6. Chapter 6
Chapter 6
Jonathan
“S he’s my wife,” I declare, fixing Betty with a glare so fierce it could burn through steel. I wrap a protective arm around Emma’s shoulders and pull her in close. “Or at least, she’ll be my wife soon, if I’m lucky.”
Betty’s cheeks flare scarlet as she scrambles up from her chair. With a hurried bow, she stammers, “I am so, so sorry, sir—and ma’am. I had no idea she was your wife—uh, your fiancée.” Her voice trails off in a fluster. “I promise I’ll be on my best behavior from now on. This won’t happen again.”
I arch an eyebrow. “You don’t need to know she’s my fiancée to show respect. As my secretary, you are expected to be the epitome of good manners. The next time you overstep with anyone—especially my fiancée—you won’t have a job here.”
“Yes, sir,” she mumbles, head bowed, before scurrying out of our sight.
As the tension eases, I catch Emma’s amused giggle. “Your fiancée? You’re incredibly brave, Jonathan. Do you honestly believe I’ll say yes this soon?” she teases, her eyes twinkling with mischief.
I offer a lopsided grin. “What can I say? I possess an irresistible charm—and a peculiar knack for bending people to my will.” I say it with a playful cockiness that masks a hint of vulnerability.
Emma rolls her eyes. “If that were true, you wouldn’t need me to be your fake wife.”
I chuckle and guide her toward my office. As we stroll past polished corridors and sunlit recreational nooks, I point out, “I believe in mixing work with leisure. For instance, our library isn’t just for books—it’s a retreat for our weary minds.”
“Impressive,” Emma murmurs, her tone softening as she admires the space.
Inside my office, I gesture for her to take a seat beside my sleek, modern desk. Emma’s eyes wander the room, lingering on the cool gray walls and minimalist décor. A small frown tugs at her lips.
“What is it?” I ask, genuinely curious.
She shrugs, a hint of playful sarcasm in her tone. “Your office feels…depressing. As dreary as the entire company, I’d say. Even the library has a suffocating melancholy to it.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “So now you’re here to critique my interior decorating skills? Is that why you came?”
“No,” she insists, her gaze steady. “I’m here to give you my answer about the offer you and Reed made me.”
A slow grin spreads across my face. “So…does that mean my charm has finally worked its magic?”
Emma fixes me with a look equal parts disdainful and amused. “Not even close. Don’t ever imagine that I find any part of you charming—or attractive, for that matter.”
“Ah,” I reply lightly, “I never claimed attractiveness was my strong suit. But if you ever change your mind…” I let the words hang with a teasing lilt.
Her cheeks heat, and for a moment, the air between us seems charged with an unspoken electricity. “This isn’t where our conversation was supposed to go,” she admonishes gently, and I nod.
“Alright,” I press, “what’s your final verdict? Have you made up your mind?”
Emma pauses, then nods firmly. “I…accept the offer. I’ll be your pretend wife so I can find the inspiration to write my next novel. My agent will finally get some sleep.”
I beam broadly. “Thank you, Emma. I promise you’ll have the best fake husband in town.”
She arches an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t exactly call it a favor if I’m stuck with a fake husband forever.”
I shrug with playful exaggeration. “Well then, consider it a temporary arrangement with a lifetime’s worth of potential favors.” My tone is light, but there’s a sincere warmth beneath the banter. “Does this mean you’ll stop despising me?” I venture, half-teasing.
Emma’s eyes soften as she replies, “I don’t hate you, Jonathan. I just find you insufferable…most of the time.”
I roll my eyes dramatically. “Insufferable, huh? Yet somehow, you agreed to this charade.” I lean in conspiratorially. “I owe you a debt, and you may call in any favor—whatever you desire.”
Her smile turns wicked. “Anything?” she challenges.
“Anything,” I confirm, though a flicker of uncertainty crosses my mind as she savors the power of my words.
Emma reclines in the chair, settling into the comfort of the space. “I can’t wait to call in that favor,” she says with a hint of mischievous promise.
I huff in mock outrage. "And what about the orange juice on my pants? That stain has become a permanent resident!”
Emma throws up her hands. “Really, Jonathan? This is what you’re worried about right now? Of all the moments to complain about your pants? I should walk away from this deal and leave you scrambling for another pretend wife!"
“But you won’t,” I murmur softly, knowing in my heart that despite our bickering, Emma wouldn’t simply abandon this wild arrangement.
She rolls her eyes again and surveys my office with renewed scrutiny. “Frankly, this place is as dreary as you,” she observes, half-joking yet oddly sincere.
I peer around, suddenly noticing the austere gray walls and the stark modernity that lends the room a cold feel. “Maybe you’re right,” I concede, “but an office isn’t meant to be a home, is it?”
Emma smirks. “You could start by putting my photo on your desk. After all, I’m going to be your wife.”
I stare at her, mock astonishment in my tone. “Since when do you have psychic abilities? How did you know I wanted to inject a little warmth into this cold space?”
Emma shrugs, her eyes sparkling. “Call it a lucky guess. You need a change—something to remind you that life isn’t all board meetings and budgets.”
“I don’t need any warmth,” I grumble, but my tone is laced with playful resignation.
“You’re such a grouch,” Emma teases. “You need to lighten up, especially once we’re married. And by the way, when is this wedding supposed to happen?”
“Next week,” I reply matter-of-factly. “That gives you one week to prepare.”
Emma’s eyes widen in mock horror. “Are you out of your mind?”
“Maybe a few brain cells have escaped me,” I retort. “We haven’t even set a venue, but my home—with its beautiful garden—might do.”
Emma scrutinizes me like she’s trying to make sense of my words. “You can’t plan a wedding on such short notice! I need at least a month to prepare.”
I let out a long sigh. “Remember, this is a fake wedding, Emma. You don’t need a month, and we must act quickly to save my position at the company. That’s the real reason behind all this, not some sudden epiphany of love.”
Emma folds her arms and huffs. “If we’re to convince everyone this is real, it has to look authentic. But fine—I’ll settle for two weeks.”
“One week.”
“Two.”
“One.”
“Two,” she challenges stubbornly.
Finally, I sigh in defeat. “I’m sorry, but we don’t have the luxury of time. We must make one week work and throw the most extravagant fake wedding ever.”
After a pause, Emma’s expression softens into reluctant acceptance. “Alright. I suppose I can manage one week. So is there a contract, or do we just wing it?”
“No contract,” I state firmly. “I trust you to keep this between us.”
She gives a small, ironic smile. “It’s absurd to trust someone you consider an enemy, but I won’t betray you. Not like this.”
“After the wedding,” I continue, “I was thinking we could live together for a month after our honeymoon. That should be long enough to convince everyone we’re truly married, and then we can figure out our next steps.”
Emma’s eyes glisten with a mix of resignation and determination. “I can’t believe I’m doing this. I never imagined I’d marry the worst man in existence—the one I swore I’d never even look at twice.”
I force a smile that doesn’t quite mask the vulnerability underneath. “The universe has a wicked sense of humor, doesn’t it?”