Page 1 of Morally Black Betrothal
PROLOGUE: A STRANGE OBSESSION WITH EPITAPHS
Simone
Billionaire Gone Bad
Pretty Girl or ‘Pretty Woman’?
IT’S ALL A LIE! FAKE FIANCÉE EXPOSED!
Everyone dreams about being rich and famous.
You see the porcelain pictures in magazines or social media. Instagram. You eye the celebrities and influencers with their perfect teeth, golden lighting, immaculate clothing. And you notice, with not a little bit of envy, the way everyone loves them for it, asking them questions, wanting tobethem in every little way.
I don’t care who you are, how anti-materialist you claim to be,everyonewonders what it would be like to have the world at your fingertips.
Because it’s not about fame. It’s about recognition. It’s about being seen in a world where most of us fade into the background,one of the faceless masses. Beingknownfor something. If not for being good, then at very least, for the things we are good at.
And you read the headlines and see all the hearts, and a part of you (even if it’s the smallest, most insignificant sliver) asks the inevitable questions:
Why them and not me?
Why doesn’t anyone seemethat way?
Why hasn’t anyone seen me…ever?
The only headlines most of us will ever receive are the ones in our obituary and maybe a headstone. The inscription on my mother’s was short but loving:
Mary Ann Bishop
b. 1972 d. 2004
Beloved Wife and Mother
It was inadequate. She was so much more than a wife and mother. Mama loved to read the comics every Sunday morning. She could draw birds perfectly but was terrible with people. She would cry whenever she saw commercials about puppies and made the best banana muffins in all of Vermont. She was the proud owner of the Dandelion Sundries, one of Zagat’s top ten bakeries in Vermont, located on our family farm.
Wife and mother—she was those things. But it wasn’t fair to reduce her to just that.
I’d been writing my epitaph for years. Having your mom die when you’re eight years old makes you think about things like gravestones from an early age. The current draft read something like this:
Simone Bishop
Daughter, Baker, Lovingkindness Maker
“With bread, all sorrows are less.” —Miguel de Cervantes
I did not ever think it would readSimone Bishop, Liar, Cheat, Fake Fiancée. But judging from the Alerts that woke me at six o’clock on that bright spring morning, my legacy was sealed.
The author’s name was familiar. Ivy Ink—the mysterious byline for The Scarlet Letters, otherwise known as the gossip column for theBoston Herald.
It was supposed to be wedding bells for Brendan Black and his whirlwind paramour, waitress and hospital volunteer Simone Bishop. But will those bells even ring? Just days before his rumored announcement as the permanent CEO of the Blackguard Holding, documents were leaked, revealing that Black and Bishop’s relationship appears to be a ruse.
A contract, dated and signed four months ago, reveals lengthy terms of agreement between the two. It explicitly outlines the terms of a fake relationship and public betrothal, right down to the number of events, public outings, and even the types of displays of affection the couple was expected to enact together in order to convince everyone of the veracity of their relationship.
The question now is: why?
That is possibly the only term not stated in the contract, but the connection between Black’s appointment this month and the end of the contract (set for two weeks after the next board meeting that would confirm him in his new position) is too obvious to ignore.
Every scathing word was another cloud blotting out the cheerful spring sunlight. I should have put the phone away, but like a robot, I kept scrolling, forcing myself to read the rest of the article detailing our whole public relationship.
