Page 11 of Fake Marriage with the Billionaire

She chuckled. “You mean, you want me to act like I’m high falutin’ or something?”

“Or something,” he said. “People talk, you know. This isn’t like the movies where I can just parade any woman around and they’ll be accepted instantly. There will be those who’ll be ready to tear you down the first chance they get.”

“Someone in particular.” Richard narrowed his eyes. She was sharp, he had to give her that.

“Like my stepmother,” he said. “She’ll sniff you out as a fake right away if you don’t show some level of refinement and class. Everyone may have their eyes on you, but she’ll be the one to openly question whether someone like me would be interested in someone like you.”

“Really?” Stella said flatly. “So, you can’t just fall for a nice girl you met in a supermarket? She’s got to be ‘one of your kind’?” She used air quotes over the phraseone of your kind.

“Don’t be like that,” he responded. “I didn’t make the rules.”

She wiped her mouth from another swig of the beer. “So, what you’re telling me is that the rule is that if you did meet a nice normal girl, everybody would have a problem with that?”

“Yes,” he said bluntly. She paused, clearly not expecting him to answer that way. “I’m a very rich man, Stella. I make more money a year than most people will ever see in their entire lives. If I wanted to, I could buy every business on this block. Maybe every business in this city, if I was so inclined.”

That silenced her. She sipped her beer and stared at him with wide and telling eyes. He cleared his throat.

“The point isn’t that you won’t be talked about if they think you’re one of them,” he went on. “The point is that if they think you’re with me just for my money, they won’t believe our relationship is a real one. Understand?”

She nodded. “All right. So, the goal is to make this believable.”

“You got it. All that matters is that no one questions us. I want to be able to walk in the room with you on my arm and for people to say that it makes sense that we’re together instead of asking a million questions about us. Too many questions and the subterfuge won’t last.”

She took another sip from her goblet and said. “Okay, so, then, I need an identity.”

He grimaced, then chuckled. “You’re not a spy. You don’t need an identity.”

“Yes, I do. What are you going to tell your people when I show up to your job?” Stella pressed. “‘Hello, this is Stella, my fiancée. She’s my best friend’s sister. Do you remember? The guy that used to be my personal assistant? Anyway, she’s unemployed and she probably got that dress from Target--’”

“All right, all right. You made your point,” he said. He drank his scotch, thinking a moment while he swirled the ice around in the glass.

“Okay…so, let’s say you’re Stella Durand of the Paris Durands.”

She laughed and he looked at her blank-faced. “Oh,” she said. “You’re serious.”

“Yes, I’m serious. The Durands are a very respected family in my circles. They have a multibillion-dollar business selling organic tea. It’s served all over the world in some of the best restaurants and hotels. Plus, they all live in Europe and avoid the States like the plague. Their perfect since it’s fairly likely no one’s spoken to them in ages.”

“Okay.” She thought about it for a moment, then, “Stella Durand.” She pronounced the last name like he did, except extending the ‘Ah’ in ‘rand.

“Dur-ahn,” he corrected. “It’s French.”

She scowled. “Do I have to speak with a French accent?”

He paused, then “Canyou speak with a French accent?’

“I don’t know. I’ve never tried.”

“Then no,” he said. “We’ll just say you’re an American cousin. Twice removed if anyone should ask.”

“Okay,” she said. “Have I ever visited the family or…”

“Absolutely not.”

She shook her head sipping from her glass of beer. “What,” he asked.

“I’m supposed to be a relative and I’ve never hung out with the family before?”

He shrugged. “That’s not unusual.”

---