Page 4 of The Bad Boy's Fake Wife

“Of course I’m single,” I reply, sinking into my leather chair while twirling a pen between my fingers. “But you didn’t expect me to sit back and let Zain take over, did you?”

Reed exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “So when’s the wedding? Should I book the venue?” His smirk fades as he shakes his head. “You realize you’ve just set up a wedding without a bride, and you’ll face legal fallout for lying.”

I purse my lips. “I’m confident I can find someone willing to marry me in a few weeks. All I need is for the lawyers, Zain, and the board to witness the ceremony, and the company will be mine. I won’t be bound for long.”

“But you can’t just divorce immediately,” Reed reminds me. “I know you’re ruthless, but it’s a different kind of coldhearted if you just toss someone aside right after the wedding.”

I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I only blurted out the engagement to safeguard my future. I groan—marriage has always been the one thing I’ve avoided, especially when so many women only seem interested in my money. I vowed never to marry, yet here I am, cornered by circumstances I can’t ignore.

Covering my face with my hands, I mutter, “Aren’t there brides for hire or something?”

Reed stares at me, incredulous. “No, Jonathan. You can’t just marry for a company takeover.”

His tone carries a note of judgment that I don’t appreciate. He means well, but sometimes his sanctimonious air grates on me. Checking his watch, he sighs. “My sister should be in town by now—I’m heading out to pick her up. We’ll talk later about this little dilemma.”

At the mention of Emma, I straighten instinctively, my grip tightening around the pen as a faint heat prickles at the back of my neck. For a fleeting moment, an old memory surfaces—her laughter echoing in the summer air, the way she once looked at me like I was worth something more. I shake it off before it takes hold, burying the image as quickly as it came. I can’t confess that I saw her this morning, or that my pulse races at the thought of her being nearby. The one thing I can’t afford right now is a distraction…especially not her.

Chapter 3

Emma

Somepeoplestresseat;I stress cook. The scent of cinnamon and melted butter fills the kitchen, mingling with the warm aroma of fresh bread cooling on the counter. When everything feels wrong, I whip up enough food to feed an entire town—often without even noticing until the plates are piled high.

It’s been two days since I returned to Grover Hill, and I haven’t written a single word. The blinking cursor on my screen taunts me relentlessly, a constant reminder that my agent expects a manuscript any day now. I resist the urge to slam the laptop shut, instead rubbing my temples as frustration coils tight in my chest. My creative well has run dry, and inspiration seems to have abandoned me.

“Are we having a party I don’t know about?” Reed, my brother, asks as he strides into the kitchen with a chuckle and a briefcase in hand. He surveys the chaotic bounty before him—lamb chops, apple pie, lasagna—and I wonder how I even managed to gather all these ingredients. Every pause in my movements only fuels my compulsion to cook even more.

The oven dings, and I pull out a freshly baked carrot cake. “I’m stress cooking—no, maybe sad cooking. I haven’t decided on a name yet,” I murmur with a sigh. “At least it means we won’t have to cook for a few days, though it also means I can’t be left alone with my thoughts unless I want to buy a second fridge for all these leftovers.”

“Why are we trying to avoid our thoughts?” Reed asks, grabbing a fork to sample some meatballs I can barely remember making.

I let out a hoarse laugh. “Because my thoughts aren’t very pleasant.” I scan the kitchen for other tasks, realizing with mild dismay that I’ve probably used up all of Reed’s ingredients. I make a mental note to restock next time I’m at the grocery store.

Reed raises an eyebrow, glancing at the overflowing table. “Should I be worried? Is this a cry for help, or just your audition for a cooking show?”

I just shrug, and Reed gestures for me to join him at the dining table. I sigh and sink into a chair, bracing myself for the inevitable conversation. Reed isn’t one to let things linger. He confronts issues head-on, always ready with his brand of advice.

“Come on, humor me. What’s really wrong?” he says, setting a plate of cookies in front of us.

I grab one and take a bite, stalling. “Nothing. Just felt like cooking.”

Reed raises an eyebrow. “Right. Because most people casually whip up a feast when they’re feeling totally fine.”

I sigh, setting the cookie down. I fiddle with the edge of the napkin, debating whether to say it out loud. I pick up the same cookie, stalling for a moment longer before finally exhaling in defeat.

“It’s my…writing,” I confess. “I know I mentioned it before, but it’s going terribly, Reed.”

“How bad is it?” he presses, his brow furrowing.

I let out a dry laugh, though it feels hollow. Crying seems excessive, but the frustration bubbling up inside me is hard to ignore.

“Very bad,” I admit. “So bad that I haven’t written a word in months. So bad that my agent is on the verge of dropping me. And when that happens, I’ll have no one to catch me when my writing career goes up in smoke!” I mimic a tiny explosion with my hands and smile, though Reed’s expression remains solemn.

“I’m so sorry, Emma. What are you going to do now?” he asks, and for a moment, I almost believe there might be a solution hidden in his words.

“I just need a spark—something to reignite the dying flames inside me. Then Emma Riley will become a huge name in publishing,” I say, though even my hopeful tone sounds hollow. Every day, my hope deflates a little more, and I wonder if I should quit, find another job, and leave the writing to people who are actually better than me.

A bitter lump rises in my throat, and I loathe myself for failing to ignite that spark. Why is it so hard to come up with a book idea and simply start writing?

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