The Billionaire’s Fake Wife (Book 4): (Crystal Beach Resort Standalone Series)
The Billionaire’s Fake Wife (Book 4)
(Crystal Beach Resort Standalone Series)
Hanna Hart
Copyright ©2018 by Hanna Hart - All rights reserved.
In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher. All rights reserved.
Respective authors own all copyrights not held by the publisher.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
Other Books In This Series
About the Author
Exclusive Offer
Chapter One
Ryder
Love was never easy for Ryder Prescott.
It wasn't easy when he was seventeen, and somehow ten years later he'd gotten even worse at finding the woman of his dreams.
Ryder's life was complicated. His father was the president of Nani Makai island and its three surrounding mainland territories. Nani Makai was the famous billionaire island along the Hawaiian coast and home to the world's most luxurious Crystal Beach resort.
His family’s very public and beloved state, mixed with his recent divorce to his ex-wife Miranda, made finding love a difficult thing for him.
“Insufferable jazz,” Ryder's mother, Sheila, said as she walked up beside him. She had a look of absolute dread on her face as she tried desperately not to roll her eyes.
“I like it,” Ryder said, looking toward the stage band and listened as they played their nineteen-twenties swing with passion and enthusiasm.
“Oh, you do not,” his mother batted his arm. “You just say these things to bother me.”
“No, I just like it,” he mumbled to himself as he grabbed a flute of champagne off of a passing tray.
“I can't believe you didn't bring a date,” his mother said quietly through a smile. She gripped his arm tightly as she said this as to show her disappointment or embarrassment.
“I wasn't in a very charming mood,” he said.
His mother raised her brows as if to convey that he was never in a charming mood and Ryder rolled his eyes.
“You have to start bringing dates to these events,” his mother said under her breath. “People are going to start thinking you’re unlovable.”
“Thanks, ma,” he said flatly.
Public events.
They were something you had to get used to when your father was the president of a nationally revered island. Ryder wasn't a huge fan of these nights, especially not during election season. Back when he was married, elections meant every weekend he would have spent with Miranda lounging around or heading out to nightclubs were then reserved for wearing tuxedos, flashing fake smiles and making insufferable chit-chat with donors and islanders.
Now that he was divorced, going to public events made him have to scramble for a date or admit that he was alone to a room full of islanders who were all 'rooting for him' to find love again. Especially with how awful and public his divorce was.
If he had to suffer through another do-gooder showing him a photo of their daughter and insisting they set him up, he was going to scream.
“I’m serious,” his mother cautioned. “We need people to see that you’re moving on. Nobody likes a wallower. People want to see you win.”
“I don’t want to win, ma. I want to wallow,” he snipped. “I don’t even want to do that,” he corrected. “I just want to be alone.”
“Being alone is wallowing,” she said. “Why don’t you let me call Amber from your dad’s office and have her come to meet you here?”
“No, ma, I’m not dating Amber,” he huffed through a smile as photographers gathered round to take a photo of them.
“Nobody’s saying date her,” his mother whispered with wide eyes. “She can just take up the seat at our table, that’s all!”
“Don’t call Amber,” he said, gesturing his palm flat.
Now that his father was up for reelection, every newspaper was dying to get their hands on any dirt that could be dug up on the family.
And now everything he had told Miranda in confidence was up for grabs to the media. She had been selling stories left and right about the scandals his father had been involved in—real or imagined.
Ryder could see the crowd begin to wander to the far side of the room and he suddenly knew that his father's opponent had entered the venue. This was a peaceful election dinner, after all. He raised his chin to see over the crowd. This was the first dinner to announce the running candidate, which, to Ryder's horror, looked like his brother Isaac.
On his arm was Ryder's ex-wife. The two had begun seeing one another during their marriage, and it looked like the tryst was still carrying on well after their divorce.
Ryder felt his heart wrench at the sight of them together. He had known she was cheating on him during the marriage but finding out about Isaac's involvement in the matter was what truly sent him into a dark, downward spiral.
He sighed inwardly, knowing his parents would be heartbroken at the news of their own son running against his father, Tag. The divorce had devastated his parents for many reasons—his heartbreak, Isaac's betrayal, Miranda's ruthless spreading of family secrets. To find out that the disloyalty ran deeper would truly crush them.
It made perfect sense, though. If Miranda could help get him elected, she would be the president’s wife. Richer than ever. It was more than he would ever give her.
Ryder made himself scarce, not wanting to deal with his parents. He kept an even expression—no shock or sadness. There were cameras everywhere. If there was going to be a headline the next morning, he wanted to make sure it talked about how strangely peaceable the family behaved, not how they were hanging from the chandeliers after a bloodline brawl.
The event runners had assembled hundreds of wealthy investors and patriots into a ballroom at Crystal Beach resorts and were putting on a proper welcome party for both candidates.
There was going to be a five-course meal, brief speeches by both candidates, and then dancing. Peaceable. Classy. Just like Nani Makai.
Ryder did his best to avoid his family for the night, though was told by his Aunt Eudora that his mother could be found sobbing in the bathroom, ranting and raving about Isaac and the 'little wench' he brought with him.
His father, Tag, seemed to be as cool as a cucumber. He posed for photos with Isaac and publicly wished him well on his campaign trail. This reaction solidified to Ryder that his father likely already knew of Isaac's running for president.
What he couldn't avoid, as it turned out, was Miranda.
He'd evaded her company throughout all of dinner and through the dreadfully boring speeches given by his father and brother, stating their campaign promises.
But when the dancing began and the lights were dimmed, that's when she appeared.
Ryder stood in the back of the marble ballroom leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. It was a surprising moment of serenity—no reporters, no well-wishers or voters coming
up to speak to him. And then she appeared.
Miranda was as stunning as she had ever been. She had deep, dark, buttery skin and was as tall as a fashion model. She was thin and svelte with an alluring beauty. She walked up to him in a gold satin dress, tasteful but undeniably sexy. She gave him a stern look as she gripped the glittering clutch in her hand and approached him, then broke into a seductive smile.
“Ryder,” she said.
“Traitor,” he said, matching her friendly tone.
Miranda licked her bottom lip unsurely but kept walking toward him. “Do you want to dance?”
“With you?” Ryder laughed. “I just found some peace and quiet. Why would I give that up to go and dance with the Devil?”
“Because she's a good dancer?” she teased.
“Why are you here?” he asked with an irritated sigh. “Are you trying to hurt me?”
“I'm here because Isaac is running for election,” she said matter-of-factly. “That's why we're here. We were invited.” Miranda paused. “Am I here to see you?” she scoffed indignantly. “You're so obsessed with your own voice; it's insane.”
“No?” he scoffed but didn't make eye contact. “Yet you keep putting yourself in close proximity to me and my family. Seems like only one of us is obsessed with the Prescotts, and believe me, it isn't me.”
“You hurt me,” she said forcefully, though under her breath.
“I hurt you?” he repeated with venom. “You started seeing my brother behind my back. You want to trade war stories? I guarantee you I can win.”
“Of course, you can,” she snapped. “Because everything is about you. Always has been, always will be. You are so entitled, it makes me sick.”
Ryder blinked in surprise. “I'm entitled?”
Miranda nodded.
“You're the one who was so unhappy with me that you traded up for my brother. I guess you couldn't go without the lifestyle,” he said, speaking of the financial stability he had provided in their marriage. “You just can’t give up being a Prescott.”
“You gave up on us, Ry. Not me.”
Ryder raised his brows but said nothing. What infuriated him the most was the look of satisfaction she got from his silence.
Before he had the chance to say anything back to her, the two of them went deathly silent as a reporter began to walk by. The man slowed as he caught sight of them and realized who they were.
Ryder and Miranda smiled and raised their drinks to the man as if to say all was well, but he stopped anyway.
“You guys seem happy,” a tall, young reported asked, walking up to the two with a massive camera around his neck. “You mind if I get a photo?”
Ryder felt his stomach lilt. A photo with Miranda would no-doubt spur on tabloid rumors that the two of them were getting back together. On another night this thought might make him sick, but tonight he didn't mind at all. Without asking, Ryder slipped his arm around Miranda's tiny waist so that his palm was resting on the silky curve of her hip.
“By all means,” Ryder said with a wry smile.
Miranda followed suit and smiled for the photo, but Ryder could tell she was clenching her teeth together.
“Thank you!” the reporter beamed. “Mr. Prescott,” the eager, and Ryder dare say brave, reporter asked, “how do you feel about your brother's induction into the election race?”
Ryder offered a wincing smile, still resting his hand on his ex-wife's hip. He was often coached by his mother and Roy, his father's campaign manager, not to answer any questions about family, personal matters, or speak about whoever his father would be running against that year. But now, he couldn't help himself.
“What's your name?” he asked the man.
“Trevor Marshall, sir,” the reporter, Trevor, responded unsurely.
“Trevor,” Ryder said knowingly, “why don't you ask me what you really came up to us to ask.”
“T-that's it, sir,” Trevor stuttered.
“No, I don't think it is,” he said, his voice going high near the beginning of his sentence. “I think you want to know how I feel about my ex-wife shacking up with my brother. Isn’t that right?”
“Well…” Trever said with a bashful smile.
Miranda’s eyes went wide at Ryder’s words, and she pulled away from him. “Ryder, don’t,” she said quietly.
“I do not feel good about it, my friend,” he said, enunciating his words strangely and carefully, proving to himself all his champagne and scotches had hit him harder than he’d thought.
“You’re not happy for your bother’s election run?” Trevor asked, holding his camera tight to his body.
“Not even a little bit,” he said. “Why don’t you take this quote down, on the record,” he confirmed.
“Ryder, stop,” Miranda said uncomfortably.
“No, no,” he waved her off with a chuckle, “He’ll like this. I’ve always wished I could write headlines, so here, how about this for a quote, Trev. Can I call you Trev?”
“Uh, sure,” Trevor said.
“Ryder, you’re drunk,” Miranda said, tugging his arm in protest.
“Say this, say this,” Ryder insisted. “Heartbroken Prescott brother says Isaac can steal his wife, but there’s no way he’s stealing this election.”
Chapter Two
Willow
“And then what did you say?” Willow's friend, Casey, exclaimed from across the small high-top table where they both sat sharing a giant bowl of ramen.
“I said, ‘So, you're saying you have never had anything to do with a particular red-headed politician?’” Willow Watkins quoted herself from earlier that day.
Casey laughed. “You did not say that to her!”
“I did,” Willow said.
Casey blinked in surprise, bringing her hand over her mouth as though she weren't sure what to say next. “And this was how long ago?”
“About forty-five minutes?” she said.
“You seriously interviewed Mariah Dent?” Casey asked, laughing, as she brought a teacup of something green to her lips.
Willow offered a wide, smug grin and nodded. “Yeah. I'm awesome.”
“Brave is more like it,” Casey said. “I have to hand it to you, Willow. You get the job done.”
As a child, Willow hated that her name was so pithy. Willow Watkins. It was a name that her parents had created to sound whimsical. The double W.
It was the only-child equivalent of naming your twins Mindy and Mandy.
Irritatingly, Willow's parents were right. It was whimsical—memorable. And it looked perfect in her byline at the Morning Star Daily.
“How in the world did you get a confession out of her?”
Willow shrugged. “I have a certain friend that hacked into her social media, found some pretty insane conversations that implicate her in some illegal dealings. I told her I'd leave those particular tidbits out of the headlines if she confessed to the rest.”
Casey laughed. “How in the world did this woman not slap you across the face?
“You know what's the craziest thing?” Willow mused, “By the end of it, she was smiling! It's like I charmed her into believing she was confiding in a friend or something.”
“You have ridiculous powers,” Casey said, shaking her head.
Willow couldn't refute the claim. She was not afraid to say that she had the gift of gab. She loved small talk—was enthralled by it. She found everyone absolutely fascinating. This often led people to feel more comfortable around her, which made getting a story for her editor much easier to come by. This was good because her sad articles about real estate and local restaurant openings weren’t exactly hitting the ball out of the park.
Just as Willow was giving herself a figurative pat on the back, she caught an expression of… judgment? On her friend’s face.
Not everyone was charmed by her digging into other people’s personal lives, she knew. Maybe Casey even felt disgusted with her weaseling her way into the life of the politician’s mistress.
“How’s John?” Willow asked of Casey’s fiancé. “Still falling asleep while wedding planning?”
“Yep,” Casey laughed. “But he at least manages to point at a table setting before he passes out.”
“Nice,” Willow said. “Man. I should start dating my yoga instructor, too. Maybe then I could be engaged in a record-breaking six months,” she teased, showing open jealousy for Casey’s luck with men. “This is the universe’s way of punishing me for not doing public exercise.”
“By which you mean ‘any’ exercise?” her friend teased, twirling a long string of noodles on her fork. “You have nothing going on, Willow? No fellas on the horizon? You still dating that… um… Pete?”
“Patrick,” Willow said, narrowing her brows. “Nah. No. We went on like, two dates? Not for me.”
“Is anybody?” her friend teased.
Willow shrugged. “I know what I like. And I do not like Patrick. Not like ‘that,’ anyway.”
“You have to let someone in sooner or later,” Casey said in a not-so-playful lament.
Willow knew she was right, but she had her reasons for keeping men at arm’s length.
If your first love plays an integral role in the way the rest of your relationships go, as Willow believed, then she had a whirlwind of a war story to lean back on. She could probably use her first boyfriend as a crutch to deny men for the rest of her life.
It was a doozy.
“Well,” Willow said with a slow exhale, “I’d better head back to the office. I’ve been slacking off with you for too long now!”
“Willow!” Casey laughed. “It’s past ten. Go home!”