Page 1 of Billionaire's Fake Wife: A Single Mom BWWM Romance

One

Sonya

Ever wondered what it takes to be on top of the world of high fashion? Well, aside from great looks and a body that looks best without or with minimal clothes on, it's about talent and hard work. Now, imagine an independent African-American woman with all that, in her mid-twenties, and career-driven. That's basically me, in a nutshell.

And yet here I am, fielding phone calls for fashion shows and hiring models for the next big fashion show. On the one hand, I'm talking on the phone with Madame Gretau from Paris for renting out her chateau for a few nights, while on the other hand, I'm fidgeting away on my phone, trying to text and chat all the girls who'll do the shoots and the final show.

Every day, my brain is basically split into two from all the multi-tasking that was so happily bequeathed unto me.

But no, I'm not complaining because the road to the mountain peak is arduous and lengthy. I mean, that's how Gloria Fields, our CEO, got to where she is right now.

My desk phone beeps.

"Sonya, are you there?" a soft yet firm voice that commanded respect emanated from the speaker.

Speak of the devil.

I quickly apologize to Madame Gretau and put her on hold to pick up my desk phone, "Yes, Mrs. Fields. I'm here as always, at your service," I say in the most cheerful voice that I can muster up while my thumb is almost cramping up from typing on the smartphone.

"Any special projects you might want me to work on?" I add.

"Yes, quite," Gloria replies coldly.

This is it. My chance to finally get on her good graces.

"Then ask, and it shall be done. ASAP, Ma'am," I proudly state.

"My bowels have been irregular lately, it may have something to do with the new coffee beans my son had requisitioned for the entire building. Go be a dear and fetch me a macha triple latte from the nearest Starbucks."

That's an hour's drive away in this traffic!

"Gladly!" I reply. "Mtcha Triple Latte. I'm on my way, Mrs. Fields."

"Good. Thank you."

"Welcome," I say.

"Oh, and before I forget," says Mrs. Fields.

Please say anything that at least is a hint of a promotion.

"Bring extra napkins."

An hour and forty-five minutes later, I'm finally back at the office, with coffee in hand. I'm strutting along now with a jolly gait, feeling proud of finally landing Madame Gretau's Chateau as the venue for the company's next shindig.

I quickly clean myself up in the bathroom mirror before walking up to Mrs. Field's doors. My black hair is now frizzy from all the running I had to do this morning, but at the very least, my skin still looks fresh as it has ever been.

A few creases on my new navy blue office dress, but nothing that a few sprinkles of water and a quick blowdry can't fix.

I knock three times on her door after finally getting myself cleaned up.

"Come in," says Mrs. Fields from inside her office.

"Good morning, Mrs. Fields. Here's the coffee you ordered," I greet as I enter her office, a large corner room, filled with the most exquisite portraits of models and other abstract works of art. Her large glass desk sits in the middle of the room over a large silk carpet.

And sitting behind the desk is a slender, gorgeous, blonde, woman. If it isn't for a few wrinkles around her eyes, you'll believe that she is in her mid-thirties. That's the aura Gloria Fields exudes, the epitome of beauty and grace as she sits atop the world of the aesthetic industry.

Mrs. Fields is busy typing away on her laptop, the latest Macbook in the market, the perfect weapon for her crusade on modern fashion.

"Well, I believe you have something for me?" Mrs. Fields asks, even though her eyes are still glued to her laptop monitor.

"Oh! Yes, Mrs. Fields. The coffee," I say as I finally awaken from my trance. Mrs. Fields simply raises her hand and beckons me to come closer with her fingers.

I put her coffee down on her table as gracefully as I can, hoping that at least Mrs. Fields could see some of the efforts I'm doing for even the most menial of her tasks.

Still, in spite of all those things that she's done to me or instead not done to me, I can't hate her. She is my idol, my model, my muse.

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