A Marriage of Convenience: When Irina’s Plea Leads to an Unexpected Proposal from Her Stepfather, a Business Deal Turns into an Emotional Journey Toward Real Love

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 7 minViews 2

A MARRIAGE OF CONVENIENCE

Mr. Robinson, have you got a moment? Poking her fair-haired head around the office door, Emily managed to sound disarmingly politewhich, for her, shouldve set off alarms.

What do you want? Mr. Robinson pulled himself away from his computer, glaring at his stepdaughter over the tops of his glasses.

Ive got a very important favour to ask, Emily didnt wait to be invited. She waltzed right in, closed the door behind her, and plopped herself down opposite her baffled stepfather.

If youre here about a pay rise, forget it! Mr. Robinson declared with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Dont even try, Emily. Youre barely coping as it is. Constantly late, missing deadlinesyou let me and everyone else down. Hed had words with Emily plenty of times before. Her habit of feuding with colleagues and stirring up workplace drama was legendary.

Truth be told, Mr. Robinson had contemplated firing her for months. Only, he lacked the nerve. Emily was the daughter of his beloved wife, Sophie. Hed married Sophie fifteen years ago. Their life was blissful until tragedy struckSophies cancer diagnosis. She passed away two years before, and now Mr. Robinson couldn’t bring himself to sack the troublesome girl who looked so uncannily like her mother.

I know Im not getting a raise, Emily huffed. Thats not why Im here.

Then do enlighten me, he leaned forward, eyebrow cocked, as if expecting a circus act.

Mr. Robinson, Emily began, putting on her best forlorn voice, you know how hard Mums death was for me? She was the only one who ever really loved and supported me

And you repaid her by giving her grey hairs? he scowled. He remembered only too well how fraught the mother-daughter relationship had been. Sophie adored her, but Emilywell, she was a law unto herself.

Whats your point, Emily? Why the sob story? Im very busy; please get to it.

Squirming in her seat, Emily finally blurted out, I was wondering if you could help me out financially. I want to try my hand at business, but I need money for some courses.

No, he cut in before shed even finished. With your work ethic, you wouldnt last five minutes opening a lemonade stand on the high street. Ive told you a hundred times: its time to grow up! Yet youre still running around like a rebellious teenager.

But if you help me with this start-up, I swear Ill change! Honest! I want a normal lifework, career, get married have some kids

Hmm, Mr. Robinson regarded her suspiciously. Have you got someone in mind? Is there a boyfriend?

Nope, Emily flapped her hand dismissively. If there was, I wouldnt be pestering you. Sorting life out on your owns a pain compared to doing it with someone.

It certainly is Partnering up does help, not that all partners are easy, he muttered, drumming his fingers on the desk, clearly wrestling with something. Actually, I do have a proposition that could help you live quite comfortably.

A proposition? echoed Emily, eyebrow arched. She couldnt imagine what bizarre demand was coming.

Ill give you the moneywith one condition, said Mr. Robinson, leaning back with a mysterious glint in his eye.

What condition? Emily tensed up, dreading what was about to come.

Marry me, and youll get everything youve ever wanted. He laced his fingers together, giving her a businesslike once-over.

Marry you?! Emily was stunned, then burst out laughing. You have to be kidding, Mr. Robinson! Is this some sort of weird joke?

Why would you assume Im joking? he shot back, annoyed. He fixed her with a stern look, making it clear he was deadly serious. Yes, theres a bit of an age gap, but were both adults. We could both find happiness.

Happiness! Youre old enough to be my father! Why on earth me? Emily was practically incandescent. Mr. Robinson was forty-fivespry for his age and certainly not bad-looking, but marriage? Seriously? And its not like he lacked female company, either.

You likely know Im expanding the company and aiming for a big contract, yes? he continued, reading the confusion on her face. Well, the companys executives insist I must be married. Family men are seen as more stable and trustworthy, apparently.

But why me? Surely you could find someone else!

First, weve known each other forever and you know how much I loved your mother. Second, I trust you not to run your mouth about our marriage being a sham. Third, I know you need the money. Marry me and Ill set you up in business. Mr. Robinson had always been a pragmatic sort, and he was treating Emily like a prospective business partner now.

You meanfake marriage? No funny business? Emilys scowl softened.

Purely a business arrangement. So, are you in or out? Mr. Robinsons tone was brisk.

Ill need to think about it.

Fine, he nodded to the door, already done with the discussion.

Closing the door, Mr. Robinson immediately regretted this hare-brained scheme. He knew what Emily was likeimpulsive enough to say yes, but wild enough to leave him stranded at the altar. But whats done is done; there was no backing out now.

Emily had never seen her stepfather as anything but, well, her stepfathernot her real dad, not quite family, and definitely not potential husband material. He hadnt even formally adopted her. Theyd always kept each other at arms length.

But after that odd conversation, something shifted. Emily began to see Mr. Robinson in a new light. He was charismaticand, most importantly, loaded.

So she agreed. The plan: stamp the register, live entirely apart.

Once the wedding was done, Mr. Robinson kept his wordhe handed her the keys to a rather swish London flat, gave her work capital, paid her uni tuition, and basically set her up for life.

Emily held up her end, too. She played loyal wife at business functions, radiating wedded bliss, albeit of the strictly platonic variety.

After the wedding Emily ditched her wild ways. She settled down and actually saw Mr. Robinson in a new light: clever, considerate, generouseven interesting (which, to her shock, was more than she could say about a lot of men her own age). The more trips they took together, the less she wanted to be apart from him. She finally understood what her mother had seen in the man.

Not once in that first year did Emily regret her choice.

One year on, with the contract in hand and the arrangement technically concluded, they finally decided to make their separation official. But by now, their relationship had changed. He no longer saw Emily as just a reckless girl, and she was starting to warm to the man shed once barely tolerated.

Thank you, Emily. I think you can take it from here, said Mr. Robinson. As promisedIm letting you go now.

Are you sure you want the divorce? Emily asked suddenly, as they stood together outside the register office.

Dont you? he replied, surprised, but he could see the honest sadness in her eyes.

I dont want to, Emily admitted.

Nor do I, Mr. Robinson smiled, pulling her close and looking into her eyes seriously. But if you stay my wife, it has to be for real.

Im in, she said.

So in the end, the register office didnt see them that day. They binned the divorce and chose to stay exactly as they werenot out of necessity, but for real this time.

In Search of a Mistress — “Vera, what’s going on?” blurted out Roman as his wife handed him gym shorts and a T-shirt. “Nothing. But while you’re lazing around, all the mistresses will be snatched up!” Vera yanked off the duvet, sending goosebumps marching across poor Roman’s unsuspecting skin. “What are you on about?” “After what you said last night—that it’s only a matter of time before you get yourself a mistress—I’ve made a decision. The hour has come, Roman. It’s half past five: time to get up and head to the frontlines of philandering.” “I was joking, honestly! We argued, remember? I’m sorry, I was wrong.” “No, no, you were right. I’m the one at fault. I let the fire of passion in our marriage die out. Burnt up all the petrol on myself! Now there’s only ashes—not enough for a spark, not even to bake a potato. I’m fixing it. Up you get.” “You’re kicking me out?” “I’m sending you out! You’ll start working out every day till you shake off that belly. Mistresses don’t put up with Michelin mascot husbands lying around. Up now!” Realising his wife wouldn’t let up, Roman obediently rolled out of bed and struggled into his shorts to atone for his sins with righteous exercise. “Remind me to buy you proper trunks. In parachutes like these you’ll get swept off the lover’s bed by a breeze.” After ten minutes of running laps around the house under the sharp eye of his “coach,” a half-dead Roman staggered indoors, collapsed, and began dragging himself toward the bed by his teeth. “Where do you think you’re going?” his wife asked sharply. “I want to die in my sleep.” “No dying allowed—we’re looking for a mistress, not a coroner. Off to the shower! You’ll need to use it twice a day at minimum. You never spared me from your natural aromas, but at least spare your future companion. And now twice-daily brushing!” came the command from outside the door. “Wash your hair properly, we’re off to the photo studio today.” “What for?” “To get a proper photo for your dating profile. I can’t take a decent picture, because I know you too well—I’ll only see the scaffolder, the beer king, and the connoisseur of fried macaroni and butter rather than a real alpha male. We need a stud!” “Vera, isn’t this enough already?” “Save your vocabulary for a new ear! Let’s pick your candidates.” Roman brightened: he’d always enjoyed innocent window shopping on dating sites, but now for the first time he could do it without guilt. He started pointing at photos. “What about her?” “Are you joking?” “What’s wrong with her?” “Roman, I should be ashamed of myself—not for you—when I see your mistress. Look at her! Your old Fiat looked better before you sold it. There should be a hazard sign on her: ‘Handle with care—façade detachment possible.’” “Then this one.” “That? Really? Roman, how am I meant to look my friends in the eye if my husband cheats with a ‘whatever-will-do’? This one! See? Perfect!” “She’d never answer me in a million years!” “Heavens, what did I ever see in such a self-doubting Pinocchio? What drew me to you for these fifteen years?” “My sense of humour?” Roman tried. “Oh, please! If laughter really extended life, I’d have been widowed right after the honeymoon. Let’s stop tempting fate. We’ll buy you a decent suit and go fish for a mistress in the big pond instead.” “That’s enough, Vera—let’s just make up.” “Who said we’re fighting? Having a mistress is a sign of a successful man. And being the wife of a successful man means status! One will never be enough.” At the shopping centre, Vera whisked her husband to the most expensive shop, where they stripped the mannequins of their best threads. “Vera, these trousers and jacket cost more than a full set of winter tyres,” protested Roman as she shoved him into a dressing room. “That’s alright—we’ll buy you ‘rubber’ at the chemist’s, winter or summer, with extra protection! Don’t want any exotic bouquets brought into the house.” “Vera!” “What? Safety first! We’re not choosing scooters—we’re picking out the hypotenuse for our obtuse triangle. Have you rung your boss yet?” “About what?” Roman asked, wriggling into the jacket. “Money, of course. You’ll need a raise—can’t afford two women on your current salary. I can survive on cabbage soup, but a mistress? It’s concrete: one dinner, three glasses of wine, five-star hotel—scrimp and your foundation collapses.” When Roman finally emerged, tie adjusted, Vera wiped away a tear. “Handsome—like on our wedding day.” “It suits you,” agreed the woman in the next changing room. “Would you like to take him? He’s on the hunt for a mistress.” “No thanks, I’ve got three lovers already,” the woman grinned. “Don’t pick her,” Vera remarked sternly. “We need loyalty—like a bank card for transferring funds out of sight.” Perfumed and prepared, Roman was declared fit for the free market—even without the photoshoot. “You’re ready, Roman—just remember what I’ve taught you: confidence and charm, just like you had when you sold off our old Fiat.” Vera went home to her soup, and Roman set off on the mistress quest he’d been trained for all day. An hour later, the intercom buzzed in Vera’s flat. “Good afternoon, young lady. Is your husband home?” The velvet voice was unfamiliar, molten with desire. Even the crackly speaker made it sound seductive. “Oh!” Vera gasped, dropping her ladle. “No, he’s gone to his mistress.” “May I come up? I have a proposition….” From the suggestive tone, Vera flushed hot then cold; she nearly took some medicine, but instead she buzzed the stranger in. Three minutes later, Roman appeared at the door, hand clutching a lush red bouquet. He gently drew Vera close; the narrow hall was suddenly sizzling. “Have you been crying?” Roman asked, noticing her red eyes. “A bit. I thought I’d messed everything up—but now I realise we needed the firewood for the flame.” “Well, would you care to spend this evening with a charming companion?” There was passion (and a modest dose of brandy) glinting in Roman’s eyes. “I’m taking you out for dinner to tell the true story of your beauty—it may be factual, but I swear you’ll like it.” “I—I’d love that,” Vera murmured, entering into the game. “Let me just take the soup off the stove and fix my lashes.” “I’ll book a taxi in the meantime,” Roman nodded. “Where are we going?” Vera’s silly smile was glued to her face. “To a five-star restaurant!” “We don’t have those—just ‘Five Cheeses’ pizza.” “Then that’s where we’ll go. For my mistress, only the best.” “Aren’t you worried your wife will be jealous?” “That’s the goal!” Roman winked. **In Search of a Mistress: Vera’s Perfectly British Boot Camp for the Married Man Who Threatened to Stray — A Comedy of Spouses, Side-Flings, and Shopping Centre Showdowns**