The Perfect Illusion Read online

  The Perfect Illusion

  Winter Renshaw

  Contents

  Copyright

  Books By Winter Renshaw

  Description

  Epigraph

  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

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Epilogue

  BITTER RIVALS

  Copyright Page

  Description

  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

  Arrogant Playboy

  Copyright

  Description

  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

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Epilogue

  Books By Winter Renshaw

  Ask Me Anything

  Acknowledgments for The Perfect Illusion

  About the Author

  Copyright

  COPYRIGHT 2017 WINTER RENSHAW

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  COVER DESIGN: Louisa Maggio

  COVER MODEL: Forest Harrison

  PHOTOGRAPHER: Wander Aguiar

  EDITOR: Wendy Chan, The Passionate Proofreader

  PROOFREADERS: Janice Owen and Carey Sullivan

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or, if an actual place, are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Books By Winter Renshaw

  The Never Series

  Never Kiss a Stranger

  Never Is a Promise

  Never Say Never

  Bitter Rivals: a novella

  The Arrogant Series

  Arrogant Bastard

  Arrogant Master

  Arrogant Playboy

  The Rixton Falls Series: Royal

  Bachelor

  Filthy

  The Amato Brothers Series

  Heartless

  Reckless

  Priceless (a Rixton Falls crossover)

  Standalones

  Dark Paradise

  Vegas Baby

  Cold Hearted

  DESCRIPTION

  Description

  It’s only pretend…

  And it’s only three months.

  I’m in the midst of scrawling “I QUIT!” onto his fancy cardstock letterhead when my boss corners me. He needs a favor, he says. And then he asks how well I can act …

  Hudson Rutherford needs a fiancée.

  With his old-moneyed parents forcing him to marry some bratty hotel heiress and his hedonistic, playboy lifestyle at stake, the only way to get them to back off is to make them think he’s truly, madly, deeply in love … with me—his third personal assistant this year.

  But I can hardly stand working for him as it is.

  Hudson is crazy hot and well-aware. He’s arrogant, spoiled, and silver-spooned. He checks me out when he thinks I’m not looking, and his life is a revolving door of beautiful women. Plus, he can’t even pronounce my name correctly—how’s he going to convince his family he’s in love with me?!

  I’m seconds from giving him a resounding “no” when he flashes his signature dimpled smirk and gives me a number that happens to contain a whole mess of zeroes …

  On second thought, I think I can swallow my pride.

  But, oh baby, there’s one thing I haven’t told him, one teensy-tiny thing that could make this just a hair complicated …

  Here’s hoping this entire thing doesn’t explode in our faces.

  They say time heals all wounds, and the scars you left are fading. I trace them with my fingers and try to make myself feel even a fraction of what I did when you left. It may not have been love but it was the most I’ve ever felt. —S. Stepp

  Chapter 1

  Mari

  Dear Mr. Rutherford,

  I humbly request for you to accept this as my two weeks’ notice. As of Friday, May 26th, I will be stepping down from my position as your personal assistant. I’ll do my best to ensure this is a smooth transition for the company.

  Sincerely,

  Maribel Collins

  I press my pen into his thick cardstock, scratching out my neatly written resignation before crumpling the paper in my hand and pushing it to the corner of my desk. It’s too nice, and Hudson Rutherford does not deserve nice.

  It’s half past seven, which means I have thirty minutes to come up with something better than this—something that’s going to leave a lasting impression.

  I’m his third personal assistant this year and it’s only May. There’s a reason no one can tolerate working for him longer than a month or two, and someone ought to point this out to him.

  Might as well be me.

  Clearing my throat, I try again.

  Hudson,

  You’re rude and inconsiderate, and
I no longer wish to work for you. You think the world revolves around you. Your excessive wealth disgusts me, as does your secret Rolodex of women’s phone numbers that you keep hidden in your third desk drawer on the left. Your good looks are overshadowed by your vanity and arrogance, and your kindness, I’m convinced, is non-existent. You treat your employees like indentured servants, and you’re the most hypocritical asshole I’ve ever met.

  I work sixty hour weeks for you without so much as a thank you, a raise, or a glowing performance review. I’m tired of running your menial errands, and I didn’t spend four years in college to make photocopies and coffee.

  I didn’t sign up for this.

  You lied to me.

  With zero fondness and absolutely no gratitude,

  Mari

  Sighing, I crumple this one too. I think my message got lost amongst all the spiteful word vomit, and the last thing I want to do is come across as trite.

  Fed up is what I am.

  Tired.

  Underutilized, underpaid, and overworked.

  But not trite.

  I toss the wrinkled paper in the waste basket and grab one last sheet of letterhead. Ditching the formalities, I decide to go a more direct route. My mother once told me it’s not in what you say, it’s in what you don’t say. And my father always says actions speak louder than words. Maybe I’ve been overthinking this whole resignation letter? With my pen firmly gripped, I scrawl my final version.

  Hudson,

  I QUIT.

  Mari

  It’s perfect.

  Smirking, I admire my work, fold it into thirds, then slide it into a cream-colored envelope with Rutherford Architectural’s logo in the upper left corner. Licking the seal and scribbling his name on the front, I stick it on top of a pile of mail I plan to hand to him the second he arrives. I’ll give him a moment to read it, and while he’s doing so, I’ll pack up my things and make a beeline for the elevator before he has a chance to stop me.

  “Mary.” I glance up from my workstation to see Hudson strolling into work in his signature navy suit and skinny black tie. He’s early today.

  “It’s Mari,” I correct him for the millionth time, inhaling his cedar and moss cologne. It’s the only thing I’ve come to like about this man. “Rhymes with sorry—remember?”

  His eyes narrow in my direction, and as he angles toward me, I see his right hand lifted to his ear. He’s on the phone.

  Hudson says nothing, only gathers the mail from the corner of my desk and strides down the hall toward the enormous glass-walled office that tends to make my stomach twist every time I have to walk in that direction.

  This entire office space was his design. Glass walls. Zero privacy. Everything is clean-lined and modern. Chestnut-colored leather seating, white walls, reclaimed wood, and custom mid-century modern lighting installations are working in tandem here to create a space buzzing with creative inspiration, and all decorative accessories have to be approved by the head honcho himself. I tried to bring in a gray ceramic planter last month for my dendrobium orchids, and Hudson said it was too drab and industrialist. He claimed it would fuck with his energy—and he uses words like “fuck” and “energy” because he thinks he’s some kind of renaissance boss.

  My heart’s pounding crazy fast, and I’m stuck trying to determine if I should bolt now or wait. Hudson usually checks his mail first thing in the morning, but for all I know, he’s still on his phone call.

  Drumming my fingers against my glass desktop, my feet remain firmly planted on the wood floor, though they may as well be frozen solid. The second my phone rings, it sends my heart leaping into my throat. I’m not afraid of him—I just hate drama. And I have a feeling Hudson’s going to try to make this into a big thing.

  “Yes?” I answer, my eyes scanning the caller ID. Hudson’s extension flashes across the screen.

  He exhales.

  Oh, god.

  He read it.

  And now, the moment of truth.

  “Mary, what is this?” he asks.

  “What is … what, sir?” I ask. And that’s another thing—what kind of twenty-nine-year-old architect demands to be called “sir?”

  “This invitation to the Brown-Hauer Gala? How long have you been holding onto this? RSVPs were due two weeks ago. Call and find out if it’s not too late,” he says, his voice monotone. The tear of paper fills the background. He’s quiet.

  “I thought you said you didn’t want to go?” I ask. I’m not sure why I’m phrasing this as a question because he did say he didn’t want to go. As a matter of fact, I know I have it in an email …

  “I said that?” he asks, a sardonic chuckle in his question.

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t remember saying that.” He exhales. “I never would’ve said that. Not to the Brown-Hauer. That gala hosts the who’s who in the architectural world, are you fucking kidding me?”

  His voice raises slightly, and my breath seizes. I should just hang up and get the hell out of here.

  “Mary,” he says.

  “Mari,” I correct. “Rhymes with sorry.”

  In case he didn’t hear me two minutes ago …

  “Can you come back here for a second?” he asks, his voice as stiff as his winning personality. “There’s something we need to discuss. Immediately.”

  Anxiety forces my jaw into a tensed state. I shouldn’t let this asshole get to me, and I know that, but he’s literally the boss from hell. People like him are the reason happy hour was created.

  At least he won’t be my boss for much longer.

  I’m almost positive he’s read my note and he’s calling me back to try and talk me out of it, but I refuse.

  My stomach churns, and I think I’m going to be sick—but not because I’m nervous.

  Not because he scares me.

  But because I’m pregnant.

  And morning sickness is one hell of a bitch.

  “I need a minute,” I say, reaching for the bottle of room temperature water in front of me, though the sight of it intensifies my nausea. I meant to stop for saltines and ginger ale on the way here this morning, but I spaced off because I was too preoccupied with second-guessing my decision to quit my job so abruptly with single motherhood on the horizon.

  “You may have a minute to spare, but I don’t,” he says. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it can wait. My office. Now.”

  Hudson hangs up before I have a chance to protest, and before I can stop myself, I’m marching back to his office like Darth Vader on a mission, heavy breathing and all.

  I’m doing this.

  I’m standing my ground.

  I’m quitting.

  And I’m walking out of here with my head held high.

  Normally I’d knock three times on his door and wait for him to tell me to enter, but seeing how all the walls here are made out of crystal-clear glass, he’s looking directly at me. And I’m seconds from quitting, so I don’t see the need.

  Rushing into his office, I place my hands on my hips and plant myself in the doorway. Hudson reclines in his chair, his hands resting behind his neck as his full lips hold an amused little smirk that perfectly contradicts the snarky tone he took with me a few moments ago.

  Everything about this man is a walking contradiction, and it drives me crazy.

  “What’s with the attitude, Mary?” he asks, eyes scanning me from head to toe and back. “It’s Friday. Lighten up.”

  I glance at his desk where my letter rests on top of the mail pile.

  He hasn’t opened it yet …

  “What did you need?” I ask, but only because I’m curious. I don’t actually intend to do a damn thing for this smug asshole from this moment on.

  “Did you get my email this morning?” he asks.

  Ah, yes. The infamous pre-work emails he sends from his treadmill at five in the morning. Not going to miss those.

  My brows meet. “I haven’t had a chance to check it yet.”

  “I’m going to need
you to pick up my dry cleaning at ten. Drop everything off at my place afterwards, then stop by Palmetto’s Deli to grab me a number four with no mustard. And make sure you check it before you leave. Last time you didn’t, and you know how much I despise soggy bread. Oh. And after lunch, I need you to call the Brown-Hauer foundation and get me on the list for their gala. Email me as soon as you’re finished so I know you didn’t forget …”

  He’s rambling on, but I tune him out. My fists clench at my sides, and my vision darkens. He doesn’t need to qualify his requests with insults.

  This …

  This is why I hate this man.

  This is why I have to quit. Immediately.

  He’s a micromanaging control freak.

  I don’t care what he says, I refuse to let him talk me out of this.

  I came to Manhattan with a gleam in my eye, my little Nebraskan heart filled with optimism and hope. I wanted to be successful. I wanted to be someone.

  Little did I know, nobody in New York cares if you graduated at the top of your class at some private college north of the Bible belt that no one’s ever heard of. All that matters out here is who you know. And if you don’t know anyone? Then you have one of two options: screw your way to the top, or work your ass off and hope that someone throws you a bone.

  I had every intention of doing this with integrity, but clearly accepting a position at Rutherford Architectural was a bad move in the wrong direction.

  So much for building up a respectable curriculum vitae.

  “Mary, are you listening?” he asks, leaning forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his glass desk. Behind him is an expansive view of downtown Manhattan flanked by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with every architectural college text, magazine, and coffee table book known to man. If there’s one other positive thing I could say about Hudson Rutherford—besides the fact that he smells like money and oozes obnoxious charm that apparently no one but me can see through—it’s that he’s passionate about architecture. The man lives, sleeps, and breathes design.