Mr. President:A Billionaire & Virgin Fake Fiance Romance(4)

"What the fuck? You think I live under a rock? I know; I've read the  headlines on my phone about a hundred times today," I reply, shaking my  head. The truth is, the headlines make me sick. I look across the oval  office, beyond the serious and somber faces of my trusted staff, across  the curved walls, and I realize that I'm furious.

I can feel my heart kick in my chest with tension, and I shove one balled fist into the pocket of my suit pants.

Why is the press focusing on my personal life, instead of what I'm accomplishing?         

     



 

Can't they see what I'm doing? Is everything about scandal and click-bait?

Where the fuck is the interest in the common everyday American? Who's  struggling? No one cares about that. More about what kind of pussy my  cock is going into.

I look back at Tracy. She's a petite woman, but don't let her size fool you. She has the tenacity of a bulldog.

"My personal life isn't the issue," I say, shaking my head. "I've been  through great fucking pains to keep my personal life totally private  during the campaign."

Tracy nods her head and says, "That's true, but there were still rumors."

"Sure, there were rumors," I reply. "Rumors, rumors, rumors. It doesn't  stop. There are always fucking rumors, but nothing was ever provable  during my campaign. Nothing is ever provable-campaign or not. Don't you  agree?"

"Sir, that's exactly the problem," Tracy says, trying to drive her point home.

"I'm not following," I reply, raising my eyebrows and pressing a finger  to my temple. I can feel my pulse throbbing just beneath my fingertip.

"I just mean that you've guarded your personal life so closely that it  has just made people more curious," Tracy continues. "You're young,  attractive, rich, and single. You're also the youngest President in the  history of the United States and that's left the public curious about  you."

"So you think I should be completely transparent with my personal life?"  I ask, tapping my pen on the office's Resolute desk in increasing  agitation. "Don't you think I deserve as much fucking privacy as anyone  else?"

"That's not what I'm saying," Tracy replies. "Not exactly to that  extreme anyways. I think the public thinks that you're hiding  something."

"Hiding something?" I ask. "Like what?"

"I can't help you there," Tracy shrugs, her blouse bunching at the shoulders. "It's just a hunch."

I lean back in my leather chair, and put my feet up on the desk. None of my other advisors have dared to speak.

Then I hear Tracy clear her throat. "Another thing," she says, and I can't help squinting my eyes shut. This can't be good.

She continues, "Living up to your promise to 'clean the cave' has also earned you some powerful enemies."

I immediately put my feet down on the floor and sit up straight in my chair.

"Like who?" I ask.

"Well, Bob Walker for starters," she says.

"That fucking bastard," I mumble to myself. He resembles more of a  marshmallow than he does a man. I campaigned against him for the  presidency. Walker thought for sure he'd be president, and so did  everyone else. But in a surprise twist of events, he lost.

He's now Speaker of the House, but I know he's looking for any chance he can get to snatch the presidency.

"I agree," Reese Dawson, my VP, says, speaking up and breaking the silence. "He's been spitting venom ever since you beat him."

Then Tracy continues, "The press isn't going to let up, especially not with Bob Walker pushing them, but I have an idea."

"You do?" I ask, raising my eyebrows in disbelief. "Go on."

"Well, the way I see it," Tracy says, "is that the press is going to dig  until they get something. It's like a dog digging up a bone in a  yard-they won't stop until they have what they are looking for. So, I  think we should give them something."

"Such as?" I ask, trying not to sound too skeptical.

"A wife," Tracy replies matter-of-fact. "Well  …  a fiancée. "

The entire Oval Office is silent. It's so quiet, I swear you could  fucking hear a cotton ball bounce across the carpet. Everyone is staring  at Tracy now in disbelief, including me.

But then it dawns on me that maybe she's right.

"We could hold a press conference," I suggest, standing up from my chair  and pacing behind my desk. I tend to do that when I'm deep in though.  Movement helps. "I understand that my negotiations with the South Korean  ambassador were above board. I'll let the public know that I'd never do  anything to damage the most important relationship in my life."

"Exactly," Tracy chimes in. "That's perfect. And then you can drop the bomb that you're engaged."

I hear murmurs of approval from my staff. They are all nodding their  heads in agreement. While this plan does seem crazy, I also think it can  work.

Then Tracy continues, "You can tell the press that you didn't want your  engagement to distract from the country's real issues and that you and  whatever woman we pick were on and off but you realized after the South  Korean ambassador that you needed her in your life or something like  that."

Jesus fucking Christ.

It might just work.

Tracy is right. Now I'm totally fucking convinced that this plan is just  crazy enough to work  …  as long as I don't really have to get married.  Because there's no way I can agree to that.

Tracy seems to know exactly what I'm silently thinking and she places  one hand on my shoulder, "Don't worry, Austin, you aren't really getting  married. We're just giving the press, and the public, what they want-a  bone to dig up in the yard. Something to grab onto."

"Okay, now that we've got that figured out, who are we going to get to  play the role of the fake fiancée? It's not everyday that a woman agrees  to be put into that kind of spotlight."

"True," Tracy smiles, "but leave it to me. I'll handle it. I've got just the woman we need."

"Make sure you get me some sort of fucking ring too, I don't care what.  Something that looks expensive but doesn't cost too much," I tell Tracy.  She rolls her eyes at me.

"What?" I ask. "I don't want to use my grandmother's heirloom. Not for a fake fiancée."

As she smiles and walks out of the room, I begin to wonder  …  what have I just gotten myself into?





5





Ashley





I look at my computer screen and drum my fingertips on my desk. I've  been staring at my schedule for the past five minutes, trying to figure  out why the President's Chief of Staff has decided to set up a meeting  with me. My sources say that it's connected with the recent scandal, the  one with the South Korean ambassador, but I don't see why the President  would need me right now. At first I thought of turning her down  straight away, but it's not like you can shoot down a Tracy Comerford  without at least waiting to see what she wants.

God, Tracy Comerford. I used to go to school with her. We haven't kept  in touch, and I'm more than a bit curious why now of all times she's  coming to me.

Just like everyone else on Earth, I've been following President Austin's  scandal. His Chief of Staff setting up a meeting at a time like this  has managed to capture my curiosity, but again, I don't see where I  might fit in such a situation. Perhaps the President wants to use me as  bait so that he can gather some blackmail material? That's my bread and  butter, I know, but when we're talking about the higher echelons of  politics  …  well, let's just say that I don't like to meddle with  Presidents. It wouldn't be the first time someone holding compromising  material just vanishes into thin air, if you know what I mean.

I only turn my gaze away from the screen when I hear someone knocking at the door to my office.

"Yeah?" I say, raising my voice.

"Ashley, your ten o'clock appointment is here," Mike tells me, stepping  inside the office and running his fingers down the length of his tie.  He's been my assistant ever since I opened up shop and, more than his  good looks, he knows exactly what I need and when I need it.

"Yeah, send her in," I say, rubbing my temples and taking a deep breath.  With a quick nod, Mike turns on his heels and waltzes out of the  office. I look at him go, wishfully looking at how good his ass looks in  his dress pants. 25 years old and with a body sculpted inside the gym,  Mike is half-assistant, half-eye-candy. Don't judge me; men have been  employing eye-candy since forever, and who am I to buck that trend?

One minute later, Mike steps inside my office with a woman trailing  after him, her button up shirt and pencil skirt telling me straight away  that she's a consummate professional.

"Thank you for taking the time," Tracy greets me as Mike leaves and  closes the door behind him. She takes a moment to glance around my  office, and then she gives me an approving nod. "Nice taste," she  compliments as I stand up and offer her my hand.