My Fake Wife Life

Chapter 1

Hunt

“What in the nightmare is this script?” 

I fling away another one that bears no future in this field. The showbiz industry is a dog eat dog world. 

These scripts are all superfluous. Why does everything have to revolve around revenge and BDSM? The hell? 

This is giving me a terrible headache.

I slump on the settee, taking a deep breath as I struggle to relax. Pinching my forehead, I grab an icy bottle of water from the table. 

An intern comes in without knocking and parades in front of me in her barely-there-skirt—if it even passes as one. 

It looks like a small, square handkerchief to me. 

Damn, what’s her name again? 

She seems to be my fling from last week. My eyes roam to her face, and yeah, I remember. The woman has a sinful mouth that gives a great head. 

But...forgettable. Her come-hither smile is doing nothing to me. I wave her away; she looks askance and leaves. 

I have too much on my plate right now, and adding a troublesome woman spells disaster for me. 

Why the hell did I fuck a colleague again? Jeez.

I shake my head, refusing to jog my brain’s memory—no need for it. 

The shrill ringing of my phone breaks me out of my thoughts. Matt Robin. 

This name brings me dread. Somehow, I associate Matt’s name with bad luck. 

“Hey, the great Hunt Lorde,” he says as I answer the phone. 

“Man, I’m still your boss, you know.” I roll my eyes. “You’re worth millions, and I pay you more than that.” 

“Of course, that’s why I’m working my ass off,” Matt scoffs. Matt and I go way back in college; we’re partners in crime. 

“Tell me the details,” I say hurriedly. This guy is handling one of the most important things in my heart. 

And, oh, Matt’s a lawyer. My private lawyer, to be exact. 

“Man, the social services shredded your character in court. They won’t give you custody for your nephew.” Frustration fills Matt’s voice with a tinge of anger. 

I feel the same fucking way. 

“What the hell do they fucking want?!” 

Throwing my phone seems a marvelous idea, but I’m still talking to Matt. 

The least I want is the court saying I have anger issues. 

“It’s a tough battle, you see. At least, you have the boy in your care.” Matt sighs. 

“I need to be the legitimate guardian, Matt. It will be a problem if someone will come hammering at my door to take my nephew,” I growl. 

The battle for legal adoption has been going on for months. Arnel is my sister’s only son and my last remembrance of her. 

She passed away in a car accident with her husband. So, the responsibility of raising Arnel falls on me. The problem is the goddamn social services think that foster care is better than me, his uncle. 

Why? 

I don’t seem to have a stellar...image. They believe that I’m a destructive influence on the kid and will harm him as I’ve never been a part of his life before my sister died. 

They question my popping out of nowhere. 

Working in Hollywood doesn’t give me freaking family time. To top it off, my sister lives in another country. 

We message and call, but it’s not always; occasional hi and hello is barely called conversation. I blame my busy schedule for it. 

As a top director in Hollywood, I barely have time for anything. 

But you have a lot of time to play around, my conscience bites back. 

“So…” Matt’s voice brings me back to the present. “You need to prove yourself to the court and social services that you’re fit to be the guardian.” 

“How am I supposed to do that?” 

My brows scrunch up. 

Worthy? How do you prove to someone hellbent in making you look bad that you’re fit?

The damn social services are giving me the feeling as if they don’t like me. 

“That’s for you to find out. I’m only in charge of representing you to court,” Matt wittily says. 

“Fuck!” I throw my phone away, and it breaks into pieces. Closing my eyes, I lean my head on the wolf-skin cover. 

I’m not angry at Matt, but at myself. 

Can I just say that I can take care of a five-year-old kid without proof? And if it comes to it, I can pay for nannies—a dozen of them. 

Or more. 

This is one time when I wish money could solve everything. Who says money can’t buy you happiness? 

I’m going to be happy if I can pay the court and social services to have the legal rights as Arnel’s guardian. 

Solving this is very difficult. Opening my phone, I scroll through the gallery. 

Smiling faces of Arnel and I greet me. The kid makes me happy. I’m not the best uncle, but I do my best. He gives me the willpower to fight for his custody.

He only has me. Imagining him living in foster care is making me insane. My sister will probably roll in her grave if this happens. 

And my brother-in-law will string me up when we meet each other in the afterlife. 

“Should I try to pay the judge or the social service representative? But Matt advised me against it. They might use it against me,” I say. 

“Should I appear in charity balls?” I mumble, then shake my head. Too ostentatious. 

“I guess I should stay away from women and make sure I don’t appear in the tabloids!” 

Brilliant!

This is one of my problems. My face is a weekly staple on the news with different actresses in tow. Some are even downright vulgar. 

The vulgar ones are clearly rumors. I go out with women, and it always blows out of proportion. 

Those actresses think I’m their ticket to stardom. There was even one time when two or more actresses gave details about my prowess in bed. 

And my size. 

It made women go crazy. My messenger, Snapchat, Hangouts, and Viber, went mad. Social media blew up because of my freaking size. 

I’m damn famous, and it’s giving me a migraine. 

My phone rings once again and answers it immediately since it’s from Arnel’s school. 

“Hello?” Nervousness fills me. Nothing happened, right? 

“Is this Mr. Lorde?” 

“Yes,” I say. 

“Please come to school. Your nephew, Arnel, is in the clinic. He has a fever.” 

I rush out of my office like my ass is on fire.