He desperately needed a fiancée. Urgently. Like, yesterday. No—scratch that, the need had arisen six months ago.
That’s when he’d lied to the owner of the Family Wellness Center, claiming he was about to get married. He’d even picked out a lovely girl, or so he said. How hard could it be? Just a little longer, and he’d be twirling his beloved in a wedding dance.
He pictured how seahorses do it, their tails entwining in a slow, tedious dance, and grimaced. Most newlyweds, even at lavish celebrations with dozens or hundreds of guests, don’t fare much better.
A paper airplane, crafted from a sheet listing potential brides and launched with a confident flick, sliced through the air of his office before unexpectedly soaring out the open window. Oh, to hell with it! Sooner or later, it’d end up in the trash where it belonged anyway.
Why even bother getting married these days? Laundromats and dry cleaners are everywhere. Restaurants? Take your pick. Plenty of women are happy to keep you company without any strings attached. Have a good time, then go your separate ways.
No, marriage wasn’t for him. But talking about it? Convincing the Center’s owner that he was just a step away from tying the knot? That he could do.
In the end, he had no other choice. He invented a fiancée and, during every phone call or video chat, promised to pass along greetings to her. Convincing the owner that she hated being photographed—and that’s why no joint pictures existed—was trickier. But he managed. He said he carried her image in his heart.
He didn’t see anything wrong with it. A harmless little lie didn’t affect the quality of his work. Without those words the owner, Oscar, had been waiting to hear, he wouldn’t have landed the position of chief physician at this state-of-the-art Center. He’d still be slaving away for peanuts under oppressive management at the city hospital. Despite his impressive achievements, no one there had any intention of promoting him. Instead, the department head role went to the director’s even younger son, who just happened to own a meatpacking plant.
Yes, he’d made up a fiancée, but for the past six months, he’d only had to report to the owner of Family Wellness. The real boss. That’s what Oscar called himself when he opened this cutting-edge facility, and everyone at the Center had taken to calling him that ever since. Wes had gotten used to it. Would he have to unlearn it now?
But that wasn’t the worst of it. That was nothing. Let them call him whatever they wanted.
The real problem was finding a fiancée. A fake one, and fast. Who would even agree to such a thing?
Oscar Heim wouldn’t understand. The clinic’s owner lived far away in Hamburg. He’d only visited twice—once to choose the location and again for the grand opening. Why he’d decided to come for an inspection next week, of all times, was anyone’s guess. Couldn’t he have given more notice? Not just three or four days, but at least a month’s heads-up?
Why couldn’t he just stay home in his sprawling mansion, surrounded by the large family circle he valued so much? Speaking of which, that circle had grown by a set of twins last year, thanks to his third wife. Yet the old charmer still went on and on about the importance and sacred value of marriage and family.
Wes Ostapovich Boone, nearly thirty-five years old, could barely contain his irritation when the head of HR peeked into his office with a stack of colorful folders. Wes, as his close friends called him—though he’d never sported a mustache in his life—felt a wave of nausea at the thought of sifting through all those personnel files. He’d have delegated the task to Larissa Andrews, who was eyeing him suspiciously through her thick lenses at that very moment. But how could he explain to a near-retiree that he needed to conduct an urgent, thorough, and highly risky casting call for the role of his fiancée? After all, the candidate would need to be convinced to merely play along with her boss, not aim for a real marriage.
Wes furrowed his brow.
— Thanks, Larissa. That’s… a lot. — Just start and get it over with. He had to. — You could’ve called. I’d have come down myself or sent one of the guys to pick up the folders.
— Oh, no trouble at all! — Larissa twitched her nose, likely trying to nudge her slipping glasses back into place. Unlike the sweltering heat outside, the office was cool, but Larissa must’ve been in a rush. And those folders…
— Just put them on the… — Wes scanned the room, — … couch. There’s not enough space on the desk. — The woman nodded and swayed slightly. God forbid she falls. He’d end up having to apply a cast himself, then organize rehab. An injury on the job was the last thing the Center needed. — Wait, let me help.
Wes hurried from behind his desk and practically snatched the load from the dedicated HR manager’s hands, catching the worried look she cast at the folders. Did she not trust him? Was she afraid he’d lose something? He couldn’t exactly sit in the HR department with all this.
— I’d be happy to help, Wes Ostapovich, — she said, visibly anxious, confirming his suspicions. — If you’d just tell me what you’re looking for. I need to know the purpose, and I’ll find whatever you need. Is this about positions? Are you looking at vacancies?
That was the last thing he needed. He was well aware of vacancies—or rather, one in particular. But what could a woman of her age possibly know about her young boss’s tastes?
Though, maybe she had an inkling. His requirements weren’t exactly unique. Long legs, beautiful hair, cat-like eyes, alluring lips… Most of his past flings fit that description.
But a fling wasn’t a fiancée. At least, not always. The criteria had to be different. Probably. Still, he wasn’t about to discuss this with Larissa Andrews.
After all, a fiancée wasn’t a job position. Or was it?
Thoughts like these could drive a man insane.
— Thanks, but I’ll manage on my own. You can go, Larissa.
The HR manager nodded and quietly closed the door behind her.
Wes set the folders on the couch and looked down at them. It suddenly dawned on him just how many women worked in his team. At first, he’d considered narrowing the search by telling Larissa an age range—say, twenty-two to thirty—but quickly dismissed the idea. Who knew what went on in that gray head of hers? Now he’d have to sort through them himself.
Wes sighed and trudged over to the small coffee maker. He hoped a cup of coffee might at least spark some rational ideas on how to quickly tackle the stack on the couch.
And honestly, who came up with the idea of marriage in the first place? What fool thought it was a good idea to chain yourself hand and foot? It definitely wasn’t a man. A real man would’ve rejected the notion outright. You can live perfectly well without all that… nonsense. If someone wants to cling to a skirt, fine, let them. But a stamp in a passport? Why? Kids are born just fine without it.
Women were to blame for it all. They invented this cunning way to tame and domesticate men. By the time you figure out what’s beneath the wrapping, recover your senses after all the flattery, and finally get a divorce, you’ve aged a decade. Especially if you were careless enough not to sign a prenup. Not everyone’s brave enough to run that hellish marathon.
Since yesterday, after his phone call with Oscar, Wes had done nothing but mull over countless options. He even recalled the names of his past flings—not on his own, of course, but by flipping through his contacts. Not all of them, just the ones whose numbers had made it to his new smartphone. But involving a fling in what could only be called a charade was risky. If she agreed, she’d instantly have leverage over him. So, the list starting with the letter “K,” a dash, and a name after it was set aside for better days.
He was carefully carrying his freshly brewed coffee when a voice came from the doorway:
— I need to run out urgently. There, I’ve warned you, Wes.
He flinched and hissed as scalding drops splashed onto his hand. Setting the cup on the desk, he muttered irritably:
— Rada, can’t you knock before barging in on your boss? I’ve still got surgeries to perform. How am I supposed to glove up now? Polite people usually knock in situations like this. — He heard Rada snort but pressed on: — And another thing… — He turned to face her. — How many times do I have to tell you not to call me Wes at work?
* * *
Why was he so worked up? He looked on edge. Rada couldn’t even remember the last time she’d seen him like this. Maybe others hadn’t noticed, but she’d known Mir too long not to see it. Something was definitely up with him.
But he was a grown man and could handle his own problems. Whatever it was, she didn’t have time for it right now.
Rada shrugged and shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Her mind was already elsewhere—back home.
She needed to shut the door and ignore the nonsense Wes—or rather, Wes Ostapovich—was spouting. She had an urgent matter to attend to, and here was her… boss, lecturing her. Someone like Wes wouldn’t get it. He’d been living alone for too long to realize that, for most people, life wasn’t just about work and play—there were other responsibilities.
How long had she known him? It felt like forever. Mir, as his parents and sometimes Rada called him, had been best friends with her older brother since they were kids. They’d probably learned to walk in a race against each other. Now, serious and responsible Max was off as a doctor on an Antarctic expedition, while his troublemaking buddy Wes, who was always getting into mischief, had become the director of the Center. You’d think it would’ve been the other way around, but life had other plans.
As a child, and even into her teens, Rada could easily picture her brother in a suit and tie—even a tuxedo. But Mir? Never. Ripped jeans, a plaid shirt with rolled-up sleeves, sneakers, messy hair, bruises, and scrapes—the quintessential troublemaker. That’s the image of her current boss that was etched in Rada’s mind. Probably forever.
But now, he looked completely different. His dark brown mane was long gone, replaced by a neat buzz cut. His strong frame was always clad in stylish shirts, trousers, and sometimes a well-tailored jacket. Even his medical scrubs looked like designer wear on him.
Rada still had to remind herself to call Wes “boss.” But his childhood nickname always slipped out first. Old habits die hard, especially ones that go way back. If she thought about it, “boss” wasn’t the worst way to address him. Saying “Wes Ostapovich” felt too long and awkward, like grumbling under your breath.
She wondered what his father—a history department chair—had been reading or researching when his son was born. Not everyone would give their child such an unusual name. Back in her teens, Rada had tried to look up the meaning of “Wes” online. Where did it come from? All she found were adjectives that described him: wild, strong, untamed… but also peaceful and calm. Somehow, all those traits fit Wes and blended into his unique personality.
Why she was recalling these details now, Rada didn’t know. It all felt so long ago, like it belonged to another life. Her current reality forced her to think about more practical things, using search engines for mundane purposes—like finding an affordable waffle maker because Anya suddenly wanted waffles for breakfast, just like her friend Natalie from the first floor.
Rada was always in a rush. She had to remind herself that her energy wasn’t limitless. But for a single mom, there was no other way. Her parents weren’t around; they were off saving lives in Africa. Max had followed in their footsteps, dedicating himself to his career. Now, everything in their old three-bedroom apartment—and life in the city—fell on Rada’s shoulders. She didn’t complain, and she didn’t really have anyone to complain to. But sometimes, the weight felt like a boulder.
Right now, her nine-year-old daughter had called, sobbing into the phone about a rash. The spots had spread across her face, hands, and stomach. For a preteen girl, it was a full-blown disaster. And this… boss, instead of letting his old friend’s sister go home, was giving her a lecture. Since when had Mir turned into a moralist? Rada must’ve missed the turning point. Not surprising, given her current life.
— No one can hear us, — she brushed him off, almost closing the door behind her when she heard:
— Hold on a minute. I didn’t say you could leave.
Rada rolled her eyes.
Really? Mir was playing the strict boss now? Fine, she had a few things to say too.
— Single mothers have extra rights, — she snapped, not even blinking.
At those words, Wes visibly hesitated, looking far less self-assured than usual. For a fleeting moment, Rada felt a twinge of regret for speaking so harshly and resorting to guilt-tripping. But her child was waiting! That justified anything she said or did.
— What, you don’t care? — Wes muttered unexpectedly. — I don’t ask for much, and not often.
He had a point. Rada couldn’t recall the last time he’d asked her for anything.
— Fine… okay, — she stepped back into the small office, then took another step and even closed the door. — How can I help?
After all, Wes was her brother’s best friend, and the least she could do was hear him out.
— Be my fiancée.