Fake Marriage To The Undercover Boss

"Your profile picture was better."

Chadwick Boggs did not even look up from his phone when he said it.

Emaline Finley stood by the heavy oak table of Bellezza, the chill of the Manhattan autumn wind still clinging to her cheap blazer. She swallowed the immediate lump of humiliation in her throat.

She pulled out her own chair. The wood scraped loudly against the tile floor.

Chadwick finally glanced up, his eyes scanning her unbranded clothing with obvious distaste. He tapped the screen of his phone one last time before setting it face down.

A waiter appeared instantly, handing them leather-bound menus.

Before Emaline could even open hers, Chadwick snatched it from her hands.

"She will have the house salad," Chadwick told the waiter. "And I will take the Wagyu ribeye, medium rare. Bring a bottle of your most expensive Cabernet."

The waiter nodded and vanished.

Emaline stared at the empty space where her menu had been. Her fingers curled into fists under the table. Her nails dug into her palms.

"So," Chadwick leaned back, crossing his arms. "Let us get this over with. What is your annual salary? Do you have any savings? Any outstanding debt?"

The words hit her like physical blows. Her stomach twisted.

"I make enough to support myself," Emaline said, keeping her voice level. "I thought we might talk about our interests first. Books, maybe? Movies?"

Chadwick let out a short, harsh laugh. "Interests do not pay the mortgage on a Manhattan penthouse. I drive a Porsche. I need to know if you are a liability. You are already punching above your weight class just sitting here."

Emaline felt the blood rush to her face. The heat burned her cheeks.

"My mother is getting older," Chadwick continued, oblivious to her reaction. "If we get married, you will need to quit your job. You will manage the house and take care of her full time."

Emaline pressed her lips together. The inside of her cheek caught between her teeth. She bit down hard enough to taste copper.

"This is our first date," Emaline said. Her voice trembled, just a fraction.

"A date is an interview for a merger," Chadwick sneered. "With your age and your background, you are not exactly a prime asset. But if you are willing to move in for a trial period before the wedding, I might consider it."

The air in Emaline's lungs turned to ice.

She grabbed the linen napkin from her lap and threw it onto the center of the table.

"You are the most arrogant, repulsive man I have ever met," Emaline said. The words tore out of her throat.

Chadwick's face darkened. The smugness vanished, replaced by a nasty scowl.

"Walk away now, and you will die alone," he threatened, his voice dropping to a vicious hiss. "You will never find anyone better than me."

Emaline stood up. She grabbed her faux-leather purse.

"I would rather die alone than spend another second breathing the same air as you."

She turned on her heel and marched toward the exit.

As she passed the adjacent booth, a low, rumbling chuckle stopped her in her tracks.

Emaline snapped her head to the side.

A man sat there alone. He was swirling a glass of amber whiskey. His dark, piercing eyes were locked on her. The corners of his mouth twitched upward in pure amusement.

He raised his glass to her in a silent toast.

A sudden jolt of heat shot down Emaline's spine. The intensity in his gaze made her skin prickle. She broke eye contact, her heart hammering against her ribs, and practically ran for the door.

"Hey! You need to pay for your salad!" Chadwick bellowed from across the restaurant.

Emaline froze with her hand on the brass door handle.

She unzipped her purse, pulled out a crumpled twenty-dollar bill, and slammed it onto a passing waiter's tray. She pushed through the heavy doors and stepped out into the freezing night.

The cold air hit her face like a slap.

She leaned against the rough brick wall of the restaurant. Her chest heaved. The adrenaline crashed, leaving her legs shaking and her eyes burning with unshed tears.

She dug her phone out of her pocket, needing to hear her father's voice.

The screen lit up with a new text message.

It was from the hospital billing department. Her father's next treatment installment was overdue.

The phone slipped from her numb fingers, dangling by her grip.

Her shoulders collapsed. A sob tore through her throat, raw and ugly. She covered her mouth with her hand, trying to choke back the sound.

The restaurant door clicked open.

A man stepped out onto the sidewalk. The crisp autumn wind ruffled his dark hair, but he did not seem to notice the freezing temperature. He stood alone, his posture perfectly straight, blending into the shadows of the awning. There was no grand entourage, no luxury vehicle waiting for him, just the quiet hum of the Manhattan street.

Cullen Preston raised a hand, rubbing the back of his neck as he let out a slow, measured breath. His dark eyes scanned the street and immediately fixed on the corner of the brick wall.

Emaline was hunched over, wiping her wet cheeks with the back of her sleeve, completely unaware of the man watching her with such intense focus.

Cullen adjusted the collar of his coat, his jaw tightening slightly as he observed her shaking shoulders. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his dark wool coat and walked toward the brick wall.

He stopped two feet away from her.

"That performance in there was significantly better than my date," his deep voice cut through the sound of the city traffic.

Emaline gasped and spun around. Her eyes were wide, red-rimmed, and defensive.

Cullen offered a faint smile. He pulled a pristine white handkerchief from his pocket and held it out to her.

"Do you need this?" Cullen asked. "Or do you plan to keep crying over that idiot's salad money?"

Emaline stared at the white fabric. She did not take it.

"Were you eavesdropping?" she asked, her voice thick with unshed tears.

Cullen dropped his hand, letting the handkerchief fall back into his pocket. He shrugged.

"It was hard not to hear him," Cullen said. "The man projects like he is trying to be heard in the next state. He has the subtlety of a foghorn."

Emaline tightened her grip on her purse. She turned her body away from him, her boots scraping against the concrete. She did not have the energy for a stranger's games.

"Wait," Cullen said. He took a step to follow her. "Let me buy you a drink. Consider it compensation for the free entertainment."

Emaline stopped. She whipped her head back to look at him.

"I do not need your compensation," she snapped. "And I definitely do not need your pity."

Cullen held up both hands in a gesture of surrender. The streetlights caught the expensive glint of his watch.

"No pity," Cullen said. His tone was smooth, almost hypnotic. "Just a shared misery. My date was a disaster too. Tiffany spent forty-five minutes asking roundabout questions to figure out my net worth."

Emaline studied his face. The exhaustion in his eyes looked real. The tension in her shoulders dropped a fraction.

"Congratulations," Emaline said flatly. "We are both losers tonight."

The playful smirk vanished from Cullen's face. His dark eyes locked onto hers, suddenly intense and calculating.

"What if I told you I have a way for both of us to stop losing?" he asked.

Emaline frowned. Her brow furrowed.

Cullen closed the distance between them. He lowered his voice, forcing her to lean in slightly to hear him over the wind.

"A marriage," Cullen said. "You and me. Strictly business. We both get what we need."

Emaline's jaw dropped. The air left her lungs.

"Are you insane?" she breathed out. "We met five minutes ago."

Cullen did not blink. "I have my reasons. I need a marriage certificate to satisfy some family trust clauses. And you need money to pay those hospital bills."

A cold sweat broke out on the back of Emaline's neck.

Her hand flew to her coat pocket, covering the phone hidden inside. Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs.

"How do you know about that?" she demanded, taking a step back. "Did you read my phone?"

Cullen stayed perfectly still. "I saw the notification light up on your phone screen when you were hunched over outside the restaurant. It is none of my business, but you looked like you needed help. I am a project manager. I make a stable income. I have no bad habits. We sign a prenuptial agreement. You get your bills paid, and I get my family off my back."

Emaline's mind spun. The pavement felt like it was tilting beneath her feet.

The proposal was madness. It was dangerous. But the image of her father's pale face in the hospital bed flashed behind her eyes.

"This is ridiculous," Emaline said, shaking her head. "Why would I ever trust you?"

Cullen reached into the inner pocket of his coat. He pulled out a crisp, white business card and extended it to her.

"My contact information," Cullen said. "I am not forcing you. But if you change your mind, call me."

Emaline hesitated. Her fingers trembled as she reached out and took the card.

It was thick cardstock. It just said 'Cullen Preston' and a phone number. No company name. No title.

Before she could say another word, her phone vibrated violently in her pocket.

She pulled it out. The screen showed an incoming video call from her younger brother, Leo.

Emaline swiped to answer.

Leo's face appeared on the screen. He was frantic. His hands moved in rapid sign language, a blur of panicked motion.

The mechanical voice of the translation app echoed from the phone speaker. "Emaline. Dad discharged himself. He will not stay at the hospital."

All the blood drained from Emaline's face. Her stomach plummeted into a bottomless pit.

"What?" Emaline gasped, her voice cracking. "Where is he?"

Leo signed faster. The app translated: "He is home. He looks awful. He is coughing. He threw his pills in the trash."

The world tilted violently. Emaline could not breathe. The edges of her vision went black.

"I am coming right now," Emaline shouted at the screen. "Do not let him move!"

She ended the call. Her fingers fumbled as she opened a ride-sharing app. The screen spun with a loading circle. No cars available. She looked up at the street. The Manhattan traffic was a solid wall of red taillights, but not a single empty yellow cab was in sight.

A wave of pure terror crashed over her.

"Get in," Cullen's voice cut through her panic.

Emaline looked up. Cullen was standing by the open rear door of a clean but unremarkable dark sedan that had just pulled up to the corner.

She looked at the ordinary vehicle. She looked at the stranger holding the door. Her instincts screamed at her to run away.

But her father was dying in their living room.

Emaline clenched her jaw. She gripped the business card so hard the edges dug into her palm.

She walked past Cullen and slid into the back seat of the sedan.

The heavy door of the sedan clicked shut, sealing them in a vault of silence.

The car glided away from the curb. Emaline sat rigid against the soft leather. Her knuckles were bone-white as she gripped her phone. Her eyes were glued to the blank screen, praying for another message from Leo.

Cullen sat beside her. "Where to?" Cullen asked quietly, his eyes studying her pale face in the dim light. Emaline gave him her address, her voice barely a whisper that cracked on the street name. He relayed it to the driver, and the car pulled silently into traffic.

He reached into the small compartment between the seats and pulled out a chilled bottle of water. He held it out to her.

Emaline did not take it. She could not breathe. Her chest felt tight, wrapped in iron bands that squeezed harder with every passing second.

She frantically dialed her family doctor's number. It rang ten times before going to voicemail. She hung up and dialed the hospital's emergency line.

A cheerful, automated voice told her she was on hold. Vivaldi's Spring played through the speaker, mocking her panic.

Emaline slammed the phone down onto the leather seat. The dull thud echoed in the quiet cabin.

She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. Her shoulders hitched.

The dam broke.

A ragged sob tore out of her throat. Her entire body shook as months of suppressed terror, exhaustion, and financial ruin poured out of her in violent waves. Tears flooded down her face, slipping through her fingers and dripping onto her cheap blazer.

Cullen watched her. His jaw tightened.

He reached forward and pressed a button on the console. The soft music from the speakers died. He shifted closer to her, his presence a wall against the driver's quiet presence, and raised his hand, hovering it over her back for a fraction of a second, before resting his palm firmly on her shaking shoulder.

Emaline flinched at the contact.

But the heat radiating from his hand seeped through her jacket. It was solid. It was grounding.

Instead of pulling away, her body betrayed her. She slumped sideways, leaning into the pressure of his hand. She needed an anchor, and he was the only thing in the car that was not spinning.

Cullen did not pull her into a hug, but his thumb began to stroke a slow, rhythmic line across her shoulder blade.

"Breathe," Cullen said. His voice was a low rumble in the quiet car. "He is going to be alright."

Emaline shook her head frantically. "You do not understand," she choked out, her voice broken and wet. "He gave up. He left the hospital to save money. He is doing this for me and Leo."

She could not stop talking. The words spilled out like blood from an open wound. She told him about the failing lungs. She told him about the final notices from the bank. She told him about Leo's deafness and how her father felt he was stealing their future.

Cullen listened. He did not interrupt. His thumb kept up its steady, calming motion on her shoulder.

Emaline finally ran out of breath. She lifted her head and looked at him.

The dim ambient lighting of the car cast sharp shadows across his face. He looked dangerous, yet completely safe.

"That proposal," Emaline whispered, her voice hoarse. "Were you serious?"

Cullen met her tear-filled eyes. He did not blink.

"Every single word," Cullen said.

Emaline bit her lower lip. Her teeth sank into the soft flesh. "I need time to think."

"Take it," Cullen said smoothly. "But time is the one thing we usually run out of."

The sedan rolled over the Brooklyn Bridge. The glittering skyline of Manhattan reflected in the tinted windows, sliding across Emaline's wet cheeks. The city looked beautiful and entirely out of reach.

Cullen reached inside his coat. He pulled out a slim leather money clip.

He slid a thick, heavy stack of hundred-dollar bills from it. He placed the cash on the empty space of the seat between them. The crisp green paper seemed to mock the worn fabric of her cheap blazer.

Emaline stared at the pile of money. She knew what that kind of cash meant to someone in her position. It was a lifeline. It was more money than she had seen in months of exhausting, backbreaking shifts.

"What is this?" she asked, shrinking back against the door. "I do not want your charity."

"It is not charity," Cullen said. His tone left no room for argument. "It is an advance. You need cash tonight for your father. Consider it the first installment of our agreement."

She shook her head violently. "I have not agreed to anything. I cannot take this."

"Take it," Cullen commanded softly. "If you say no tomorrow, you can hand it back to me. This has nothing to do with the contract. This is just one human helping another."

Emaline reached out. Her trembling fingers brushed against the crisp edges of the bills. It felt like grabbing a live wire, the texture of the currency sending a shock of shame and desperate relief through her veins.

The car slowed to a halt.

Emaline looked out the window. They were parked in front of her crumbling brick apartment building in Brooklyn. The contrast between the clean, quiet car and the graffiti-covered door was sickening.

She grabbed the stack of cash. She shoved it into her purse.

She pushed the heavy car door open and scrambled out into the cold air.

"Thank you," she whispered into the dark, before sprinting up the concrete steps and disappearing into the stairwell.

Cullen stayed in the car. He watched the empty doorway for a long time.