Page 3 of Knocked Up by My Fake Fiancé
I'll never forget the one time we met face-to-face. How much his piercing gaze unsettled me, like he could strip away every carefully curated layer to spot the scared little scholarship kid underneath. Like he knew I don't belong to his realm of privilege and power.
An interloper in a world of self-confident, self-obsessed narcissists, who mostly seem to believe they are better than everyone else, simply because daddy has money.
Maybe that's why he's made it his mission to make my life hell. Maybe he thinks I don't deserve this job.
Maybe he's right.
If I screw it up, it won't just ruin me professionally, it'll prove him right. This event is bigger than anything I've ever handled, and imposter syndrome has been clawing at me for weeks. I force a smile to my lips, and cling to my positive thinking mantras.
I adjust my face to project my very best confident smile, and step through the swing doors into the hotel lobby.
It's the epitome of luxury. Polished marble floors. Crystal chandeliers that look like they belong in the Palace at Versailles. Crown moldings, walnut paneling, Persian silk rugs. Money drips from every surface, and every person lounging in the cushy seats radiates it too.
I straighten my shoulders and walk directly across the marble floor like I own the place, even as curious eyes follow me. My Jimmy Choo knockoffs I'd bought in Hong Kong last year make a loud click-click as I walk. Confidence is an illusion. If you wear it well enough, no one can tell you're just pretending.
But when I reach the conference hall, I can tell something's wrong even before I go in.
The jewel-toned orchids I ordered for the entrance are missing.
Odd, but fine. I can fix that. My hand pushes buttons on the keypad, and I open the door.
And freeze.
My jaw drops.
Everything is gone.
The florals. The stage. The custom seating. The art. Every detail I'd slaved over—all vanished, as if it had never been there at all.
What's left are bare white walls and soulless gray stands. Matching gray metal chairs that look like they were borrowed from a community college complete the new look. If that's what you could call it.
A bellboy pokes his head in. "Ma'am? Is everything alright?"
"No," I whisper, legs trembling as I steady myself against the wall. "Nothing is alright."
I can barely breathe. Rage and disbelief knot in my throat.
"Call the cops," I manage. "We've been robbed."
His brows knit. "Robbed?" Then he realizes. "Oh, no, ma'am. The cleanup crew moved everything to the basement. They said the owner of the event wanted it gone."
My head snaps toward him. "Under whose directions?" I snarl.
"The hotel crew said Mr. Wolfe gave the order."
Shock crashes over me. "I'm the event planner, and no one told me a damn thing."
The man shrugs weakly and backs away with a murmured apology, probably not liking the look on my face. I can't say I blame him. I'm trying to remain calm, but I don't think it's going to last long.
Fury surges hot in my chest as I stab Wolfe's secretary's number into my phone.
"Hello, this is Mr. Wolfe's private line; to whom am I speaking?" she answers in her usual bored, sing-song tone.
"What's going on, Carissa? I just walked into the Ritz and everything's gone. They said the order came from you."
"Oh yes, but not me—the boss. Mr. Wolfe hated the décor. He had them remove it for something more… tasteful."
Tasteful? Those ugly-ass chairs are his idea of tasteful?
