All Chapters of My Dismissive Fake-Love Marriage: Chapter 141 - Chapter 150

“We will see if he was available, but I have the check for the director. I thought you would like to see the good work that the gala is going to do.” Jackson pulls the envelope from his jacket’s inner pocket and hand it to Monica. Slowly, she takes it with a question in her eyes. “I don’t need to see it. I’m sure the House is doing right by the orphanage.” “You would be surprised what they can come up with, but I want you to see.” Jackson doesn't explains, but she opens the flap of the envelope and peeks at the check. “Sweet Baby Yoda . . . that’s a lot of zeroes.” “It’s a start,” Jackson agrees as he parks. Inside, they were ushered to Madame Brittanie’s office. She was an excellent director—good-hearted, cares about the children, and often works miracles with a paltry budget, so he trusts that she will be a good steward of these funds. “Monsieur Corbin, what a pleasant surprise!” she exclaims, standing to shaking his hand. “Lovely to see you as well. May I introduce Mademoiselle M

“I’m up for anything. Take me places and show me things. Show me more of the real Paris!” Monica says delightedly. It’s a risk, one she knows they were both taking. Going to the Sun Orphanage was too, but being seen together in public is an entirely different level ofdanger. They have been carefully avoiding it, but today, she desperately wants to be themselves. Jackson and Monica, with no restrictions, no worries, out to proudly celebrate a great donation to the orphanage and the progress Jackson made with Jamiaca. For such a simple desire, it’s majorly complicated. She chooses to pretendotherwise though. Jackson nods and does just that. He finds a parking spot in the heart of Paris, on a side street. “We can explore away from the usual tourist places.Shall we?” He helps her from the car and offers her his elbow. She takes it, feeling quite enamored with his gentlemanliness. And they both walk. They share choux cremes at a little bakery that’s mere blocks away from the Latin Qua

“Ugh!” Monica groans. She drops the skirt she was working on to grab another Band-Aid and a fresh finger condom. “Why can’t I sew the one time I need to?” She asks, not expecting an answer. Beatrice laughs. “If you figure it out, please tell me because I am having the same issue.” She smacks the sewing machine she was currently arguing with before beginning to curse at it in French. “Merde inutile. Je prendrai plaisir à te frapper avec une batte.” Monica doesn't even know what she was saying, but the evil glint in her eye makes her suspect she was threatening dismemberment to Maude, as they have come to call that particular, and persnickety, machine. Holding up her freshly re-bandaged hands, Monica tells Beatrice, “Normally, I would be down to back up whatever you are planning, but I would leave DNA allover the place right now. I can be your alibi, though.” Grinning, she adds in a saccharin, innocent voice, “Officer, Bea was with me the whole time. Right by my side.” Monica goes ove

The most important show of her life to date, but still only one. They don’t have to be besties and braid each other’s hair later. “Oh-kay, well, let’s get you ready for the first outfit,” Monica tells her, taking control as she removes the shift that she had planned for Marisol from its bag and hangs it on her rack. She huffs, snootily correcting Monica. “You mean get the outfit ready for me.” She finds her reflection in the mirror behind her and turns to assessherself, running her hands over her curves. Or where there would be curves if she had any. “Riiight,” She agreed. “Either way, we need to make a few adjustments.” Chloe waves a hand dismissively. “I will wear whatever you give me.” No shit. That’s literally was her job, bitch. Monica nerves are shot, her filter disappearing by the second, and soon, it will be one big, open netting with so many holes that there will be nothingstopping the angry thoughts that crosses her brain from coming right out of her mouth. “Stay here,” M

The makeup artist is re-oiling Jackson's chest, muttering something about Chloe wiping it all off and the photos looking like a piss-poor wax job of a surfboard. Jackson guesses that was all he was good for—a shiny, hard surface. He tries to catch Monica's eye, but she was on her knees, cutting the shoes off Chloe’s ankles with angry snips from a pair of orange scissors, and Jackson wonders if she was going to cut Chloe’s Achilles tendons with the way she was waving the scissors around. It would serve Chloe right after whatever the hell that walk was. Chloe seems wholly unaffected, though, actually examining her nails with a smug lilt to her lips while Monica freaks out. When Monica stands and pulls the dress off Chloe, she finally looks around and catches his gaze. He was stuck, wanting to go over and encourage her but knowing she wants to earn this on her own. Monica's eyes are full of fire, and he tries to send her a mental message . . .Good girl. Keep fighting. The competition’