Billionaire's Fake Wife: A Single Mom BWWM Romance Read online

  Billionaire’s Fake Wife

  A Single Mom BWWM Romance

  Tyla Walker

  ebook Carousel

  Copyright © 2020 by ebook Carousel

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Sign up for my newsletter!

  Contents

  Also by Tyla Walker

  Description

  1. Sonya

  2. Grant

  3. Sonya

  4. Grant

  5. Sonya

  6. Grant

  7. Sonya

  8. Grant

  9. Sonya

  10. Grant

  11. Sonya

  12. Grant

  13. Sonya

  14. Grant

  15. Sonya

  16. Grant

  17. Sonya

  18. Grant

  19. Sonya

  20. Grant

  21. Sonya

  22. Grant

  23. Sonya

  24. Grant

  25. Sonya

  26. Grant

  27. Sonya

  28. Grant

  29. Sonya

  30. Grant

  31. Sonya

  32. Grant

  33. Sonya

  34. Grant

  35. Sonya

  Also by Tyla Walker

  Also by Tyla Walker

  Honest Man

  Million Dollar Fake Wife

  Boy Friend

  Up & Coming

  Country Love

  Rushed Love

  The Promotion Proposal

  The Texas Property Billionaire’s Nanny

  The Oil Tycoon’s Surrogate

  Fake Forever

  Wife Arrangement

  Fake Wedding

  Not That White Boy

  Hate To Love You

  Fake Marriage

  Love After A Cheater

  Always Been You

  The Billionaire Professor’s Curvy Student

  The Billionaire President’s Love Bunny

  The Texas Bad Boy Billionaire’s Forbidden Love

  Starlet For the Single Dad

  Having the Ex-Military Billionaire’s Baby

  A Good Woman

  Blending a New Family

  Pretend Wife

  A Single Mom’s True Love

  Marriage of Convenience

  The Texas CEO’s Nanny

  Time For Family

  My Crazy White Boy

  Description

  Sonya Lynx is trying desperately to give her daughter a good life. She wants to succeed at work and she’s willing to work as hard as it takes. See, Sonya works in fashion, and it’s hard for a single black mom to advance in an industry dominated by blonde white women. So far, the most Sonya has had a chance to do is get coffee for these Becky’s. Then one day, she meets Grant, whose momma is the CEO of the fashion label.

  Grant asks Sonya to marry him!

  Well…that was unexpected! Grant desperately needs to show his mom that he’s settled down. She wants him to get married in three months or she’s gonna hand over the reins to someone else.

  Grant needs Sonya. And he promises her the world.

  Is this Sonya’s big break? Will she take it? And what happens if she does and ends up falling in love with this handsome as sin white boy?

  It was supposed to be strictly business. But toss in some love and it just becomes funny business.

  Find out in this sizzling BWWM romance!

  One

  Sonya

  Ever wondered what it takes to be on top of the world of high fashion? Well, aside from great looks and a body that looks best without or with minimal clothes on, it's about talent and hard work. Now, imagine an independent African-American woman with all that, in her mid-twenties, and career-driven. That's basically me, in a nutshell.

  And yet here I am, fielding phone calls for fashion shows and hiring models for the next big fashion show. On the one hand, I'm talking on the phone with Madame Gretau from Paris for renting out her chateau for a few nights, while on the other hand, I'm fidgeting away on my phone, trying to text and chat all the girls who'll do the shoots and the final show.

  Every day, my brain is basically split into two from all the multi-tasking that was so happily bequeathed unto me.

  But no, I'm not complaining because the road to the mountain peak is arduous and lengthy. I mean, that's how Gloria Fields, our CEO, got to where she is right now.

  My desk phone beeps.

  "Sonya, are you there?" a soft yet firm voice that commanded respect emanated from the speaker.

  Speak of the devil.

  I quickly apologize to Madame Gretau and put her on hold to pick up my desk phone, "Yes, Mrs. Fields. I'm here as always, at your service," I say in the most cheerful voice that I can muster up while my thumb is almost cramping up from typing on the smartphone.

  "Any special projects you might want me to work on?" I add.

  "Yes, quite," Gloria replies coldly.

  This is it. My chance to finally get on her good graces.

  "Then ask, and it shall be done. ASAP, Ma'am," I proudly state.

  "My bowels have been irregular lately, it may have something to do with the new coffee beans my son had requisitioned for the entire building. Go be a dear and fetch me a macha triple latte from the nearest Starbucks."

  That's an hour's drive away in this traffic!

  "Gladly!" I reply. "Mtcha Triple Latte. I'm on my way, Mrs. Fields."

  "Good. Thank you."

  "Welcome," I say.

  "Oh, and before I forget," says Mrs. Fields.

  Please say anything that at least is a hint of a promotion.

  "Bring extra napkins."

  An hour and forty-five minutes later, I'm finally back at the office, with coffee in hand. I'm strutting along now with a jolly gait, feeling proud of finally landing Madame Gretau's Chateau as the venue for the company's next shindig.

  I quickly clean myself up in the bathroom mirror before walking up to Mrs. Field's doors. My black hair is now frizzy from all the running I had to do this morning, but at the very least, my skin still looks fresh as it has ever been.

  A few creases on my new navy blue office dress, but nothing that a few sprinkles of water and a quick blowdry can't fix.

  I knock three times on her door after finally getting myself cleaned up.

  "Come in," says Mrs. Fields from inside her office.

  "Good morning, Mrs. Fields. Here's the coffee you ordered," I greet as I enter her office, a large corner room, filled with the most exquisite portraits of models and other abstract works of art. Her large glass desk sits in the middle of the room over a large silk carpet.

  And sitting behind the desk is a slender, gorgeous, blonde, woman. If it isn't for a few wrinkles around her eyes, you'll believe that she is in her mid-thirties. That's the aura Gloria Fields exudes, the epitome of beauty and grace as she sits atop the world of the aesthetic industry.

  Mrs. Fields is busy typing away on her laptop, the latest Macbook in the market, the perfect weapon for her crusade on modern fashion.

  "Well, I believe you have something for me?" Mrs. Fields asks, even though her eyes are still glued to her laptop monitor.

  "Oh! Yes, Mrs. Fields. The coffee," I say as I finally awaken from my trance. Mrs. Fields simply raises her hand and beckons me to come closer with her fingers.

  I put her coffee down on her table as gracefu
lly as I can, hoping that at least Mrs. Fields could see some of the efforts I'm doing for even the most menial of her tasks.

  Still, in spite of all those things that she's done to me or instead not done to me, I can't hate her. She is my idol, my model, my muse.

  Everything that I aspire to be as a successful woman, Mrs. Fields, seems to have accomplished it all.

  The power, the fame, the ridiculously clear skin on her face, and on even on her hands as she continues to type, ignoring my presence.

  "Mmm. Smells good. That will be all, Sonya. Thank you," she nonchalantly says without ever looking at me.

  I don't know why but I find myself bowing ever so slightly in front of her as I'm leaving. I guess to me, she really is fashion royalty. I can only hope that one day, she'll see the potential in me too. I had to bust my ass off just to even get to be in my position in the company.

  "Ah, Sonya. One more thing," Mrs. Fields suddenly erupts as I reach for the door.

  I quickly walk up in front of her desk, "Yes, Mrs. Fields?"

  "The napkins?" Mrs. Fields grins as she looks at me with a particular curious jest.

  "Oh! Of course, my apologies," I say as I reach for my pocket and hand over the pile of napkins to her before finally leaving the office.

  I sit back on my desk with a renewed sense of fatigue. Don't get me wrong, I love the opportunity to be able to work with the most celebrated female fashion icon of the decade. But sometimes, it can really get tiring just to be able to get on her radar.

  But no matter how many hours I stay late in the office or how many cups of coffee I deliver to her, or even how much I keep asking for additional responsibilities, Gloria Fields just doesn't see to see anything else in me, other than my name.

  If only I could get the opportunity to actually design dresses and even organize some of the fashion shows, instead of all these administrative work.

  But I can't forget the other reason I'm doing this job, I say as I reach for my phones and open my photo albums and scroll over pictures of this cute five-year-old girl with caramel skin and angel eyes.

  My daughter, Lauralee, smiles as I'm hugging her tightly in bed in our picture. On the day this picture was taken, I had just gotten home early in the morning, straight from work. That was the first night I had gotten assigned to work under Mrs. Fields, an employee of hers had just quit her job and left a pile of work to be done on that day. With a smile, I simply nodded and worked all night to get everything done.

  Luckily for me, it’s a Friday, I had the entire Saturday morning, literally from twelve midnight to six in the morning, to finish the remaining workload, final edits on prototype sketches.

  The phone rings and I put it on speaker.

  "Sonya?" Mrs. Fields' voice emanates from my phone.

  "Yes, Mrs. Fields?" I attentively reply.

  "I'm going to need you to stay a bit after work today," Mrs. Fields informs. "Angelo just sent in his sketches today. They are atrocious, and he seems to be too wasted from partying last night to fix it. It's going to need a bit of your Sonya magic. Can I trust you on this?"

  I take a quick look at my daughter's face now on my computer before answering, "I'd love to, Mrs. Fields. I would like nothing more than the opportunity to do so."

  "What would I ever do without you, my dear," Mrs. Fields compliments.

  She complimented me!

  And with an invigorated sense of purpose, I continue on my work.

  Two

  Grant

  Numbers, numbers, numbers. There's nothing better to start a day than combing through a hundred megabytes of spreadsheet data in my handy-dandy laptop. As I search through the various data sets like expenses and income, I can't help but feel a tinge of joy and excitement of the possible information the cryptic numbers hide within them. Like Indiana Jones, I salivate at the treasure that is waiting to be discovered in the Temple of Doom that is my spreadsheet file.

  Now, I know what you're thinking. Is this guy some creepy weirdo? Is this guy a nerd? And the most common question that I've been getting from newly acquainted strangers is this guy a serial killer who leaves weird calling cards made up of numerical puzzles that taunt the detectives who are trying to solve the crime?

  No, no, and no, but the last one might have been cool to see as a movie. Man, I should totally hit up Netflix for a pitch like that.

  But I digress, I should really learn how to tell better stories, and not lead all you lovable fans of mine into some unrelated pish-posh of a side plot like what I'm doing now. Anyway…

  No, I'm your typical handsome, six-foot-three, blonde, blue-eyed prince of privilege, all thanks to my last name, Fields. You might have heard of them about now, or more specifically, about my mother, Gloria Fields. Fierce, intelligent, and a beautiful fashion icon who rose through the fashion ranks throughout the years.

  I love my dear mother, but for the life of me, I could never get her passion for fashion.

  Again, don't get me wrong, I'm not some bum who just spends his time lounging around the house in his five-week-old sweatpants and munches on junk food. Nor am I some an introverted nerd with a face filled with acne, and spends his weekends getting lost on academic books, trying to learn all of that he can about his subject of desire.

  No, I'm the son of a fashion empress.

  When I'm not wearing my silk pajamas, I'm always in a tailored suit of the most elegant fabrics. I won't even blame you if you mistake me for a demi-god of a model, rather than an accountant. In fact, most of the high-end girls I've dated do. God bless their sweet little hearts, never mind the fact that most of them are usually only in it either for the money or fame.

  Take, for example, Cirilla des Moines, a high countess of Tuscany. The Ashen-haired, -emerald-eyed heiress, with a body a supermodel would die for. She always wore fantastic jewelry that would only be surpassed by her grace and poise. We'd spend summers in Italy, bathed in milk and honey, bed littered with yellow rose petals, and drunk on wine and passion. But I found out, at a later date, that her family had been a hair edge's away from bankruptcy for almost a decade now. Apparently, the matron of her family had set us up in the hopes of joining the des Moines with the Fields families and saving their family from shame in poverty.

  The funny part about this is how my mother found out about the conspiracy. It was when she accidentally walked in on Cirilla sleeping with her lawyer. The biased contract was presented in front of her, favoring the des Moines just sitting on a table a few feet away from where they did their nasty deed.

  Money is the root of all evil? Please, money is just a tool for civilization to flourish. It merely amplifies an individual's psychological tendency. And obviously, Cirilla's trend wasn't to spend the rest of her life with me. Sometimes, I read her DM's in her blocked account on my Instagram account just to see how far she had fallen.

  But let's not put my dating life in the spotlight here, because, for me, love is inconsequential right now.

  For me, what is essential at this moment, and in every moment of my waking life, is work. But not just any other ordinary work. No, I mean actual work. Saving the turtles, ending world hunger, and even hopefully, saving the world. You know, the simple stuff. The simple things that make the world go round.

  I'm no superhero, of course, but I'm taking my first baby steps as I go through the books of my dear mother's company. I've already mapped out a few strategies to save the company hefty amounts of money. And that's not just because I'm trying to destroy the image that my family members have of me, that I'm just some spoiled rich kid who only wants to buy cars and party. I want to change the world, make it better, possibly save it, and I'm going to do it with my company.

  Excuse me, my darling mother's company. She's still the president, after all, and I'm just her lovable and hard-working glorified accountant. I'm just making sure that when she does pass on the torch, I'll have the most significant golden egg on a silver platter delivered to me that I can crack to fund all of my planned projects
.

  I transfer all the saved income to a bogus account in the ledger and have it all deposited into a trust fund. And when this baby matures, I'll have enough resources to make even Batman die of envy.

  But so far, mother hasn't even begun to groom me for her position. Usually, at this stage in their careers, presidents should already be assigned tasks and assignments to their successors, to have a better transition period once they retire.

  But what have I gotten from my mother? Just an electronic birthday card I got on my e-mail on my birthday that's even clearly made by her most trusted employee, Sonya.

  Speak of the devil, there she is right now, walking past my office, frantically pacing herself while carrying a tall cup of coffee. In spite of her lack of poise, she is looking as exotically beautiful as always. Maybe it's her height, her tight body, or probably even her daring dark blue-black hair, but I've always wanted to get to know her better.

  I try to catch up to her, but she's already gone before I can even get out of my office. The universe doesn't agree to our meeting, even though my intent is nothing but of the purest of intentions.

  Sigh, oh well. At least Sonya's still in the company, I say to myself. Mother can be quite the uptight team leader. The overall turnover rate is usually higher whenever we have new employees hired under her. My mother just has this certain 'allure' when it comes to her employees. The kind of allure that seems to make them want to stay a few thousand kilometers away from her.