All Chapters of Fake marrying my new boss: Chapter 91 - Chapter 100

*Will* I glance at my watch for the third time in five minutes, my heart racing. Brandy is late, and the last thing I need is for this meeting to start without her. The room is filled with my colleagues, their chatter and the clinking of coffee cups rising and falling like the tide, but all I can think about is what could go wrong without her there to help. I rub the back of my neck, feeling the weight of expectations pressing down on me. The door swings open, and I turn, half-expecting to see Brandy rushing in, flustered but ready to take her seat. Instead, it’s Kiera… my Kiera…striding confidently into the room, a folder tucked under her arm. She flashes me a smile that instantly calms the storm brewing in my chest. “Hey,” she whispers as she slides into the chair next to me, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Brandy is out of commission. I’m here to save the day.” I blink, momentarily stunned. “What’s going on?” I whisper back, leaning closer. “Where’s Frida?” “Don’t worry.

*Kiera* A few days later, I'm adjusting my hair in the mirror, taking a moment to appreciate the dress I chose for tonight’s charity event. A deep emerald green that hugs my curves just right, it feels like a second skin. Will is in the living room, checking his tie one last time, the dapper look making my heart race. There’s something thrilling about being by his side, especially in a room filled with New York’s elite. Frida is having a sleepover with her first real friend, and he had been so exited I almost cried. As we step into the venue, the atmosphere is electric. Soft jazz fills the air, mingled with the clinking of glasses and the low murmur of sophisticated conversations. The grand hall is adorned with sparkling chandeliers and elegantly draped fabric that sways gently with the flickering candlelight. I can feel the buzz of excitement as we enter, the decor itself whispering promises of a night to remember. “Wow,” I breathe, taking in the sight of well-dressed guests ming

*Will* “How do you feel?” I ask in Danish, watching Frida flex her hand, newly without its purple cast and now having her first checkup to see how it works ans how much help She will need with the physio. “Strange,” she murmurs, rotating her wrist the way the doctor showed her. “My bone isn’t broken anymore?” “No. Your body healed itself.” I brush a hand down her thick Dutch braid, kissing the top of her head. “You’re so strong, mit lille lam.” She gives a small sigh, “But not my leg, right?” I smile, “Not yet. But soon.” “And then I can do ballet again? And go to school?” She asks hopefully. “Of course. Mr. Torres says you’re doing wonderfully well with your English lessons. He thinks you’ll be ready for American school in January.” I confirm. “And ballet?” Her brow furrows with that serious look of a child determined to have her way. Her friend Emma is doing a recital with her ballet school of Swan Lake this Christmas. Emma’s has invited us to attend. It’s all Fri

*Will* I walk down the hall and accept the call, worrying if something has happened with mom, since it is him calling. “Hey, Dad.” “Oh, Will, what have you done?” He instantly say, but I can hear from his voice and tone that this is one of his good days… one of the few where his mind is clear. Closing the door to the bedroom, I sit down on the edge of the bed and try for a tone of levity. “I take it the story about my new devilish reputation has arrived in Denmark?” “This is no laughing matter, son. A reporter came to the house this afternoon.” He is starting to sound worried and upset… less clear. My heart stops. “What? Is mom there? Can I talk to her?” There is a bit of commotion and my mom’s voice sound on the other end. “Your father insisted on calling you himself.” “Is he okay?” I ask and then add. “What is this with a rapporter showing up?” “He asked all kinds of questions, upsetting your father, confusing him with rumors of your infidelity. The questions played wi

*Will* Cheryl, the social worker, sits at the kitchen table across from me, her fingernails clicking on her keyboard. She wears rings on all her fingers and bangles on both wrists that clink faintly each time she moves. She’s interviewing us for our second home study report. We’ve been at this for an hour, with no end in sight. Kiera has already refilled each of our coffee mugs twice. On her third attempt, Cheryl covered the top of her mug with her hand. “Any more java, and I’ll cartwheeling out of here.” Now she sits next to me, her knee bouncing with nervous energy. She had her time in the hot seat yesterday. Cheryl interviewed her for over three hours, asking a range of questions about her early life, her upbringing, and her current relationship with his family. She quizzed her in detail on her connections to her nieces and nephews, her experiences as a parental figure. They talked about Frida, of what she means to Kiera. I listened with pride as she spouted off everything from