Faking Ms Right Novels & Stories

I wished he would be a little unreasonable so I can lash out some more, but I quickly banished the self sabotaging thought. This was my opportunity to escape the fate of being a pretend wife. I would be foolish to let it go. “I'm not against being your wife, per se,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “What I'm against is being forced into a role I didn't agree with. I don't like being ordered to do so as though I have no opinion of my own,” Mr Benedetto raised an eyebrow, his expression thoughtful. “Go on.” he said, his voice neutral.

But I’m as stunned as he is, my mind racing to find a way out of this ambush. Miller turns to me, a triumphant smirk on his face. “I told you, Ms. Bradford, you wouldn’t win this case. Your witness is a fraud, and your case is falling apart. You should just give up now and save yourself the embarrassment.” I meet his gaze, my mind whirring. I can’t let him see me sweat. “Mr. Miller,” I say, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside me. “I’m not going to let you get away with this. I’m going to prove that Marks is telling the truth and that the mafia is behind this whole scheme.”

The screen refreshed on its own and a timer appeared 00:59:12

After five years of marriage, I found out my husband was in love with my best friend, the same one who stole my fiance. Betrayed by both of them, I decided to fake my death and disappear. There were two days left. After I sent the email, Lloyd Becker walked into the study. Just as I closed the email about my fake death plan, he gently hugged me from behind and casually looked at my screen. “Sending work emails?” “Yeah, just checking some work plans.” I tried to sound natural and smiled at him.

“Don’t kid yourself, Leon. I’m not your wife. I’m your fake wife. A convenient arrangement with an expiration date.” Leon’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. “That’s not true-” “Not true?” I cut him off, my voice rising. “What’s true about any of this? In a few months, this will all be over. You’ll go your way, I’ll go mine, and you can do whatever you want. Isn’t that what we agreed?” For a moment, he didn’t say anything. His silence only fueled my anger. “Are you worried about Owen?” I added sarcastically, “the handsome scholar who might ruin the carefully calibrated image of your precious marriage? Or is it the thought of your wife moving on too quickly—with her old classmate—that bother

My stomach flipped. I reread the line at least twenty-three times, as if it would suddenly change to, "Just kidding! Singles welcome! We love lonely intellectuals with control issues!" But no. I was stuck. I mean... it was just a small lie, right? I wasn’t hurting anyone. And it was for a good cause—my research on emotional intimacy in long-term relationships. I needed this grant. I needed peace. I needed the space. I just… needed a fake husband.

"Nikolai—" "I built this." My voice came out louder than I intended. The mere sight of him made me go mad with rage. "Everything in that folder with my name on it, I built. Every contract, every endorsement, every relationship in this league — I went through the proper channels, I took the right meetings, I put in the work and I did not call in a single favor from you or anyone connected to you because I needed it to be mine." I paused. "It is mine. And you sitting in this room does not change that." "Your sentimentality about independence is very moving," my father said, dry and precise. "It doesn't change the fact that forty-three seconds of footage is currently threatening to undo it."

Like his words carried no emotions as he spoke. “I beg to differ. I feel they’re missing out on someone special but you sure can be a pain in the ass,” She drags her last words to make emphasis as she directs her attention from the ceiling to Dylan who has a smirk on. “Likewise you too” “What? I’m an angel,” Anna immediately defends while faking a shocked expression. “Is this how you lie to your patient Dr. Anna?” Dylan was the one to tease her this time around as he raises his brows while staring at her.

Without a word, he filled the two teacups, stretching the other to Andre. "What's in the tea?" Andre asked, holding his hand on a suspended level. "It didn't kill you the first time, you think it will now?" Macklemore teased. "I mean, is it like a truth syrup or some kind of therapeutic stuff?" Andre finally has a sip. "The tea is to help you relax, other than that, it does nothing else. Everything you see when you enter your subconscious is a manifestation of the residual files in your brain, just as our mobile applications contain residual files and cached all piled in the junk folder."

Nor now nor ever. There was no place for emotions in their fake relationship and there should be no blurred lines between...