Billionaire's Fake Wife Read online

  Table of Contents

  A Study of Primates

  Chapter 2

  A Study of Primates

  Chapter 1

  I was a Ph.D. student, so I naturally spent Thanksgiving dinner at my mentor’s house. It didn’t even occur to me, two years into my work, sequencing the DNA of African gorillas, why I would spend Thanksgiving anywhere else. That was how much the program had absorbed me - body and soul.

  My mentor was Dr. Ramona Alexeev-Weston. Yes. Dr. Alexeev-Weston, the famed scientist who is practically a deity in the field of primate anthropology, but we called her Dr. Alexeev in our lab. We called her that because she’s also the ex-wife of Samuel Weston, the billionaire medical tech producer who supplied computers and electronically supplies to every hospital in the United States.

  Dr. Alexeev left the marriage twenty years ago with nothing except her career and her baby daughter. She now lives in a two-bedroom colonial house in the suburbs of Queens, New York. She lives by herself. On Thanksgiving, we - her Ph.D. students - are her only family.

  It was a potluck. I made a fruit salad. Everyone hated it. Joey Bose, the post-graduate who I shared an office with, brought Kati rolls, and everyone devoured those like they were laced with crack. I just had a feeling that everyone looked at me and thought to themselves, “that’s why she’s still single; she can’t even cut up fruit.”

  My name is Scarlett Rossi because my mom liked Gone with the Wind a little too much. Never call me Scarlett. Ever since I was a kid, I preferred Scar.

  In fact, I had a scar on my left thumb in the shape of a curved scratch. I liked to think of it as a smile.

  A snapping turtle gave it to me in the Bahamas when I was in high school. That was when I first realized; I loved the conservation of endangered animals. Scars are funny in a way - they exist to remind you of the experiences you had. Even when I forgot the details of that trip, including the exact temperature of the water and the precise feeling of the sunshine on my sandy skin, the scar still existed. It still insisted that these things happened, that the turtle was real, even when the memory slipped away like water.

  Joey brought me a glass of apple cider because Dr. Alexeev made it. She insisted we all sip on a cup of it while she recounted a story about her trip to Tokyo during the last conference she attended. She even had a row of Harajuku dolls sitting on her fireplace mantle.

  As we listened to her tell yet another story about how quaint Japanese culture was and how much she enjoyed eating cooked sushi, a call came on her cell phone. I expected it to be another one of the other professors, calling to ask for help writing a grant. Either that or a poacher from a rival university who wanted to offer her a generous stipend to come work for them. She got those all the time, and she made sure we knew it. She didn’t need a man in her life to be happy.

  She didn’t laugh into the phone as she normally did. This was a serious call. I hoped it wasn’t something one of us did. Did we forget to submit some university paperwork on time? Leave a machine on in the lab? Forget to close the ice bin hatch?

  Dr. Alexeev’s knuckles completely drained of color as she nodded into the phone. I just knew it! It must be someone who was calling to tell us we lost our grant because one of the college interns was smoking weed in the computer room again. I had found two half-smoked blunts before the yearly lab safety inspectors came, and I quickly and quietly disposed of them. Who knew how many others there were lying around?

  “Is he awake?” Dr. Alexeev asked. “Thank goodness he’s alive.”

  There was almost a sarcastic tone to her voice. I can’t imagine who she was talking about. Although Dr. Alexeev did have an estranged daughter, as far as I knew, Dr. Alexeev didn’t have any other relatives she cared about. And all her loved ones, her lab workers, were all in that living room eating Kati Rolls at that minute.

  “Brain trauma?” Dr. Alexeev asked. “Well, how long will that go on for? You need me to come to the hospital now? I’m in the middle of Thanksgiving dinner!”

  Dr. Alexeev was angry, I could tell. I didn’t know this dinner was so important to her. As she sighed into the phone, I had a feeling she was going to tell us all to go home. Finally, as she promised to head over to wherever the caller needed her, her voice was growing increasingly cold and snippy. Although she kept nodding into the phone, the expression on her face said she was ready to throw one of her many souvenir snow globes across the room. After what seemed like forever, she finally hung up.

  The rest of us were silent. We were waiting to hear what the gossip was about.

  “My ex-husband’s son, Max, was in a racing accident. That dumb kid,” Dr. Alexeev said coldly. “He’s at a hospital uptown. They need me to see him because they found my number in his contacts. I’m so sorry. The turkey was really good this year.”

  “We’ll finish carving the turkey, Dr. Alexeev,” Andy said from the kitchen. “We’ll even pack it in Tupperware containers for you! You go ahead and take care of him.”

  Ah, Andrew Wang, always the suck-up. No wonder he got three publications since September. He was a gunner, or rather a knifer. He was already standing posed over the oven with a carving knife in each hand.

  Dr. Alexeev took off her apron and went to her room to get her coat. Joey’s eyes widened as he took me aside to gossip.

  “Maxwell WESTON?” Joey asked in a low voice. “He’s like the heir of al of Weston industries! The kid is a bloody billionaire. And he almost died? Wow, if he kicks the bucket, the Dow Jones might fall!”

  “Never heard of him,” I said. “He’s related to Dr. Alexeev?”

  “Nah, he’s the love child of her ex-husband and his mistress. You know, Samuel Weston and his second wife, Brenda Weston, who died in an airplane accident on Christmas Day four years ago?”

  “Oh yeah, of course, I heard of that,” I said. That was big news. We knew never to mention the name Samuel Weston in front of Dr. Alexeev if we valued our place in the graduate program. Dr. Alexeev hated her ex-husband with a passion. She went as far as to make a Christmas display in her office using Weston branded office products as a backdrop to remind us all of how Santa rewarded the dutiful wife by striking down her cheating husband and his whore in a flaming wreck on Christmas Day.

  Even though she had divorced from Mr. Weston for decades, she still referred to his second wife as the filthy whore. We all rolled our eyes whenever she went into a tirade about how marriage is for idiots, and all men cheat. All men, except the men in her program, of course. Whenever she came to her senses, she would reassure Andrew and Joey men who had the generosity of spirit to study anthropology would never do such a thing. Men, any man, who resembled her sell-out, corporate jerks of an ex-husband, Samuel Weston would absolutely use a marriage certificate to wipe his ass.

  “Scarlett,” Dr. Alexeev said as she approached us wearing a bright purple coat with a yellow Coach handbag. It looked very festive for a woman who was about to visit a relative who had nearly died. “Can you drive me to the hospital? It’s raining out, and my eyes are poor at night. Also, I heard your car has four-wheel drive.”

  “Of course,” I said eagerly. I didn’t feel especially eager about driving her all the way to Manhattan to see some relative that she clearly hated. But, at this point, two years into being at her constant beck and call, I answered all her requests with a cheerful smile. She did, after all, control how much longer I would be trapped in this program before I would be allowed to graduate.

  Pretty soon, it was goodbye to any hope of having any turkey. It was just me and Dr. Alexeev sitting inside my Jeep, venturing out into the deserted streets of Jamaica, Queens.

  “This is a nice car,” Dr. Alexeev commented, rubbing her cold knobby hands together as we pulled o
ut of the driveway. “It’s weird that a girl drives a manly car like this.”

  That was Dr. Alexeev. She was direct and blunt, as always. I knew by now that she meant no harm. She was Eastern European, Joey had explained to me when we first met, and she told me never to wear chinos again because I looked like a clown. The women from that country, they say what they mean.

  “It’s a good safe car,” I replied and patted my bare dashboard. “I don’t really care about how it looks. It’s not like I have a boyfriend to impress.”

  She laughed at that. I think she was impressed by my refusal to date. My job was my whole world.

  “You are a smart girl,” Dr. Alexeev said and sighed as the street lights went by. “You’re too smart for most boys. I wish I were as smart as you back when I was your age.”

  As the silence settled between us, I wondered if she was talking about her late husband Samuel or about Maxwell - the billionaire heir.

  Chapter 2

  The hospital was empty other than a stray nurse or janitor. I could see why. It was such a dreary place to be on Thanksgiving.

  We were led to the private VIP room on the top floor. Dr. Alexeev seemed to sigh again, with more disdain as some doctors appeared and explained to us that Maxwell had suffered a broken leg, a bruised rib, and head trauma. They also appeared with a leather satchel with what looked to be business papers. The doctors said they were handing it to Dr. Alexeev because they weren't sure if Maxwell would be trusted to do any office work while he was still recovering from surgery.

  The doctors solemnly told Dr. Alexeev that Mr. Weston wasn't going to be well enough to make any business decisions for at least a couple of months. When Maxwell first woke up, he didn't even know his own name. Now, at least, he was starting to understand that he was in a hospital and not his penthouse suite at the Pierre Hotel.

  Dr. Alexeev waved the doctor's concerns away. "That boy's skull is so thick no amount of drugs or street races can kill him," she said and laughed to herself. The doctors didn't appear to think she was very funny. "Maybe run a syphilis panel on him, I heard that can also cause mental issues."

  I laughed politely along with her. The doctors didn't. They exchanged glances with each other as though they were starting to wonder if they had called the right legal guardian. Though, a quick glance at Maxwell's medical records told me he was 26 years old, and should not require legal guardianship at his age.

  His mental age, well, that was another issue.

  Who flips a Porsche while street racing on this side of the world? I thought only rich kids in Singapore did stuff like that.

  Dr. Alexeev and I entered Maxwell's room to find the boy with his right leg in a cast. He was sitting up with a hospital blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a hobo. From Dr. Alexeev's jokes, I envisioned a sour-faced fatty with a shifty, villainous stare - the kind men acquired when they sniffed cocaine off one too many disease-ridden prostitutes.

  I was wrong. Maxwell Weston was extremely good-looking. He was gorgeous, actually, even with all the bruises and nicks on his face and hands. His hair was a sandy blond and was wet with either sweat or rain. His eyes weren't those of a vapid playboy. He looked very sharp despite being drop-dead handsome. I suddenly understood why Dr. Alexeev treated him with such disdain.

  He was the kind of boy that made women want to either love him or hate him. If his father looked anything like that, I could see why Dr. Alexeev celebrated Christmas every year with a toast to the maker of the plane that sent him into a burning grave.

  I didn't even like men (or women for that matter), and I couldn't take my eyes off the boy.

  Maxwell Weston was the pinnacle of alluring male toxicity. His brow ridge was fierce and sharp; his jawline looked to be chiseled out of marble. There was an annoyed yet intoxicating look to his pure blue eyes, as though one wanted to believe that was some good in him despite everything one knew about him.

  There was only confusion in his blue eyes as he stared at us.

  "It's me, Ramona," Dr, Alexeev said with a biting edge to her tone. Clearly, that was the way they spoke to each other in their family. "They called me out of my Thanksgiving dinner party because you were stupid enough to crash your Porsche. Do you want to end up like your parents, Maxwell?"

  Okay...so we were wasting no time on pleasantries. I suddenly understood why Dr. Alexeev was so lonely. She talked to her own family like they were less intelligent than the gorillas we studied.

  "Ramona, why did they call you?" Maxwell spat. His eyes drifted to me. "Liliane?"

  Oh my, he was confused.

  Liliane was the name of Dr. Alexeev's daughter. Although I had practically been attached at the hip to my Ph.D. mentor for the past two years, I had never met her daughter. Dr. Alexeev spoke of Liliane fondly, but the girl never could find the time to come see her mother.

  "That's not Liliane," Dr. Alexeev snapped, her voice was like the crack of a whip. She stormed into the room and showed the bag of personal effects to Maxwell. She opened the leather satchel and dumped the contents onto the floor. I suddenly understood why she was so mad. The paper in the bag was a contract. It was a contract to sign over Weston industries to the control of Ziffer Corp. In return, Maxwell was supposed to get a payout of twenty million dollars.

  I was no expert on the valuation of Weston. Still, considering how many hospitals they supplied and probably owned, I guessed the true value of that company was perhaps in the billions. Twenty million would barely buy a three-bedroom apartment in manhattan.

  "Are you crazy?" Dr. Alexeev asked.

  "It's not your company, Ramona," Maxwell retorted from under his blanket fort. He gingerly shifted his weight, trying not to pull his broken leg out from its harness. The cast looked heavy, and he clearly wasn't used to being attached to it. "Father left it to me."

  "You can't sell the Weston legacy for twenty million, you stupid boy," Dr. Alexeev snapped. "I helped build that company. What did you do?"

  "I was born to a woman my father loved," Maxwell yelled back. "He never loved you. Shut up, old hag, and go back to your classrooms."

  Dr. Alexeev was furious now. I had never seen her lose control of herself. This was a woman who stood up before rooms full of white-haired professors and demand to be treated as an equal. She was a legendary scientist, a role that she carved out with the strength of her ice-cold determination. She was difficult, but she wasn't emotional.

  This dumb kid had pushed her over the edge.

  "I may be old and poor, but I'm the only family you have left. Next time you go crack your skull open, do it all the way so that I can enjoy my thanksgiving dinner."

  "The only one I have left?" Maxwell yelled and pounded his fist on the flimsy hospital table. An ice bucket went flying across the floor. "Liliane, I still have you don't I?"

  "I'm not Liliane," I finally said as his desperate eyes searched mine for some semblance of recognition.

  "Then, who are you? Why are you here?" Maxwell asked. Then he laughed to himself. "Why do you care if I sell my father's company for pennies?"

  "She's your wife!" Dr. Alexeev blurted out. I felt Dr. Alexeev seize my hand and give it a tight, uncomfortable squeeze. I knew that what meant. As crazy as this was, she wanted me to go along with it. Oh, dear, being ordered to lie to a man with brain trauma? I was sure this went against the University Code of Conduct.

  "My wife?" Maxwell asked.

  "Yes, you don't even remember your own wife. For the love of God, Maxwell, look at yourself!"

  "I'm sorry," Maxwell said to me. "I had a nasty bump to my head. I-I don't even remember your name."

  "Scarlett!" Dr. Alexeev finished for him before I could open my mouth. "You don't deserve her, you little turd."

  "Scarlett," Maxwell said as though he was tasting the words on his tongue. Although he didn't smile, his eyes seemed to soften as he studied me. "I'm so sorry for what happened. I really don't remember why I went out with Bobby today. Were you waiting for me to come home?"
r />   "It's okay," I said softly, politely. Dr. Alexeev nodded at me, her eyes full of threats that I better go along before she canceled me, aka threw me out of her program. I glared back, trying to insinuate that she better give me a dozen publications for what I was doing for her. Maxwell raised one of his large, bruised hands to me. He trembled with emotion as he continued to stare at me.

  I went to him and took his hand. It was warm, calloused, dry. It was large enough that it enveloped my slender fingers.

  "You don't have to say anything, Scarlett," Maxwell said. "You don't have to forgive me, but please, don't leave me. I have no one else in the world except this hag here."

  "I won't leave," I promised. "And don't call me Scarlett. My name is Scar."

  Chapter 3

  Great, so now I was pretending to be a guy’s wife. Me, who never even had a serious relationship in my life.

  At Maxwell’s insistence, Dr. Alexeev eventually left the hospital room. After she was gone, I got a flurry of texts on my phone from her.

  Convince him to sign over the company to you as his wife!

  If you can’t, at least find out what Bobby has over him.

  5 minutes later, I got another text.

  It was a wedding photo in Vegas of me and Maxwell. The photoshop job was pretty bad but I guess it was enough to convince a guy with brain damage that I was his wife. I got a smiley dace and a thumbs up emoticon from my labmate Andrew Wang. I guessed that he was the artist behind the wedding photos. Soon I got another text that there were more coming even if it took him all night to create an entire fake wedding for us.

  Well, at least I could comfort myself with the thought that I wasn’t the only graduate student involved in this charade. My phone pinged with another text from Dr. Alexeev.

  If he asks why no one knows about it, tell him he married you in secret in Vegas because his father didn’t approve. Your day job is a waitress.

  I rolled my eyes. Wow, I had just been demoted from pretend wife to unwanted secret pretend wife. I was insulted on behalf of my alter ego, Scarlett the gold-digger, Vegas show girl who waits tables.