“I Need A Boyfriend By Tomorrow,” The Plus-Size Maid Whispered—Her Mafia Boss Heard Everything
“I Need A Boyfriend By Tomorrow,” The Plus-Size Maid Whispered—Her Mafia Boss Heard Everything
PART 1 — The Borrowed Boyfriend
“I need a boyfriend by tomorrow.”
Phoebe Sullivan whispered the words so quietly that she barely heard them herself.
She stood alone in the vast library of the DeMarco estate, one hand gripping her phone and the other pressed against her trembling lips.
On the other end, her sister Rebecca went silent.
“Phoebe… what?”
“You heard me.”
“No, I heard the words. I just refuse to believe my sensible older sister is asking me to manufacture a human boyfriend overnight.”
Phoebe closed her eyes.
Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, rain streaked across the glass, blurring the lights of Long Island into pale golden smears.
Tomorrow afternoon, she was supposed to visit her grandmother.
And tomorrow afternoon, the lie Phoebe had been telling for four months was finally going to collapse.
“I told Grandma I was seeing someone.”
Rebecca groaned.
“I know.”
“And then I told her it was serious.”
“I know.”
“And then…”
“You invented an engagement.”
Phoebe winced.
“That part sounds worse when you say it.”
“It sounds exactly as bad as it is.”
Phoebe leaned against the heavy mahogany desk.
Her reflection floated faintly in the dark window.
At thirty years old, Phoebe had spent most of her life trying not to occupy more space than people wanted her to.
She was soft around the stomach, broad through the hips, with round cheeks that strangers had described as “sweet” since she was sixteen. Men had occasionally described her differently when they thought she couldn’t hear.
Big girl.
Cute for her size.
Pretty if she lost weight.
Phoebe had learned to smile through comments that should never have required smiling.
She had also learned something more important.
People’s cruelty said more about them than it ever said about her body.
Most days, she believed that completely.
Tonight was not most days.
Her grandmother Evelyn was eighty years old and living with a worsening heart condition.
Four months earlier, Phoebe’s relationship with a man named Marcus had ended abruptly after he informed her that he wanted someone who “looked better beside him.”
Phoebe had cried for exactly one night.
Then she had gone to work.
The real problem had come three days later when Grandma Evelyn called from the nursing home.
“Promise me you won’t spend your life alone just because one fool couldn’t see what he had.”
Phoebe had heard the fear underneath the teasing.
Evelyn wasn’t afraid Phoebe would be lonely tomorrow.
She was afraid of what might happen to Phoebe after Evelyn was gone.
So Phoebe lied.
She said there was someone new.
A good man.
Someone dependable.
The lie had comforted Evelyn.
That should have been the end of it.
Instead, Evelyn asked his name.
Phoebe invented one.
Then she wanted to know how they met.
Phoebe invented that too.
Weeks became months.
The imaginary boyfriend somehow became an imaginary fiancé.
And now Evelyn wanted to meet him.
“I just need someone for one afternoon,” Phoebe whispered into the phone. “Two hours. Maybe three.”
Rebecca sighed.
“This is insane.”
“I know.”
“And you’re terrible at lying.”
“I know.”
“And Grandma is going to figure it out.”
“I know!”
Her voice cracked.
Silence followed.
Phoebe immediately covered her mouth.
She hated crying.
More accurately, she hated being seen crying.
“I don’t want her last months to be spent worrying about me,” she said quietly. “She keeps talking about whether I’m going to have someone when she’s gone. I just want her to believe I’m going to be okay.”
Rebecca’s voice softened.
“You are going to be okay.”
“That isn’t the same as her believing it.”
Phoebe wiped her cheek.
“Please. Think of someone. Anyone respectable. I’ll pay him if I have to.”
“Phoebe—”
“I just need a boyfriend by tomorrow.”
She ended the call before her sister could answer.
For several seconds, the enormous library was completely silent.
Then a man’s voice came from behind her.
“That is an unusually specific emergency.”
Phoebe froze.
Every muscle in her body seemed to stop at once.
Slowly, she turned.
Damian DeMarco stood in the doorway.
Her employer.
The owner of the mansion.
And, depending on which newspaper you believed, one of the most dangerous men on the East Coast.
Phoebe stopped breathing.
Damian was thirty-eight, tall, dark-haired, and possessed the unnerving stillness of a man who never needed to raise his voice to control a room.
Officially, Damian DeMarco was chairman of an international logistics empire.
Unofficially, the DeMarco name had been whispered through New York for three generations.
Shipping.
Construction.
Nightclubs.
Private security.
And businesses that rarely appeared on tax documents.
Phoebe had worked in his estate for four months.
In those four months, Damian had spoken directly to her perhaps six times.
Good morning.
Thank you.
Leave the documents there.
Has anyone seen Mr. Bellini?
Nothing remotely personal.
Nothing remotely warm.
And now he had apparently heard her begging for a temporary boyfriend.
Wonderful.
Phoebe straightened.
“How much did you hear?”
Damian removed his gloves.
“Enough.”
Her cheeks burned.
“I’d appreciate it if you forgot everything.”
“That seems unlikely.”
“Then pretend.”
His gaze rested on her face.
Phoebe could never tell exactly what Damian was thinking.
That was probably intentional.
Men who survived in his world did not advertise their thoughts.
“You need a boyfriend tomorrow,” he said.
Phoebe wanted the floor to open.
“Yes.”
“For your grandmother.”
“Yes.”
“Who believes you’re engaged.”
Phoebe closed her eyes.
“You heard far too much.”
Something almost resembling amusement touched his expression.
Almost.
Then it vanished.
“I apologize.”
She blinked.
“For overhearing?”
“For standing here after I realized the conversation was private.”
That was not the response she expected.
Phoebe gathered the books she had been organizing.
“Good night, Mr. DeMarco.”
She walked past him before she could embarrass herself further.
Damian did not stop her.
But as Phoebe disappeared down the corridor, neither of them noticed that she had left one important piece of paper on the library table.
A visitor information sheet.
At the top was printed:
EVELYN SULLIVAN — ST. MATTHEW’S ASSISTED LIVING CENTER.
Damian stared at it for a long time.
Then he picked it up.
The following morning, Phoebe changed outfits four times.
Nothing felt right.
Eventually, she chose a dark green dress that Evelyn loved because she said it brought out Phoebe’s eyes.
Phoebe looked at herself in the mirror.
“You are an adult woman,” she told her reflection. “You are going to walk into that nursing home and tell the truth.”
Her phone rang.
Rebecca.
Phoebe answered immediately.
“Please tell me you found someone.”
“I found three possibilities.”
Hope exploded through Phoebe.
“Really?”
“One is married.”
“No.”
“One thinks this is a real date.”
“Absolutely not.”
“And the third wants four hundred dollars.”
Phoebe stared at the ceiling.
“For three hours?”
“He says emotional labor is expensive.”
“I’m hanging up.”
“Phoebe, wait—”
She ended the call.
Truth.
She would tell Evelyn the truth.
It would hurt, but the lie had gone too far.
Thirty minutes later, Phoebe stepped off the bus two blocks from St. Matthew’s.
She was halfway across the parking lot when she noticed the cars.
Three black luxury sedans.
They entered one after another.
The first stopped directly beside the entrance.
Phoebe slowed.
A driver stepped out.
Then the rear door opened.
A polished black shoe appeared.
Phoebe’s stomach dropped.
“No.”
Damian DeMarco emerged from the car.
Charcoal suit.
Black overcoat.
Dark sunglasses.
Two men in suits exited the second vehicle.
Another remained beside the third.
People near the nursing home entrance stopped talking.
A nurse stared through the lobby window.
Damian removed his sunglasses.
Then he saw Phoebe.
And began walking toward her.
“No, no, no…”
Phoebe marched straight toward him.
“What are you doing here?”
“Good morning.”
“This is not a good morning. Why are you at my grandmother’s nursing home?”
Damian glanced toward the building.
“You said you needed a boyfriend.”
Phoebe stared at him.
“You cannot possibly be serious.”
“I rarely come to nursing homes as a joke.”
Her mouth opened.
Closed.
Opened again.
“You’re my boss.”
“Correct.”
“You own half the companies in this county.”
“Not half.”
“That isn’t the important part!”
For the first time, Phoebe saw definite amusement in his eyes.
“You should probably stop shouting before your grandmother sees us arguing.”
Phoebe lowered her voice instantly.
“You need to leave.”
The nursing home doors opened.
“Phoebe!”
Everything inside her collapsed.
Evelyn Sullivan stood just inside the entrance, supported by her walker.
She looked thinner than she had the previous week.
But her smile was enormous.
Phoebe turned toward Damian.
“Do not say anything ridiculous.”
“What qualifies as ridiculous?”
“Anything romantic.”
Evelyn approached.
Her eyes moved immediately from Phoebe to Damian.
Then to the black cars.
Then back to Damian.
Her expression changed.
Curiosity became delight.
“Oh.”
Phoebe recognized that “oh.”
It was extremely dangerous.
“Grandma—”
Damian suddenly reached for Phoebe’s hand.
She nearly jumped out of her skin.
His fingers closed gently around hers.
Warm.
Steady.
Not possessive.
Just convincing.
Then Damian looked at Evelyn.
“I’m sorry I’m late, sweetheart.”
Phoebe’s heart stopped.
Sweetheart?
Her grandmother’s face transformed.
Phoebe considered homicide.
Not seriously.
Probably.
“Grandma,” Phoebe rushed out, “I can explain.”
Damian squeezed her fingers.
Once.
Somehow that tiny gesture calmed her.
Evelyn looked at him.
“And you must be the mysterious fiancé my granddaughter refuses to properly introduce.”
Damian extended his free hand.
“Damian DeMarco.”
Evelyn’s smile disappeared.
“DeMarco?”
Phoebe held her breath.
Of course Evelyn knew the name.
Everyone in New York knew the name.
Damian remained perfectly calm.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“The Damian DeMarco?”
“There are several DeMarcos.”
Evelyn pointed at him.
“Don’t try that modesty nonsense with me. I watch television.”
Phoebe nearly laughed from pure nervousness.
Evelyn looked at her granddaughter.
“You told me you met your fiancé at work.”
Phoebe swallowed.
“That is technically true.”
Damian said it before Phoebe could.
She snapped her head toward him.
Evelyn began laughing.
Damian’s mouth twitched.
Phoebe realized something terrible.
He was enjoying himself.
“Come inside,” Evelyn ordered. “Both of you.”
Damian offered his arm.
Evelyn accepted it immediately.
Phoebe followed behind them, staring at the back of her employer’s head.
How had her life become this ridiculous before ten in the morning?
Evelyn’s room was small but cheerful.
Photographs covered one wall.
Phoebe at six.
Phoebe at high school graduation.
Phoebe holding her first college acceptance letter.
Phoebe at twenty-two, laughing beside Evelyn on Coney Island.
Damian studied them.
Phoebe noticed.
“Don’t.”
He glanced at her.
“Don’t what?”
“Analyze my childhood.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You analyze everything.”
“Occupational habit.”
Evelyn searched through a drawer.
“I have something you need to see, Damian.”
Phoebe groaned.
“No.”
Evelyn turned around holding a photograph.
Eleven-year-old Phoebe stood in a homemade princess costume with a missing front tooth and a cardboard crown leaning sideways.
Damian accepted the picture.
His expression remained serious.
Phoebe covered her face.
“I am resigning.”
“You look almost the same,” Damian said.
Phoebe lowered her hands.
“I had no front tooth.”
“I was referring to the crown.”
Evelyn burst out laughing.
Phoebe stared at Damian.
Then, against every instinct telling her this entire situation was a catastrophe, she laughed too.
Something changed after that.
Damian stopped performing.
Or perhaps Phoebe simply stopped noticing the performance.
He sat beside Evelyn and listened.
Really listened.
Evelyn told him how Phoebe worked two jobs during college.
How she drove three hours through a thunderstorm because Evelyn claimed she needed help replacing a lightbulb.
How Phoebe once punched a boy in middle school after he mocked Rebecca’s braces.
“I did not punch him,” Phoebe protested.
“You pushed him into a trash can.”
“He fell.”
“You helped.”
Damian looked at Phoebe.
“I believe your grandmother.”
“Traitor.”
He almost smiled.
Then Evelyn said something that made Phoebe uncomfortable.
“My girl has spent her whole life believing she needs to make herself smaller for other people.”
Phoebe stiffened.
“Grandma.”
“What?”
“Please don’t.”
Evelyn looked at Damian.
“She apologizes when someone bumps into her.”
Phoebe felt heat climb her neck.
“Can we discuss literally anything else?”
Damian said nothing.
But his gaze lingered on her a second longer than necessary.
Not on her body.
On her face.
And for reasons Phoebe didn’t understand, that was worse.
Lunch became an interrogation.
Evelyn sat across from them in the small dining room.
“So,” she announced, “how long have you been together?”
Phoebe kicked Damian beneath the table.
He did not react.
“Not long enough,” he answered.
Phoebe kicked him harder.
Evelyn smiled.
“Oh, I like that answer.”
Phoebe glared.
Damian calmly continued eating.
“And what does Phoebe like most about you?”
Finally.
Phoebe almost smiled.
There was no way Damian could answer that.
He paused.
Set down his fork.
Looked directly at Phoebe.
“You should ask her.”
Her smile vanished.
Evelyn turned.
“Well?”
Phoebe panicked.
“He’s punctual.”
Damian lifted one eyebrow.
“And organized.”
Evelyn stared at her.
“Sweetheart, you’re describing an accountant.”
Phoebe heard a strange sound.
She looked at Damian.
He was trying not to laugh.
“You think this is funny?”
“A little.”
It was the first time Phoebe had heard him admit amusement.
Strangely, she wanted to hear him laugh properly.
The realization frightened her.
This was temporary.
A favor.
A bizarre act of kindness from a man who lived in a universe entirely separate from hers.
Nothing more.
It could never be anything more.
When lunch ended, Phoebe followed Damian into the hallway.
“Thank you.”
He stopped.
She folded her arms.
“I mean it. Grandma hasn’t smiled this much in weeks.”
Damian looked through the open doorway.
Evelyn was speaking with a nurse.
“She loves you.”
Phoebe’s expression softened.
“She’s basically my mother.”
Something passed through Damian’s eyes.
Pain.
So brief Phoebe almost missed it.
“Anyway,” she continued, “your work here is finished.”
“My work?”
“Pretending.”
“You asked for a boyfriend for one day.”
“Yes.”
He checked his watch.
“It is 1:47.”
Phoebe frowned.
“So?”
“The day isn’t over.”
Before she could answer, Evelyn called from inside.
“Damian! Are you staying for the garden walk?”
Phoebe stared at him.
“No.”
Damian looked at her.
She pointed toward the exit.
“You are an extremely busy man.”
“That is true.”
“You have companies.”
“Several.”
“Meetings.”
“Usually.”
“Potentially terrifying criminal associates.”
His eyebrow rose.
“Allegedly.”
Phoebe almost smiled.
Then Damian turned toward Evelyn’s room.
“I’d be happy to stay.”
Phoebe remained frozen.
Something about this no longer made sense.
He wasn’t helping her because he felt obligated.
He didn’t look inconvenienced.
He didn’t keep checking his phone.
He had spent hours listening to an elderly woman tell childhood stories about an employee he barely knew.
Why?
That evening, Phoebe returned to the estate expecting everything to return to normal.
It didn’t.
Monday morning, she entered the breakfast room carrying fresh linens.
Damian sat at the table drinking black coffee.
He looked up.
“Your grandmother called.”
Phoebe nearly dropped everything.
“She has your number?”
“Apparently.”
“Why?”
“She thanked me.”
Phoebe closed her eyes.
“Please tell me she didn’t invite you somewhere.”
Damian took another sip.
“She invited me to dinner Sunday.”
Phoebe exhaled in relief.
“You told her you’re busy.”
“I did.”
“Good.”
“I moved the meeting.”
Her eyes snapped open.
“You what?”
He calmly returned to the financial report beside his coffee.
Phoebe stared at him.
“Mr. DeMarco.”
Nothing.
“Damian.”
His eyes lifted immediately.
It was the first time she had said his name.
Something shifted between them.
Small.
Almost invisible.
But both noticed.
“Why?”
He said nothing.
Phoebe stepped closer.
“You didn’t need to move anything. Yesterday was already too much.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you going back?”
For several seconds, Damian looked at her without answering.
Finally, he closed the folder.
“My grandmother raised me.”
Phoebe’s anger vanished.
Damian looked toward the window.
“She was the only person in my family who never cared about the DeMarco name. She didn’t care about money. She didn’t care what people feared. She only cared whether I came home for dinner.”
His voice became quieter.
“The week before she died, she asked me to visit her.”
Phoebe already knew what was coming.
“I had a meeting.”
“Damian…”
“I could have canceled it.”
His jaw tightened.
“I didn’t.”
Phoebe’s chest hurt.
“She died three days later.”
Silence filled the room.
For once, Damian DeMarco did not look powerful.
He looked like a grandson who had been given one final Sunday and traded it for something he could no longer remember.
Phoebe slowly sat across from him.
“I’m sorry.”
He nodded.
“When I heard you speaking to your sister in the library…”
His eyes met hers.
“…I recognized the sound.”
“What sound?”
“Someone trying to negotiate with time.”
Phoebe’s eyes stung.
Suddenly she understood the cars.
The ridiculous performance.
The lunches.
The stories.
The attention Damian had given Evelyn.
He had not only been saving Phoebe from a lie.
He had been returning to a moment he could never repair.
Phoebe swallowed.
“My grandmother would tell you guilt is a terrible reason to do something kind.”
Damian almost smiled.
“She already told me.”
Phoebe stared.
“She said that?”
“She also said you’re terrible at accepting help.”
Phoebe gasped.
“I am changing that woman’s phone number.”
And then it happened.
Damian laughed.
Not the restrained half-smile she had seen before.
A real laugh.
Quiet.
Deep.
Brief.
But real.
Phoebe stared at him.
The feared Damian DeMarco suddenly looked younger.
Warmer.
Almost ordinary.
Then his eyes met hers.
The laughter faded.
But something else remained.
Something neither of them understood yet.
Phoebe stood.
“Go Sunday.”
His brow furrowed.
“To Grandma’s dinner.”
“I already moved the meeting.”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“Don’t go because you’re paying some debt to a woman who’s gone. Don’t go because you feel sorry for me.”
She gave him a small smile.
“Go because you actually want to be there.”
Phoebe left the room.
Damian remained alone.
Three urgent messages waited on his phone.
He ignored all three.
Instead, he opened his calendar.
Sunday evening was empty.
Then another message appeared.
This one was from his security chief.
Ms. Blake arrived at the front gate. She says it’s urgent.
Damian’s expression hardened.
Cassandra Blake.
His fiancée.
A woman Phoebe did not even know existed.
And Cassandra had already seen the photograph from the nursing home.
Damian standing beside Phoebe.
His hand resting against the plus-size maid’s back.
Phoebe looking up at him.
Damian looking at her as if no one else existed.
Cassandra stared at the photograph on her phone for a long time.
Then she looked toward the DeMarco mansion.
“Who is she?” Cassandra whispered.
And by Tuesday afternoon, Phoebe Sullivan was about to discover exactly what happened when a harmless borrowed boyfriend attracted the attention of the woman who believed Damian DeMarco already belonged to her.
END OF PART 1
