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?"