From Morally Black Billionaires
A STRANGE OBSESSION WITH EPITAPHS
Simone
Billionaire Gone Bad
Pretty Girl or ‘Pretty Woman’?
IT’S ALL A LIE! FAKE FIANCéE EXPOSED!
Everyone thinks about being famous. You grow up leafing through Teen Vogue or browsing on Instagram. You see the celebrities and influencers pouting at the camera and everyone loving them for it, asking them questions, wanting to be them in every little way.
And you want it. You’d never, under any circumstances, actually admit you want it. But at least some part of you does.
See, it’s not about fame. It’s about recognition. It’s about being seen in a world where most of us fade into the masses. Being known for something. If not for being good, then at very least, for the things we are good at .
You read the headlines and a part of you, even if it’s just a teeny, tiny little bit, asks the inevitable question:
Why them?
Why doesn’t anyone see me that way?
Why hasn’t anyone seen me…ever?
Most of us only receive one headline, usually on a gravestone. The inscription on my mother’s was short, but loving:
Mary Ann Bishop
b. 1972 d. 2004
Beloved Wife and Mother
It was inadequate, I always thought. She was so much more than a wife and mother.
Mama loved to read the comics every Sunday morning.
She could draw birds perfectly, but was terrible with people.
She would cry whenever she saw commercials about puppies, made the best banana muffins in all of Vermont, and was the proud owner of the Dandelion Sundries, one of Zagat’s top ten bakeries in Vermont, since she opened it the three months after I was born.
Wife and mother—she was those things. But it wasn’t fair to reduce her to that.
My epitaph would never look like that. This I’d always known. I suppose having your mom die when you’re only eight years old makes you think about things like gravestones from an early age.
Me, I’d always thought my inscription would read something like this:
Simone Bishop
Daughter, Baker, Lovingkindness Maker
“With bread, all sorrows are less.” —Miguel de Cervantes
I did not ever once think it would read “Simone Bishop, Liar, Cheat, Fake Fiancée.”
But judging from the Google Alerts that woke me up at four in the morning, thirty minutes before my usual alarm went off to check this morning’s rises, my legacy was sealed.
I rolled over in my childhood bed, shielding my eyes from the summer sun streaming from the skylight.
I clicked on the largest article, the one that seemed to be referenced by the rest. The author’s name was familiar.
Ivy Ink—the mysterious byline for The Scarlet Letters, otherwise known as the gossip column for the Boston Globe.
It was supposed to be wedding bells for Brendan Black and his whirlwind paramore, waitress and candy striper Simone Bishop, but can those bells even ring?
Just days before he was rumored to be announced as the new CEO of the Blackguard Equity corporation, documents were leaked revealing the fact that Black and Bishop’s relationship appears to be a ruse.
A contract dated and signed four months ago reveals lengthy terms of agreement between the two, explicitly outlining the terms of a fake relationship and public betrothal, right down to the number of events, public outings, and even types of displays of affection the couple was expected to enact together in order to convince everyone else of the veracity of their relationship.
The question everyone is asking now is: why?
That is possibly the only answer not available in the contract, but a connection between Black’s appointment this month and the end of the contract (set for two weeks after the next board meeting that would confirm him in his new position at the head of his family’s company) is too obvious to ignore.
Every scathing word was a slap across the face. I wanted to throw my phone away and retreat back to bed, but like I was frozen in place, I kept scrolling, forcing myself to read the rest.
At the end, there they were. Incriminating photographs of the document I’d signed [months] earlier — and the even more familiar pair of signatures scrawled across the bottom.
Simone Bishop
Brendan Black
If the headlines were slaps, our names was individual punches in the gut. Suddenly I couldn’t breathe.
This couldn’t be happening. How had those documents even gotten out? How were they on this site?
And honestly, didn’t the most widely-read newspaper in the country have more important things to report on?
Was the authenticity of my impending nuptials really more important than the threat of world war and climate change and or reproductive rights?
There was a war in the Ukraine, but don’t worry—we’re covering Brendan and Simone’s little ruse?
Another version of my headstone wrote itself:
Simone Bishop
Silly, stupid fool
What was I thinking, signing that contract? I couldn’t even get away with shoplifting a pack of gum at age ten—why did I think I was going to get away with being fake engaged to one of the most notorious men in the world?
Throwing the covers back and jumping to my feet, I threw my phone down and paced around my room, my head spinning, the sharp pang of regret stabbing at my heart. The fact that I knew without a doubt that there was absolutely nothing I could do about it now was excruciating to accept.
The truth was out there.
Yes, it was fake. Yes, I signed that ridiculous piece of paper agreeing to this fake engagement.
Yes, I did it all for the money.
But at this point, none of that mattered. Everything had changed drastically in the last four months. In fact, my entire life had been upended since I agreed to it all.
That stupid contract meant absolutely nothing to me now.
And yet here it was, upending everything all over again. How could this be happening?
Blinking hard, I desperately wished for it all to be a terrible nightmare, that I’d wake up any second and my secret with Brendan would be just that — a closely held secret.
But no. When I opened my eyes, the photo and headline shone brightly from the screen of my phone. And everyone else’s in the Western Hemisphere, apparently.
Somehow, despite my best efforts, it was popping up in the email account of every schmuck who paid $5.99 a month for a subscription, whether they cared about who Brendan Black was marrying or not.
Brendan.
Oh, God, what would he think?
Willing myself to take shuddering breaths, I tiptoed across my room, Reluctantly, I picked up my phone again and forced myself to read the entire article, albeit skimming it quickly. My stomach turned with each passing word.
Like a masochist, I clicked on another article. One that at least seemed to remember I did more than just serve drinks.
Pat-a-cake, Pat-a-Cake, Baker’s Sham ?
Well, well, well! Who says money can’t buy happiness?
We’ve exposed a Black affair, indeed! Looks like maybe the love at first sight story was really just another fabricated lie to mend the tattered reputation of yet another Black family prodigy.
Did Brenden Black fake an engagement to his new sweetheart, part-time waitress and amateur baker Simone Bishop, just so he could court votes from the board of directors of his family’s empire?
The very same empire to which he was just so conveniently was recently appointed the interim CEO?
Now the soufflé has fallen, and there’s nothing inside. Brendan Black seems to have gotten exactly what he wanted the same way he and his family usually wriggle their way out of tricky situations—with smoke, mirrors, and a whole lot of money.
But this time that morally Black act includes a pretty smile, angelic blue eyes, and a blonde halo. Talk about a wolf in sheep’s clothing!
The original story of Black and Simone Bishop, the unknown caregiver who supposedly gave the notoriously callous Black a newly beating heart his heart while she was taking care of his father in the hospital, has been entertaining all of Boston society (and a good portion of the world too) for months.
Turns out, this modern day love story had more than a silver lining — it was sealed with good old-fashioned gold!
Or cash, in this case. The scandalous contract uncovered by the good folks at Vanity Fair revealed exorbitant compensation that Bishop received for her “services” (we’re side-eyeing that one too), including a massive bonus once Black is officially confirmed as the permanent CEO of Blackguard Equity.
We won’t lie — our eyes popped out when we saw that amount, too.
We’ve reached out to all involved parties, of course, but you guessed it — no comment.
At least not yet. How long can Black, and his faux fiancée stay silent?
Stay tuned as we dig deeper into this story as the days progress, but feel free to join us as we all speculate in the comments — will the wedding still happen?
A new layer of dread settled in my stomach, I minimized my phone to find that, yes, there were a number of missed calls over the last twelve hours. Many people had been trying to “contact” me.
At that, I did slap a hand over my mouth, if only to stifle the scream that wanted to erupt. This couldn’t be happening. I’d be ruined. He’d be ruined.
We’d be ruined too.
Something about that idea scared me most of all.
Simone Bishop
Idiot woman who ruined the only love she ever knew
And everything else too
“Simone?”
I turned to find the other resident of my bed rolling over in the early morning sun.
The light dappled his sleek dark hair, now pleasantly rumpled as he propped himself up on his elbow and my faded daisy sheets fell to reveal the lean muscles and olive skin I’d enjoyed so thoroughly the night before.
“Jesus,” Brendan muttered as he checked his watch. “What time is it?”
“Four twenty,” I said, not quite able to stop my voice from shaking. “I’m sorry I woke you.”
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
Brendan’s quick, dark eyes shot directly to mine, and whatever he saw made him spring into action. The sheet fell away as his long legs swung around, feet to my battered wood floor; then he stood, ready as ever to take on the world, even if he was only wearing the skin he was born in.
It didn’t matter. The mask was back. The armor no one, not even I, could break through.
Although maybe this would.
My lower lip trembled as I held up my phone. “They know.”
His brow furrowed with confusion. “Who? And what do they know?”
I rotated the headline toward him. “Everyone knows. They know I’m not your fiancee. That you never loved me. That we were never real.”
Brendan took the phone and immediately muttered. “Fuck.”
I watched as the light in his face I’d fought so hard to kindle died completely. The shadows were back. Ice covered all signs of warmth.
Brendan, my Brendan, disappeared.
All that was left was the The Black Prince.
And I’d never been more afraid.