Prologue
A STRANGE OBSESSION WITH EPITAPHS
Simone
Billionaire Gone Bad
Pretty Girl or ‘Pretty Woman’?
IT’S ALL A LIE! FAKE FIANCéE EXPOSED!
Everyone dreams about being rich and famous.
You see the porcelain pictures in magazines or social media.
Instagram. You eye the celebrities and influencers with their perfect teeth, golden lighting, immaculate clothing.
And you notice, with not a little bit of envy, the way everyone loves them for it, asking them questions, wanting to be them in every little way.
I don’t care who you are, how anti-materialist you claim to be, everyone wonders what it would be like to have the world at your fingertips.
Because it’s not about fame. It’s about recognition. It’s about being seen in a world where most of us fade into the background, one of the faceless masses. Being known for something. If not for being good, then at very least, for the things we are good at.
And you read the headlines and see all the hearts, and a part of you (even if it’s the smallest, most insignificant sliver) asks the inevitable questions:
Why them and not me?
Why doesn’t anyone see me that way?
Why hasn’t anyone seen me…ever?
The only headlines most of us will ever receive are the ones in our obituary and maybe a headstone. The inscription on my mother’s was short but loving:
Mary Ann Bishop
b. 1972 d. 2004
Beloved Wife and Mother
It was inadequate. 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 and made the best banana muffins in all of Vermont.
She was the proud owner of the Dandelion Sundries, one of Zagat’s top ten bakeries in Vermont, located on our family farm.
Wife and mother—she was those things. But it wasn’t fair to reduce her to just that.
I’d been writing my epitaph for years. Having your mom die when you’re eight years old makes you think about things like gravestones from an early age. The current draft read something like this:
Simone Bishop
Daughter, Baker, Lovingkindness Maker
“With bread, all sorrows are less.” —Miguel de Cervantes
I did not ever think it would read Simone Bishop, Liar, Cheat, Fake Fiancée. But judging from the Alerts that woke me at six o’clock on that bright spring morning, my legacy was sealed.
The author’s name was familiar. Ivy Ink—the mysterious byline for The Scarlet Letters, otherwise known as the gossip column for the Boston Herald.
It was supposed to be wedding bells for Brendan Black and his whirlwind paramour, waitress and hospital volunteer Simone Bishop.
But will those bells even ring? Just days before his rumored announcement as the permanent CEO of the Blackguard Holding, documents were leaked, revealing 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.
It explicitly outlines the terms of a fake relationship and public betrothal, right down to the number of events, public outings, and even the types of displays of affection the couple was expected to enact together in order to convince everyone of the veracity of their relationship.
The question now is: why?
That is possibly the only term not stated in the contract, but the 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) is too obvious to ignore.
Every scathing word was another cloud blotting out the cheerful spring sunlight. I should have put the phone away, but like a robot, I kept scrolling, forcing myself to read the rest of the article detailing our whole public relationship.
At the end of Ivy’s indictment, there they were. Incriminating photographs of the document and the familiar pair of signatures scrawled across the bottom.
Simone Bishop
Brendan Black
If the headlines were cloud, our names were claps of thunder, ominous. Dooming, even.
I couldn’t breathe.
This couldn’t be happening. How had those documents gotten out? How were they on this site?
And honestly, didn’t one of the most widely read newspapers in the country have more important things to report on?
Was the authenticity of my impending nuptials more notable than the threat of world war, climate change, and/or reproductive rights?
Sure, there was a war in Ukraine, another pending in South America, but don’t worry, folks—we’re covering Brendan and Simone’s little ruse.
Another version of my headstone wrote itself:
Simone Bishop
Silly, stupid fool of a girl
What was I thinking, signing that contract? I couldn’t even get away with shoplifting a pack of gum at age ten. Why had I ever thought I could get away with being fake engaged to one of the most notorious men in the world?
Brendan Black.
Oh, God, what would he think?
Like a masochist, I clicked on one of the other articles that appeared in the Alert. One of hundreds, it seemed. The internet was eating us alive.
This one at least seemed to fact-check. After all, I was a bartender, not a waitress.
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 the love-at-first-sight story was just another lie to mend the tattered reputation of yet another Black family heir.
Did Brendan Black fake an engagement to part-time bartender and amateur baker Simone Bishop all to court votes from the board of directors of his family’s empire?
The very same empire to which he was recently appointed the interim CEO?
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 blond halo. Talk about a wolf in sheep’s clothing!
A scandalous contract reveals exorbitant compensation that Bishop received for her “services” (we’re side-eyeing that one too) until Black is officially confirmed as the permanent CEO of Blackguard. We won’t lie—our eyes popped out when we saw the amount.
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 checked my call log to find that yes, there were a number of missed calls. Many people had been trying to “contact” me.
This couldn’t be happening. I’d be ruined. He’d be ruined.
We’d be ruined.
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
“Good morning, angel.”
There was a kiss on my shoulder, and I turned to find the other resident of my bed rolling over.
“Hi,” I whispered.
The morning light dappled his sleek, dark hair, pleasantly rumpled as he propped himself up on his elbow. 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?”
“Six 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 dark green eyes found 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 to take on the world even if he was only wearing the skin he was born in.
The mask was back. The armor no one had broken through once it was in place.
Although this story might.
My lower lip trembled as I held up my phone. “They know.”
His brow furrowed. “Who? And what do they know?”
I rotated the headline toward him. “Everyone knows. They know I’m not your fiancée. That you never loved me. That we were never real.”
Brendan took the phone. “Fuck.”
I watched as the light in his eyes I’d fought so hard to kindle died. The shadows were back. Ice froze over.
Brendan, my Brendan, disappeared.
All that was left was The Black Prince.