His Big, Fake Wife (Plus Size Loving Billionaires #41)

Chapter 1

James

James Reed stood at the window of his glass-walled penthouse, the skyline of the city glowing like a constellation below him.

Skyscrapers jutted into the night sky like needles threading the stars, their reflections dancing in the bay below.

Rain beaded on the glass, each drop trailing down like a countdown on a bomb.

His reflection stared back at him, crisp and unyielding. His sharp cheekbones could have been chiseled from marble. His square jawline was dusted with just the right amount of stubble—rugged but not careless.

His eyes, that stormy gray-blue, pulled people in like the sky right before a thunderstorm. People always talked about those eyes. Dangerous eyes.

He rolled-up the sleeves of his white dress shirt, revealing the cut of his forearms—veins, muscle, power. The fabric, crisp as new snow, fought to stay wrinkle-free, but James didn’t care about looking too perfect. He liked just enough chaos.

Below the rolled up fabric, his silver wristwatch caught the glow of the city lights, glinting like a flash of lightning. It wasn’t flashy. It didn’t need to be. It whispered what needed to be said: Money. Power. Control.

Behind him, the air buzzed like a live wire. The once-pristine living room—all clean lines, black leather, and modern art—had become a war room. His PR team filled the space like soldiers bracing for battle.

Publicists and legal advisors were everywhere. Hair was tied up in tight buns, fingers flew across keyboards, and voices sharpened like daggers as they barked orders into their phones.

“It’s on every platform, Lauren,” one of the junior publicists hissed into her headset, her eyes darting toward James before quickly looking away. “They’re not waiting for a statement. They’re running it raw.”

On the other side of the room, his head of PR, Lauren, was a storm in heels. Her red lipstick was a slash of power across her face, and she wasn’t afraid to wield it. She scrolled through her phone with the sharp flicks of a woman on a mission.

Her perfectly tailored blazer cinched her waist like armor. Her eyes didn’t waver. They locked onto James like she was his commander-in-chief, and the battlefield was his reputation.

“James,” she snapped, snapping her fingers like she was calling a dog. “Stop brooding by the window and get over here. We don’t have time for your lone-wolf act today.”

James cocked his head slowly, his eyes narrowing just enough to give her pause. The slow, deliberate movement was something he had perfected in boardrooms. It made people second-guess themselves. But not Lauren. She arched an eyebrow, daring him to challenge her.

“Lauren,” he drawled, his voice low and smooth, like velvet dragging over steel. “If I’m brooding, it’s because I’m thinking. You might want to try it sometime.”

The girls in the back smirked behind their coffee cups.

Lauren didn’t blink. She had dealt with James Reed for far too long to be intimidated. Her red-lacquered nails tapped against her phone like a ticking clock.

“Cute. But we don’t have time for brooding billionaires, Mr. Reed. We have a crisis.”

Her voice sliced through the air, and suddenly, it felt like all the noise dropped a decibel. Phones were lowered. Typing slowed. All eyes darted toward them.

“Spare me the dramatics,” James said, striding toward the center of the room like he owned it. Because, of course, he did.

The leather soles of his shoes moved with a soft, commanding thud, thud, thud against the hardwood floors. His hands slid into his pockets, and just like that, he had all the power in the room. They were watching him now. They always did.

He towered over Lauren, six-foot-three of undeniable presence. His eyes flicked to her phone. “What’s the damage?”

She didn’t hesitate.

“You’re trending. Not in the ‘look at this hot billionaire on vacation’ way. This is ‘arrogant CEO scandal’ territory.” She tilted her phone toward him. On the screen, there it was—his name in big, bold letters. THE “WILD” brOTHER STRIKES AGAIN.

“Creative,” James muttered, his eyes scanning the headline with boredom.

“Don’t be cute, James,” Lauren snapped, crossing her arms. “TMZ, The Daily Beat, and Bloom Magazine are all over it. If we don’t act fast, it’s going to spiral. You’re looking at twenty-four hours before the story becomes ‘fact’ to every social media user on the planet.”

“Where’s our list of key contacts? I want three positive spins in the next two hours. Call anyone who owes us a favor. We flood the timeline with something better than this,” he suggested.

He had enough crises and scandals up his sleeve to know exactly how to control the narrative. This wasn't his first storm—and it wouldn't be his last.

One of the junior publicists raised a shaky hand. “Uh, people are eating it up. They love a good villain arc. The usual won’t do. The comments are calling him ‘the real-life Damon Salvatore’.”

There was a ripple of laughter from the team.

“They’re painting you as a villain,” Lauren repeated with a sigh.

He snorted, straightening from the window and taking two slow steps toward her, his hands still in his pockets, his frame loose but powerful.

“Villains sell, Lauren. People love to hate them,” he said.

“People love to watch them fall,” she shot back, never taking her eyes off him. “And that’s exactly what’s about to happen to you if we don’t shift the narrative. This isn’t just bad press. This could be the start of a downfall arc.”

“People love a fall from grace,” he muttered, rolling his sleeves to his forearms with the slow precision of a man sharpening his knives. The fabric clung to his muscles, and for a moment, one of the girls in the corner nearly dropped her latte.

Lauren didn’t blink. “They do. But you know what they love more?” She tilted her head, her smile sly and dangerous. “A comeback.”

He let out a humorless laugh, deep and sharp. “A comeback,” he repeated, voice tasting the word like it was foreign. “And how do you suggest I ‘come back,’ Lauren? By tweeting an apology with a sad face emoji?”

Her eyes narrowed. She wasn’t playing. “By being seen as human, James. A man with a heart. Someone relatable.”

His brows lifted, and he tilted his head like she’d just suggested he wear a reindeer costume to a board meeting. “Relatable? I’m a billionaire, Lauren. I can’t be relatable.”

“Then fake it.” She snapped her fingers. “We don’t need them to relate to your money. We need them to relate to your heart.”

He turned, his sharp eyes cutting through her.

“My heart?” he echoed, letting the disbelief hang in the air like smoke.

“You need to look stable, James,” Lauren said in that clipped, no-nonsense tone she had mastered. “The world loves a man in love. They love a reformed playboy. And right now, you’re the poster boy for ‘arrogant, rich disaster.’ We need to flip the narrative.”

James took a seat, tossing a pen from hand to hand with a grin so lazy it could fall asleep. “And how, exactly, do you plan to pull that off? Photoshop me with a golden retriever and a picket fence?”

“No,” she said, her eyes narrowing like she was about to hit him with a nuclear bomb of an idea. “We fake it.”

He snorted. “Fake what?”

She stared him down, slow, deliberate, and deadly. Then she said it.

“A wife, James. We fake a wife.”

Silence.

His grin faltered.

"Not happening," he said, his tone firm and final as he leaned back in his chair, his eyes cold and unyielding.

"But it will," Lauren countered, her grin sharp. If he didn’t know any better, James would have believed she was enjoying this a little. No, scratch that. James knew she was enjoying this more than a little.

She took a slow, deliberate step closer, lowering her voice to a whisper meant only for him. "That is... if you want your name cleared." She paused, letting the weight of her words sink in before delivering the final blow. "And especially if you want your brother to keep you in the business."

Her eyes stayed locked on his, unwavering and full of quiet challenge.

Silence stretched between them, thick as smoke.

Lauren tilted her head, her grin turning razor-sharp as she lifted her phone and held it up for him to see. The name on the screen glowed like a ghost from the past.

Evie Monroe.

Her name glowed on the screen like a ticking time bomb.

His jaw tightened as memories flickered through his mind like snapshots from a night he’d tried to forget.

She wasn’t just a name. She was a problem.

An actress—not the Hollywood, red-carpet type, but the kind who thrived on indie films, stage productions, and roles that let her disappear into a character so completely you forgot her real name. She wasn’t flashy.

No attention-seeking red-carpet antics. No scandalous magazine covers. Just pure, undeniable talent. The kind of woman who could steal a scene with a single look—and had done exactly that the last time he’d seen her.

It was two years ago. Christmas dinner at the Reed family estate. His friend, Declan, had suggested the brilliant idea of hiring a "girlfriend" to shut up his nosy relatives who wouldn’t stop asking, “When are you going to settle down, James?”

“Hire an actress,” Declan had said, laughing like it was the most obvious solution in the world. “Just for one night. She’ll be charming, your family will back off, and you’ll be free by dessert.”

It had sounded ridiculous. It had been ridiculous.

But somehow, against all logic, James had agreed.

Declan had taken care of the casting process—probably thinking it was hilarious—and that’s how Evie Monroe had walked into his life.

The moment she’d arrived; it had been clear that he’d underestimated her.

She hadn't just played the role of his girlfriend. She’d embodied it.

She’d worn a sleek, forest-green dress that had hugged her body like it had been custom-made for her. It had traced every dip and curve with unapologetic precision—the kind of fit that had demanded attention without begging for it.

The neckline had teased just enough to be dangerous but not enough to be obvious. Elegant, not flashy. Bold, but never loud.