Page 3 of My Fake Billionaire Damaged Boyfriend

Gwen stops by my office while I’m still partially mesmerized by the sun cascading through the glass towers in the city. She knocks twice before I realize she’s standing there, holding her purse and her phone like she’s ready to go.

“So, how was your first day? I didn’t even see you get up for a lunch break, Izzy. You work too hard.”

“Yeah, I was just getting a little familiar with the system here. It’s really complex. Ivica Tech sells its software to customers all over the country, right? It’s amazing how they’ve managed to keep it all in line so far without any major bugs occurring.”

She waves off my assessment and offers a demure smile instead. “I have no idea what any of that means, Izzy. I’m just here to keep Alek’s meetings and phone numbers in order. The rest is better suited for a coding whizz, such as you. I’m just curious about how long you’ve been in town. I added your number to his company binder, and I noticed it was an Oregon number.”

“Yeah, I just moved from there this week. I’ve only been in town a few days, and most of that has been spent unpacking and trying to get the maintenance guy to fix my leaky kitchen sink.”

She smiles kindly, her friendly air a nice break from the other stiffs that have been pacing outside of my door. I have no doubt in my mind that I’m already not liked around here. They probably see me as the young gun coming for their job.

In reality, it’s nothing but a weird series of choices made by the CEO. I didn’t ask for a pristine office and the clearance of a code leader. I’m just a woman who likes tinkering online to escape the rural life thrust upon her by family roots.

“Well, I wanted to invite you out to the bar tonight. It’s classics night so there might be a lot of people there a bit older than you, but it’s always good fun. They play hard rock mostly, sometimes punk rock, but it’s Seattle. You never know who’s getting on stage, you just know that it’s going to be good.”

“Really?” I ask, somewhat surprised by her invite in the first place. “I never took these office workers for being into punk rock.”

She laughs, flicking her hand through the air like I’m telling a joke. “Oh, no, dear. Not these broad backs. The only people that usually go are the young guys on the third floor. They handle the legal parts of Ivica Tech. They’re pretty tame. You really need to worry about the women on the fourteenth floor.”

Gathering my things, I follow her to the elevators with my interest piqued. “Why is that?”

“Well, they all claim to have slept with the CEO, but that’s just a rumor. I do know for certain that at least half of them have been caught by the janitor in the evening getting it on with the coding geeks on the twelfth floor.”

I try not to laugh at the absurdity of all of this, but it’s far too funny to ignore. “Wow, there’s a lot of things I need to learn about this place, huh?”

“You don’t know the half of it, girl,” she jokes, pressing the lobby elevator button so we are on our way downstairs. “You saw Mr. Wilde, right?”

“The guy Alek pretends is his friend but is actually like his worst enemy and competitor?” I ask, shaking my head. “Yeah, I saw him. What’s up with their friendship? It’s so weird.”

She rolls her eyes and sighs in exasperation like this is a common issue she’s had to deal with. “Oh, girl. It’s a story that would take me ages to explain. Pretty much, from the gossip I hear, Alek used to work with Dimitri’s father, and they started a little tech company together. They parted ways, Dimitri took over his father’s spot, and they started vying for the top of the market. It’s been neck and neck for decades, but in the last few years or so, it’s been Alek leading the way. I don’t know how he’s surpassed Dimitri, but he wants to keep his lead.”

“I guess that makes sense. Still, they act like their friends or something. That’s just weird to me. What if keeping Dimitri around backfires? Couldn’t he steal the software system somehow? I don’t know the linguistics of the issue. It’s just… odd.”

“You don’t know half of it, but we can discuss it later over a cocktail if you want,” she says, the elevator doors yawning open.

Thankfully our conversation has distracted me from feeling uneasy in that taut, little space, suspended over the concrete floors that could send the elevator carriage spiraling toward the ground. Still, I take the flyer she passes me and tell her I’ll think about her offer.

Gwen scurries off with some lanky men in suits who give me a favorable glance on their way. They’re cute, modestly attractive, and I wouldn’t mind sharing a drink or dance with some of them tonight. I am single, have been for a while, and there’s no nightlife where I’m from.

For once, going to a rock and roll club might actually be a little fun and—dare I say—just what I need to kickstart my social life in Seattle.

Now, it’s just a matter of finding the perfect outfit and getting myself downtown to this bar. But one issue remains, and if you ask me, it’s the most important one of all

What does someone wear to a punk rock concert hall?

* * *

I hurryoff the sidewalk once again, my heels taller and thinner than the ones I wore to work today. I managed to find a leather mini skirt and a cool pair of black fishnets packed in one of the boxes that I haven’t worn since biker theme day in high school, and the fabric is tight against my ass while nearly giving everyone a view if I dare bend over.

While wearing something this scandalous makes me feel a little … dirty, it was either this or another work skirt that comes down to my knees, so I wore a black thong and called it an outfit. My heels are bright red, much like the fake leather top that I’m wearing where the straps pull my breasts up so high and outward that I can no longer see my midriff past my cleavage.

I know my stomach is showing, this top is more like a fancy bra than a shirt, but it seems to go over well with the bouncer who lets me in without even having to wait in line first. I’m slapped instantly with the smell of cigarettes and the sounds of hard music that vibrates my body and burns my fingertips in a numbness I’ve never known. It’s exciting a new—more of the reason to be here.

Gwen catches me at the bar, handing me a shot of something clear and gawking over my outfit. She says something over the music, but it’s impossible to hear her, her eyes wide while she smiles and cheers on my outfit in support. I’m happy she doesn’t think I look trashy, or that my lack of modesty is something I do on a regular basis, but she doesn’t seem to care. She’s wearing a black top with studs on the shoulders and tight jeans that really show her age to not be too far from my own.

Assuming her facial structure hasn’t been altered by plastic surgery, I can confidently assume she’s somewhere in her mid-thirties. She looks fantastic, though, and I give her a compliment that is drowned out by cheering and a drum solo.

She ushers me to take a shot, and I hate to be rude, so I down the liquor before even knowing what it will taste like. The stinging sense of alcohol in my throat nearly makes me puke, something horrible spreading through my throat and landing directly in the back of my lips. I choke on the taste as if I’ve just swallowed gasoline, handing her my empty shot glass only to watch her laugh at my reaction.

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