle?