So this is a story with about how a lowly girl became a billionaire's bride cliché right?

Sit back and enjoy how mischievous one can get.

I will be posting the first chapter now and we will settle with twice a week update.

I got the story from somewhere and decided to share it..

Disclaimer!!! Not the original author

But I'm certain you are going to love it

Ride on, Solely behind you. *grab pop corn*.

Been trying to update but nairaland keeps telling me post too long..


So I'm going to break the chapter one into three post.

CHAPTER ONE
The Proposal


I read somewhere that curdled milk is a bad omen.

It also said that some dream interpretations perceive it as a sign of dirty money. 

While that certainly brought on a sense of foreboding for the day that was to come, I told myself that the milk expired a week ago, and I just didn't have the money to do a grocery run yet. I also reasoned that since it was in my fridge and not in a dream, the interpretation couldn't be applicable.

I threw out the milk that morning. I made my own trail mix from crumbs at the bottom of the soda cracker box, some unsweetened chocolate chips from my dwindling baking supplies, and a handful of expired mixed nuts. After chasing down a half-bowl of it with a cup of black coffee, I got dressed and started my walk to the bus stop for my five a.m. shift at Marlow's.

The diner at the corner of Franklin St., in the center of the finance district, was a historical icon that both old and new players of the money-trade industry respected and patronized.

Its kitchen served hot and greasy breakfast from six-thirty to eleven in the morning and lunch from eleven to three. Once the markets closed, Marlow's separate lounge came to life—a perfect chaos of televised sports events, alcohol and hot wings.

I started working at Marlow's when I was only fourteen, doing just the breakfast and lunch shifts at the diner since I couldn't serve alcohol yet at the lounge. I did it early in the morning and on weekends during the schoolyear and almost all week during the summer. It was good money—the customers were usually cleaner, a little better dressed, and less inclined to grope, unlike other seedier diners. Since they mostly worked white-collared jobs, they paid good tips.

While I was ecstatic about leaving for Paris to become a pastry chef, I missed the diner during the six months I was gone. When I returned to the city, I showed up at Bobby's office straight from the airport, and asked for my old job back which he'd been happy to give me. The last year and a half since I came back have been hard. Without this job, I wouldn't have managed to pull through.

Which is why I was adamant to keep it. Keeping it meant I didn't physically assault customers, and that meant trying my mighty best not to smash the hot sauce bottle on this man's beautiful face.

Brandon Maxfield. What a bastard.

Macy poked her head into the lunch room earlier where I was taking a short break and reading a local tabloid, and told me that Mr. Maxfield was asking for me specifically. That confused me because everyone in Marlow's knew Martin and referred to him by his first name. He also never came on Saturday mornings. I was always out working my tables when he came in on his usual schedule which was why he never had to summon me before.

I tossed the core of the apple I'd been munching on, washed my hands, and headed out to the dining area. Scanning the room, I found Martin's usual spot, which was in a corner booth by the window, empty.

Macy must've made a mistake but she coudn't possibly miss the old man. He had a thick shock of silver hair and a large, booming voice that matched his laughter.

"Char, over there," Macy called out to me from the prep bar where she was sorting her orders. She cocked her head to the side in the direction of the back most corner booth on the complete opposite side of the diner from where Martin's usual spot would be.

My brows furrowed further at her wide eyes and nervous shrug.

Jeez. This couldn't be any odder.

Martin was such a flirty, adorable, old man and all the girls here loved him. Macy looked like she was skating rather clumsily around egg shells instead of walking on them.
As I made my way to the booth, Bruce Cooper, one of our regulars, stopped me with a smack on my butt as I walked past him.

I stopped, took a few steps back and smacked him on the head to which he only laughed.

"Damn, Little Lottie, what an arm you've got!" he exclaimed with another stream of short, snort-like chuckles. "You could be wielding a whip with that and teaching me to be a good boy."

I raised a brow. "Why would I waste my time doing that when I could be pitching for the Sox? Or whacking grabby guys like you with a police baton before throwing you into a cell in the station down the block?"

Bruce just smirked. "Typical of you, Lottie, to always aspire for something way above us, poor sods, here."

I beamed.

Bruce Cooper was a hedge fund manager, and there wasn't really a lot above him unless you counted the few geek billionaires and royalty.

"Now, now, Bruce, don't get ideas into my head," I told him playfully. "I might just marry one of you, poor sods, and turn myself into one of those real housewife celebrities."

The man's face actually turned a little green. "God, no. Don't you dare, Lottie."

"If it happens, we know it's your fault," I told him with a wink before continuing on my way to Martin, a spring in my step.

I haven't seen Martin in about a week actually but that wasn't always surprising. He was a pretty busy and important man and we always figured that he was away on business trips when he wouldn't show up for several days.

I looked forward to sitting with him this morning and letting him try the salted caramel éclair I left inside the restaurant cooler earlier. 

"Hey, Mart—" 

I stopped cold, my eyes narrowing at the man sitting in the booth, impatiently tapping his fingers on the laminate countertop. 

A face filed away in my memory a long time ago surged to the surface, and I barely stopped myself from sucking in a deep, surprised breath in front of him. 

I forced my heart to return to beating.

Well, who have we got here.

"You are not Mr. Maxfield," I blurted out, accusation in my voice. 

The man's thick, dark brow rose at my statement and I got the full effect of his arrogance before his mouth even opened.

"Excuse me?" he demanded.

Crossing my arms, I pursed my lips and studied him.

He had thick, dark brown hair that curled softly around his ears and the nape of his neck, a prominent, perfectly straight and narrow nose, a strong jaw, and a pair of dark hazel eyes that were currently flickering with disdain as he returned my inspection.

He was definitely an attractive man—the dark coloring of his hair and eyes were seductive while the condescending tilt of his full, wide mouth was a little maddening.

My memory of him and all the sources that built it didn't do the man much justice and did nothing to prepare me for this moment I've been half-dreaming, half-dreading for a while now.

Easy, Charlotte. You don't really know him all that well despite what you think.

I especially didn't know that he would be reeking of self-importance, with him looking like he knew he could be somewhere else doing something a lot more pleasant than sitting there and being scrutinized by a waitress at Marlow's

Continuations on chapter one


He was much larger and stronger than I thought, and he looked downright furious.

"Let go of me, you ass!" I yelled at him as I struggled to push him off the seat, but he was pure muscle under the shirt and jacket that he didn't budge an inch. "You're an arrogant, offensive cockhead and I'm not wasting my time on you."

"Stop swearing!" he hissed at me, aware that heads popped up at my raised voice. "I don't want to talk with you any more than you want to talk with me, but we're in a mess that you created and I want you to fix it."

That got my attention.

I stopped struggling and stared at him as if he sprouted a horn—make that two horns since he was probably the devil.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

He rolled his eyes, releasing me. "Oh, you very well know what I'm talking about, Ms. Samuels. Didn't you plan all of this out? Play my father right into your hands so he would do anything you asked, including blackmailing his own son so you can get what you want?"

I frowned. "I'll give you exactly ten seconds to explain yourself before I scream murder. My friends down at the Dalhousie precinct aren't very fond of pervs and bullies like you."

Watching his jaw clench, a muscle ticking under his left eye, I realized just how angry Brandon Maxfield was. There was no humor for him in all of this, and he was barely restraining himself from reaching over and wringing my neck. As to why he was mad at me, I didn't know.

Be the adult, Charlotte. Attempt a civil conversation even if the man is a total ape.

"Let's try this again," I said in a calmer tone. "What are you here for? Tell me as if I'm hearing this for the first time because I bet I am. Please and thanks."

I was proud of my perfectly pleasant statement but it seemed to infuriate him further because he dragged in a deep, loud breath as if fighting for control.

"I'm here to propose marriage, Ms. Samuels," he said in a grave voice as if he just announced a death sentence—for whom, that I wasn't sure about.

I blinked a few times before I grinned and lost it, throwing my head back laughing.

"What exactly is so hilarious about the situation, Ms. Samuels?" he demanded.

Clutching my stomach, I shook my head as I tried to stem the flow of my laughter. I brushed a few tears off my cheeks with the back of my hand and looked at him.

Well, the man looked serious—or had an excellent poker face.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I thought I just heard you say you were here to propose marriage to me. Who put you up to this? Martin? Where's that sly old man so I can give him his payback for this?"

"My father is in Amsterdam right now," he answered, still without any humor. "He left two days ago with a warning that if we're not engaged yet by the time he arrived in a week, he would put forward my cousin, Francis Pelletier, as the new CEO of Maxfield Industries when he retires later this year."

The smile vanished from my mouth as it hung open while his statement replayed in my head. It took a moment before I finally understood what he said.

My brows shot up. "Why the hell would Martin do that?"

He raised one brow himself. "You call him Martin like that and you wonder why? Obviously my father is smitten with a teenage gold-digger like you, but instead of marrying you himself, he throws you at me because you probably prefer younger meat."

"If by younger meat you mean yourself, no, thank you," I said acidly, now seething at his insults. "You're obviously made of vile, unpleasant stuff and would be most likely hard to chew on, considering how much of a stiff-ass you are. I would marry Martin over you any time, except that I don't marry men who are like a father to me because that's just wrong in so many levels. And if you knew your father really well, you'd know that he will never marry anyone else. He can't lose a heart he'd already lost to Evelyn a long time ago."

Martin was a widower after his second wife, Evelyn, died young of an aneurysm four years ago. Brandon was his son with his first wife whom he'd married young at his family's insistence. She'd died from an accident when Brandon was only five. Evelyn was a young, bright-eyed twenty-something when she married Martin two years after he lost his wife. I affectionately called Martin an old man because of his silvery hair but he was a great man who cherished his younger wife and adored all his children. Evelyn's death though dealt him a shock that quickly became evident in his physical health. A few years had passed but he was still feeling it despite his cheerful smiles.

"Then explain to me why he insists that I marry you," he spat out. "Explain why he's willing to go as far as to threaten me out of a position I've worked hard to earn for as long as I could remember. Explain why marrying a nineteen-year-old, foul-mouthed, punch-throwing diner waitress is worth everything I'm already entitled to."

I snorted. "If you think that way, then you don't deserve anything that you're already entitled to. As for your father's actions, I suggest you ask him because I certainly didn't decree for him to do this. In fact, I'll give him a piece of my mind when I see him—for this completely ridiculous idea, and for putting me through the traumatic experience of having to deal with you."

"You will not tell my father anything except that you've accepted my proposal," Brandon said. "He specifically instructed that you're not to be informed of any of this—that I must convince you to marry me without bribery or coercion."

"Well, now I can see why you won't make a good CEO," I muttered. "Not only are you incapable of following instructions, you're also a cheat. Plus, you're just so effortlessly offensive."

He scowled. "I'm only offensive to opportunists like you who play an old, gullible man right into their plans."

"Gullible?" I asked with a loud, wry laugh. "You really think Martin Maxfield is gullible? You're the one who's gullible if you think that of him. And as much as I'd like to take the credit for being so cunning, I'm afraid I can't, because if I were really that good in plotting out to marry well, I'd certainly choose someone more pleasant than you are."

"Many things can be made pleasant with a lot of money, Ms. Samuels," he sneered. "And I happen to know I'm the biggest catch around here. I'm also not old, bald, fat and strung with a few ex-wives who demand ridiculous alimonies."

At that moment, I honestly couldn't recall any reason why I thought of Brandon Maxfield as my own prince charming. None of the articles about him ever clued me in on just how incredibly crude he could be.

I raised a brow at him. "Well, you've certainly got an ego to match your bank account. You must absolutely hate having to grovel at your father's feet for the CEO position, and subject yourself to his whims."

His fists clenched. "What I absolutely hate is providing opportunists like you the chance to take advantage of someone because I need you for something I'm working hard to achieve. But I'm pragmatic, Ms. Samuels. Instead of quarreling with you, I'd rather we come to an amicable business agreement that will give us both what we want."

Kneading the space between my brows, I snuck a glance at him. "I'm listening because it's less effort for me than to try to dent the table with you pretty face."

His lips twitched that for a second I thought he was about to smile, but it disappeared so quickly I wasn't even sure I'd seen it in the first place.

"I'll agree with my father's condition and marry you," he started and I clamped down on my protests until he was done. If I let my mouth run away with me, we'd never be done here. I might just kill him before I could walk away from this table.

Last part on chapter one

But I want you to insist on a pre-nup which he didn't want us to have, and I want us to only stay married for a year which was the minimum period he'd accept. Don't ask me why because I don't know what he thinks can be gained out of this to begin with, much less a year into it," he continued. 

I put a hand up to stop him, unable to keep a lid on it any longer. "If I were really the opportunist you think I am, why the hell would I agree to a pre-nup that I'm sure would give me nothing, if left to your lawyers to craft?"

"Because I will pay you for your services, Ms. Samuels," he said curtly. "I will pay you a million dollars to stay married to me for a year."

My jaw dropped so fast I was surprised I didn't feel the cold, hard surface of the table top. I barely managed to shut it close and swallow hard.

A million dollars. Jesus. That's six zeroes—more zeroes than I've got in my bank account before the negative sign.

Then I remembered Martin's kind, smiling face.

The man was more of a father to me than my own had been. After years of sitting with him while he ate his breakfast at Marlow's and listening to him talk about anything under the sun—whether it was a merger or a lovely memory of Evelyn or a few amusing antics by his children—we became good, old friends.

A pang of guilt hit me.

"No, I can't," I said with difficulty because, although I fiercely felt too much loyalty for the old man to do anything like that to him, a million dollars was a fortune for someone like me who had less than nothing.

"No?" Brandon repeated in surprise. Then his eyes narrowed. "I wouldn't be so hasty if I were you, Ms. Samuels. A million dollars is a lot of money which I know you are in dire need of."

This time, my own hands clenched into fists. "You don't know anything about me, Mr. Maxfield."

He shrugged smugly, that bastard. "Oh, I know enough, Ms. Samuels. I know, for example, that your father's death left you in a boat-load of debt. The house is currently under water. It's six months behind on the mortgage, and at risk of being foreclosed again after you managed to save it a year ago when you assumed the mortage yourself.  You racked up quite a bit of your own personal debt after your short stint at a pastry school in Paris, and you've sold everything that you could to make some dent on it but you're barely covering the interest. You want to go back to Paris and complete your apprenticeship, but you don't even have enough money to get groceries if your recent trips to the food bank are an indication. You're doubling your efforts around the wealthy men who come into Marlow's for better tips, like with Bruce Cooper, for example, but I doubt that they ever leave you with enough to get you by comfortably."

My cheeks were so hot with humiliation that they probably resembled ripe tomatoes.

I stewed quietly where I sat, glaring at Brandon and hoping that if I did it hard enough, it would eventually cause him to catch fire and explode.

"I didn't realize you deigned to research a foul-mouthed, punch-throwing diner waitress, a teenage gold-digger, such as myself," I said slowly through gritted teeth. "I could say I'm honored but right now I just feel disgusted by how low you would stoop to get what you want, throwing someone's hardships in her face, to push your cause."

Something flickered in his beautiful eyes for a moment before he scowled at me. "I wouldn't have to if you didn't poison my father's brain with this idea. I'm merely pointing out how this could benefit you, Ms. Samuels, and satisfy my father's demands, and achieve my own goals as well. We all win."

"No, only you win," I said with a snort. "Don't delude yourself that you're doing everyone a favor. For one, you're cheating your father who must have some reason for this demand, preposterous as it may be, and defeating his very purpose in it. Second, you're insulting me with the offer of a million dollars when I truly need it, but not at the price of my integrity or self-respect—or even my sanity because to stay married to you for a year would drive me absolutely bananas. And third, you degrade yourself and your honor by doing everything that you're doing right now—going around your father's back, sacrificing your own conscience and freedom to secure something as material as the title of CEO tacked on to your name when you already have more than you can ever possibly need, and dragging someone into this mess with you when she can be doing more to better her situation than sit around with you and plot against your father—a man that she has the utmost respect for."

I  took in a deep breath after that rant, feeling incredibly better but foolish for giving someone so unworthy of it, such as Brandon Maxfield, a window to my soul where I was certain he'd only look in so he could find something to use as leverage.

Although his expression had mostly shut down as I was going off at him, his eyes held a glimmer of surprise.

"I wouldn't worry about my conscience, Ms. Samuels, considering my father isn't too concerned about his own when he devised this plan with your inspiration, surely," he shot back, no less intense than he had been moments ago. He seemed more riled up actually but I imagined it didn't take much to push Brandon Maxfield off the edge. He portrayed none of the cool, confident composure he was constantly credited for whenever the media speculated about him.

"As for insulting you, it's your decision however you'd like take my assessment of your character, and I think that a million dollars is something you can't turn away, no matter your integrity, because integrity will not feed you or put a roof over your head when you're thrown out on the streets," he added. "I could just cut you out of this deal and find another way around my father's demands but I figured this would be easier and best for everyone. It doesn't have to get ugly, you know? Think like a business woman and not like a teenage romantic. You'll find yourself making more practical choices."

"Like you do, obviously," I retorted with a roll of my eyes. "I bet there's not a romantic bone in your body, Mr. Maxfield—just the cold, mercenary desire to make more money than you could ever possibly need."

He laughed but although his voice was deep and rich, it was harsh and ironic. "While I don't deny that I like making money, Ms. Samuels, most of this is simply to avoid more conflict with my father who is deteriorating in health. If you know my father as well as you imply you do, you should know that he's not in good shape."

My ready response lurched back into my throat and I swallowed hard.

He was right. Martin had looked older and more frail when I first saw him again after I returned to the city. He was still a raucous, wily old man who had sunshine in his smile but he had been thinner and more tired than I remembered. Time had been quickly catching up with him after he lost his wife.

"Wouldn't it be worse then, to cheat him like this?" I asked quietly. "Martin will be so disappointed in me if he finds out I'd do something as despicable as this to him. He'll never forgive me."

"My father's disappointment weighs more heavily on you than a million dollars?" Brandon asked in confusion. "I'm no longer surprised why you're so poor, Ms. Samuels. Did you let your father dig himself further into debt because you couldn't bear to deprive him of whatever made him happy, no matter how bad it was for him?"

"Don't you dare speak about my father," I warned him in a low, angry voice. 

He scoffed. "He wasted his life away, drinking until it killed him, yet you display such loyalty? Aren't you up to your eyeballs in debt because of him?"

"Whatever kind of life my father lived bore no impact on yours, so you can withhold your judgement because no one needs it," I snapped. "As for your father, he's a good man and deserves none of this."

"And I deserve none of his manipulation!" he shot back. "Everything was fine with my life until he decided to drop this bomb on me, and now I have to rearrange my entire existence to accommodate a wife I did not require nor find convenient to begin with. Not only that, I don't get a say in the woman I'm supposed to marry at all. Of all of the women he could choose, he decided that you would be the perfect candidate—but you're too young, too rough on the edges, too temperemental, too raunchy in that tiny uniform, and too much of a pain in the ass."

"Well, I'm glad to be superlative in some ways," I muttered sarcastically. "But yes, you're right. I'm definitely not the best choice to be your wife. I'm way too hot for you, too good, too honest and generous a person for someone as greedy as you are, too real to spend time in the company of conniving folks such as yourself, and too pissed off at you to ever consider tying myself to you in marital union, much less stay in the same room as you."

His eyes glinted in anger. "Ms. Samuels—"

"You've used up the ten seconds I gave you about ten minutes ago, Mr. Maxfield, and I'm done. Now, I have to get back to my job," I announced, standing up and leaping up over the seats so I could crouch my way out of the booth across the top of the table. The clingy white shirt that had Marlow's printed across it in maroon and yellow letters, and the black shorts that I wore allowed me the flexibility of the movement, and Brandon made no move to stop me. 

Thrusting my chin up in pride, I walked on after I leapt off the table, forcing myself to forget the man whose face had filled each of my secret fantasies for years, and the million dollars he offered me to become the one thing I wasn't alone in dreaming of—his wife.

I walked away because I was about to do something I would likely regret for the rest of my life.

I was very angry at him moments ago but now, after putting a good distance betwen us, I just resented the fact that he took away one of the last few good things I had—the illusion of this great man I could love in secret and from a distance.

Brandon Maxfield wasn’t the man I imagined, but he was another one that let me down, and that stung most of all.

Read it on wattpad very interesting

op,

quite alright, you acknowledged the story isn't yours.

why then did you change the name of the story.

Btw, the name is the mischievous Mrs Maxfield. same story is on wattpad by ninya tippett.

what's more, it's complete.

lest I forget, it's very interesting.

Yes its maxfield but I love Stanford

Teespice:
op,

quite alright, you acknowledged the story isn't yours.

why then did you change the name of the story.

Btw, the name is the mischievous Mrs Maxfield. same story is on wattpad by ninya tippett.

what's more, it's complete.

lest I forget, it's very interesting.

kelizosuy:
Yes its maxfield but I love Stanford

you should edit the Maxfield in the story and change it to Stanford (i.e everyone bearing the maxfield name in the book) ..so readers don't get confused since you're sticking with Stanford.

I read the book too but never got to finish it.. Romance dey always tire me

Come and complete the story ooo.. Maybe I'll get to read it finish here.

kelizosuy:
Yes its maxfield but I love Stanford

Hi sis, bin trying to reach you to no avail