The CEO's 30-Day Contract Wife

The Makeover

Olivia Carter woke up in a bed that was not hers, in a penthouse that was not hers, wearing a white shirt that was not hers, after seeing her fake husband with no shirt at two in the morning in the kitchen.

No intimacy, she repeated to herself while staring at the ceiling. No feelings. No kissing.

The words felt very thin at two in the morning when he looked at her legs.

She sat up. The Empire State Building was glowing outside her window. It was six thirty in the morning. Her phone said Rosa will arrive at seven. Be ready. Grandmother brunch at ten. Ethan.

Brunch at ten. With grandmother. The grandmother who watched security cameras for fun.

She got out of bed and went to the bathroom. She brushed her teeth with the pink toothbrush that had her name on it. It felt strange and intimate at the same time.

She opened her suitcase. She had packed her best dress, a simple blue dress from Queens that she wore to job interviews. It was clean and ironed. She would wear that. Not the three thousand five hundred dollar dresses in the closet.

She put on the blue dress and looked in the mirror. She looked like herself. Tired, but herself.

At exactly seven, the front door opened. A woman in her fifties with kind eyes and silver hair in a bun walked in carrying grocery bags. She saw Olivia and smiled wide.

"You must be Olivia," she said in a warm accent. "I am Rosa Martinez. I have worked for Mister Ethan since he was a little boy. He told me you would be here."

"Hi, Rosa," Olivia said, feeling shy. "I am Olivia."

Rosa looked her up and down and nodded approvingly.

"You are pretty. More pretty than the photos. Mister Ethan did not tell me you were so pretty. He said you were the intern who spilled coffee on him."

"I did spill coffee on him," Olivia said. "Yesterday."

Rosa laughed, a loud warm laugh that filled the huge silent penthouse.

"I know. He told me. He said you have fire. I like fire. Come, I made breakfast."

Rosa had made pancakes, eggs, bacon, fresh fruit, orange juice. Enough for ten people.

"Mister Ethan never eats breakfast," Rosa said, putting a plate in front of Olivia. "He drinks black coffee and works. It is not healthy. Maybe you can make him eat."

"I am not his mother," Olivia said, but she took the pancakes.

At seven thirty, Ethan came out of his office, already dressed in a dark suit, hair perfect, face cold and business like again, as if two in the morning in the kitchen never happened.

"Good morning," he said, not looking at Olivia, looking at his phone. "Rosa, black coffee."

"Good morning to you too, husband," Olivia said sweetly, with fake sugar.

He looked up, his eyes flicking to her blue dress, then to her face. His jaw tightened a little.

"What are you wearing?"

"My dress," she said.

"I told you to wear something from the closet."

"I told you I would wear what I want. This is what I want."

"It is too small and it is from college. My grandmother will think I cannot afford to clothe my wife."

"Your grandmother will think your wife has her own style," she shot back.

Rosa watched them with great interest, holding a coffee pot like it was popcorn.

Ethan walked closer to her. He was so tall she had to tilt her head up.

"Olivia, we have brunch with my grandmother at ten at the Plaza Hotel. There will be photographers. My grandmother will be wearing diamonds that cost more than this building. You cannot wear that blue dress."

"I can and I will," she said, crossing her arms. "You said no controlling what I wear. That was my condition. You said acceptable. Do you remember? Or do billionaires have bad memory when it comes to promises?"

His gray eyes narrowed. He was used to people saying yes. He was not used to a twenty four year old girl from Queens telling him no in his own kitchen.

"Fine," he said coldly. "Wear the blue dress. But when my grandmother asks why my wife looks like she shopped at a discount store, you can explain it to her."

"Gladly," she said.

He grabbed his coffee and went back to his office and slammed the door. Not loudly, but firmly.

Rosa whispered to Olivia, "In twenty years, I have never seen anyone win a fight with Mister Ethan before breakfast. You are special."

Olivia smiled despite herself.

At nine thirty, a black car was waiting downstairs. Ethan came out, perfect again, cold again.

"Let us go," he said. "Try not to embarrass me."

"Try not to be rude," she whispered back.

The Plaza Hotel was everything she had seen in movies and more. Gold and chandeliers and people who looked like they were born in gold.

Grandmother Eleanor Blackwood was sitting at a corner table by the window, wearing a soft pink suit, pearls, white hair styled perfectly, eighty years old but with eyes that missed nothing. She had a tiny dog in her purse that wore a sweater.

When she saw Ethan, her face lit up.

"Ethan, darling," she said, standing up with help from a cane, hugging him.

"Grandmother," he said, kissing her cheek.

Then Eleanor turned to Olivia. Her eyes went from Olivia's face to her blue dress to her cheap shoes and back to her face. She stared for a long time.

Olivia held her breath. This was it. She had ruined it. Ethan had warned her.

Then Eleanor smiled, a wide, real smile that made her eyes crinkle.

"So you are the girl who spilled coffee on my grandson and then told him no," she said, her voice strong and warm. "I like you already."

Olivia blinked. "You know about the coffee?"

"Darling, I know everything that happens in my grandson's tower. I have cameras," Eleanor said, winking. "And I also know you refused the twenty thousand dollar closet full of clothes my grandson bought for you. Good girl. Those dresses were ugly. No personality."

Ethan choked on his water. "Grandmother, the stylist -"

"The stylist has no taste," Eleanor said, waving him away. She took Olivia's hands in hers. Her hands were soft and warm. "Tell me, Olivia Carter from Queens, what do you do?"

"I was an intern," Olivia said, nervous. "And I waitress at a diner in Queens to pay for my mother's surgery."

"And you told my grandson no when he tried to dress you like a doll?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Perfect," Eleanor said, delighted. She sat down and pulled Olivia down next to her. "Do you know how many girls have said yes to him in his life? Every girl says yes. Yes, Ethan, I will wear the red dress. Yes, Ethan, I will cut my hair. Yes, Ethan, I will be quiet. Boring. So boring. But you? You said no. My grandson has never been told no by a pretty girl before."

Ethan sat down across from them, his face a mask of polite suffering.

"Grandmother, we have a reservation -"

"Hush, Ethan. I am talking to your wife." Eleanor turned back to Olivia. "How did you two meet? He told me you met at the office and it was love at first sight. Is that true?"

Olivia panicked and looked at Ethan. He gave her a tiny nod that said lie.

"Yes," Olivia said quickly. "Love at first sight. He saw me... spilling coffee and..."

"He fired her," Eleanor finished, laughing. "Then he realized he could not live without her and hired her back as his wife. How romantic. Just like your grandfather and I. I spilled tea on him in nineteen sixty five and he married me to make sure I could never spill tea on anyone else again."

Olivia laughed, a real laugh this time. Eleanor laughed too. Ethan watched them, his cold face softening a little as he watched his grandmother hold Olivia's hands.

"Grandmother, we should order," Ethan said.

"Yes, yes, order. Olivia, what do you want? Get the pancakes. Ethan never lets me get pancakes. He says it is too much sugar for my age. I am eighty years old. What does he think sugar will do? Kill me faster?"

Olivia giggled. "Get the pancakes, then. Two orders. I will share with you."

"You see, Ethan?" Eleanor said, pointing a finger at him. "She is good for you. She lets an old lady eat pancakes."

The brunch was surprisingly fun. Eleanor told stories about Ethan as a little boy, how he cried when his dog ran away, how he built a tree house and fell out of it, how he never had a girlfriend who told him no.

Ethan sat there, eating his eggs, pretending to be annoyed, but Olivia caught him looking at her and his grandmother laughing together, his eyes warm.

After an hour, Eleanor stood up to leave. She hugged Olivia tightly.

"You come see me next week, darling. At my house. Not this stuffy hotel. And wear that blue dress again. I like blue. It matches your eyes. My grandson has good taste in wives, even if he has bad taste in dresses."

"I will, Mrs Blackwood," Olivia said, tears in her eyes because no one in Manhattan had ever been so kind to her.

"Eleanor, darling. Call me Eleanor. Mrs Blackwood makes me sound dead." She turned to Ethan and whispered loudly enough for Olivia to hear, "Do not mess this up, Ethan. She is the first real thing you have ever brought home."

They watched her walk away, tiny dog in purse, cane tapping.

Ethan turned to Olivia. His face was serious again, but softer than before.

"You were... good," he said quietly. "With her. Thank you."

"I did not do anything. She is lovely."

"She is. And she loved you. She never loves anyone I bring home."

"How many girls have you brought home?"

"None," he said simply.

Olivia stared at him. "None?"

"No. You are the first girl I ever brought to meet my grandmother."

Something warm and strange fluttered in her chest. She looked away quickly, feeling her cheeks get hot.

"Well, it is because I wore the blue dress and not your three thousand dollar dress."

"Maybe," he said, his voice low, looking at her in the blue dress that was indeed too small but made her waist look tiny and her eyes bright. "Or maybe it is because you are the first girl who said no to me and meant it."

They stood close together in the golden lobby of the Plaza, fake husband and wife, people walking past and staring at the handsome billionaire and the pretty girl from Queens in a blue dress.

Ethan reached out, as if to fix a strand of hair that had fallen on her cheek, his hand hovering in the air, then dropping back to his side, remembering rule two.

No intimacy.

Olivia felt disappointed that he dropped his hand, and then angry at herself for feeling disappointed.

"No feelings," she whispered to herself.

"What?" Ethan asked.

"Nothing," she said. "Let us go home. Fake husband."

"After you, fake wife."