The Billionaire's Fake Bride

A dull ache pulsed in my head.

Since dawn, I've been on a relentless treadmill of tasks.

From getting my daughter ready for school to scrubbing down the diner on our block, I finally made my way to the Marriott company, where I continued my daily grind of cleaning offices and restrooms.

Dealing with wealthy clients is no easy feat.

They demand perfection but are unwilling to pay for it.

There are days when I find myself cleaning the same restroom over fifty times, all because some affluent patron can't stand a hint of odor.

It's hard to fathom that I once lived that life, yet I never felt at ease with how the privileged looked down on those less fortunate, all due to their status.

I defied my parents by attending a party with my best friend, who was just as broke as I was.

That's where I met the DJ, a charming guy who had every girl wrapped around his finger.

It was an instant connection; we ended up together, and it was incredible. I craved more, so I sneaked out to see him again, but that turned out to be a one-time affair.

Then came the shocking news: I was pregnant. My perfectionist mother was the one who found out about my unexpected situation, and to make matters worse, it was with a DJ from a club.

My parents didn't even let me explain; they disowned me in an instant, feeling I had brought shame upon them and ruined their plans to marry me off to a wealthy businessman for a lifetime of wealth.

I became the daughter that every affluent family in England warned their children to avoid. Everyone turned their backs on me, except for Mia.

We had to leave England for New York after my parents cut ties with me.

They even removed Mia from their scholarship program, labeling her a bad influence, so I moved in with her strict grandmother in the city.

The initial years after my daughter was born were pleasant until grandma fell ill.

I realized I couldn't rely on others forever, and my first job as a janitor marked the beginning of a two-year struggle.

I don't regret having my daughter, but I sacrificed everything for her.

I let out a deep sigh, rubbing my temples and hoping the throbbing pain would subside so I could hit the road.

It's a long three-hour trek from my tiny apartment to the Marriott office, and I can only imagine how hungry my daughter must be by now.

I can't trust my neighbors; the last time I left my daughter in their care, they devoured her lunch and dinner, leaving her to fend for herself. Bringing her to work isn't an option either, as it goes against office policy.

I know I'm doing my best-working hard day in and day out-but sometimes it feels like it's just not enough.

Frustration wells up inside me, and tears threaten to spill as a sharp pain radiates through my back from hours spent bending over and scrubbing toilets.

I close my eyes, twirling my straight brown hair, recalling what Audrey's teacher mentioned during a recent meeting.

She expressed concern that she was often drowsy, struggled to breathe, and complained of stomach pains.

Honestly, I've been so overwhelmed and exhausted that I haven't paid enough attention to these signs. I'm constantly trying to juggle the demands of his school and our home life.

If I fell behind on payments, my daughter would be forced out of school, and we could end up homeless. The thought of that heartache is unbearable.

Suddenly, the intercom in the janitor's break room jolts me back to reality. I quickly whisper a prayer and grab the receiver, my voice trembling with anxiety.

Working at Marriott is no small feat; everyone is expected to perform at their best, regardless of their position.

With Alexander King at the helm, I've learned to push my worries aside whenever it's time to work.

This week alone, he's let go of twenty employees, and I'm desperate to avoid being on that list.

"Ms. Freser," the manager, Mrs. Perez, boomed through the intercom, sending my heart racing. She only called when there was bad news.

"Yes, ma'am," I replied, sitting up straight, eager to catch every word. She could be as ruthless as the boss himself.

"Get to my office immediately!" she commands sharply, cutting off the call before I can even respond.

Without hesitation, I leave the janitor's room and make my way briskly to the manager's office, my mind racing with questions about why she needed me at this late hour.

I knock gently on the door, my heart pounding in my chest. I really can't handle any bad news right now; my plate is already overflowing. My rent is due next month, and my daughter's health is a constant worry.

"Come in," I hear her say, and I step inside.

She's busy stuffing papers into envelopes, and my heart skips a beat. Are those termination letters? Not now, please!

"Ms. Freser, you're two minutes late," she remarks without looking up from her laptop, and I suddenly find myself at a loss for words.

"An email has just been sent. You're assigned to clean the boss's office for the next week. Have a nice day."

The boss? Alexander Marriott? That's a nightmare waiting to happen. I'd rather face anything than take on that task, even if it were offered with a golden bow.

He just fired the three janitors who worked there this week. Why me? I'm just a junior staff member, and I'm not even allowed in the executive area.

What's going on? I sincerely hope it's not what I'm thinking.

"Ma'am... I think there's been a mistake. I can't clean the boss's office. I don't want to lose my job, I..."

"You have no say in these matters, Ms. Freser. You're just a janitor. I suggest you stick to your duties and leave my office now!"