New York Billionaires Series

It’s the kind of day I long to be anywhere but here.

Nadine and I catch up to Victor by the curb. Steven walks briskly down the sidewalk. “He’s going to get the car,” St. Clair says.

“To get the car,” I murmur. “Steven… Oh. He’s Steven Daugherty. Your driver.”

St. Clair nods, glancing up at the sky like he considers the rainy haze a personal affront.

Nadine clears her throat. “I’ll give you two a minute. Congratulations, Victor.”

He looks surprised, but then gives a single nod. I don’t know if it’s in thanks or acknowledgement.

We stand there in the drizzle. Husband and wife, after one of the shortest engagements in history.

“Well…” I say. “What happens now?”

“I have interviews lined up for your replacement.”

I nod. That’s a safe topic. “You can send the shortlist over to me, and I’ll look them over for you. I know what you need.”

His eyes slide to mine. “I will.”All text © NôvelD(r)a'ma.Org.

“Good.”

“Steven will take you to my apartment to settle in. Have him drive any things you need from your old place. You have the numbers to the movers I used last. Fix everything and charge it to my account.”

“Right. Thanks.”

He nods again and just like that, I’m dismissed, another thing checked off his schedule. Get married at one, investor meeting at two.

He hails down a cab with a single raised arm. It stops in front of him and he looks at me over his shoulder.

Neither of us has words, it seems.

“Thank you,” he says.

Our eyes hold for another long moment before he nods, like he’s confirmed something, and disappears into the cab. It drives off and leaves me on the curb, my best friend a few feet away, beneath a New York sky that wants to evict us.

“Are you okay on your own?” Nadine asks. Her voice sounds like it’s coming from far away, through a fog, but I nod.

“Sure. I’ve got… Steven.”

“I can help you move tomorrow, I think.”

“You’ve got work,” I say. “Don’t you dare take one of your precious vacation days for me.”

“I can call in sick,” she says. “I’ve been working on my fake sniffle.”

“You’re the worst actress in the world. No, go ahead. Thanks for being my witness.”

She pulls me in for a hug and I wrap my arms around her tightly, with her deep-red peacoat and the scent of coconut from her hair. Normalcy in this sea of chaos.

“You’re brave,” she whispers.

“Or foolish,” I whisper back. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“Both, Cece. You’re both. Just like me.”

I have to blink rapidly. “At least this will make for a great story one day,” I say.

She nods. “We’ll have to practice it a few times before we tell it around the dinner table with our real husbands.”

“Do a few trial runs.”

“Yes. We have to get the pitch just right.”

I chuckle, and she gives me a broad, bright smile, the one that’s Nadine to a T. All of her passionate, artistic self. “I should have just married you,” I tell her.

“Still an option,” she says. “Once you’re divorced from St. Clair here, I’ll swoop right in.”

“I love you, you know.”

Her eyes soften. “I know. Love you too, Cece. Now get in this car before you give your new husband’s driver an aneurism, and call me later.”

“I promise. Prepare yourself for fifteen pictures of his apartment.”

“You mean a FaceTime video tour, right?”

“Sorry. Yes.”

I get into the dark, leather interior of St. Clair’s private car. Steven says something from the front, but I don’t catch it, turning to wave to Nadine. She gives me a single wave back, her hair drawing up tight from the drizzle, as we’re already halfway down the street. City Hall looms large behind her.

Now it’ll always be the place I got married for the first time.

“I’m sorry,” I say to Steven. “I didn’t catch that. What did you say?”

“Please fasten your seat belt, Mrs. St. Clair.”

Mrs. St. Clair. That’s me now.

I’m Mrs. St. Clair.

My hands shake as I do what he says, so I lock them tight together on my lap. He doesn’t say another thing to me during the drive to Victor’s apartment on the Upper East Side. It’s good, because with my spiraling thoughts, I don’t know if I’d be able to respond.

The address is familiar. I’ve ordered a hundred airport pickups and taxi appointments for St. Clair from his home. I’ve sent home his dry-cleaning, I’ve coordinated with his housekeeper. I’ve calculated the time it would take him to walk to different restaurants to cut down on wasted time, as he liked to call it.

Also known as any time he couldn’t be productive.

My new husband isn’t human. But then, I’d known that for a long time.