New York Billionaires Series

I take another deep breath of the intoxicating scent and glance at my watch. He never leaves the office before seven. “I can’t wait.”

In truth, I have no idea how I’ll react when he comes home.

Home. My husband. Victor St. Clair.

I rest my head in my hands, the full weight of the day crashing down on me like a tidal wave. I’ve signed a contract. I’ve gotten married. And I’ve moved, sitting in an apartment that is nothing like me, so far removed from everything I’ve ever known.This content provided by N(o)velDrama].[Org.

And the man I’m waiting for to come home is the man I despised just two weeks ago. The man who is now single-handedly bankrolling my new start-up and launching my best friend’s art career.

“I imagine it’s a lot,” Bonnie says softly.

I nod, unable to speak.

“I’ll make sure you get pepperoni pizza for lunch tomorrow.”

I give a weak laugh. “Thank you.”

“Of course. For what it’s worth, I’ve known St. Clair for years. He’ll stay true to his word. And if he doesn’t,” she says, raising her spatula in warning, “he can kiss his homemade lobster ravioli goodbye. I’m not opposed to burning them if he upsets you in any way.”

I laugh. “You know, I sometimes gave him decaf coffee when he annoyed me at work. He didn’t notice. It was my small act of rebellion.”

Bonnie’s eyes widen, and then she laughs too. “Decaf?”

“Yes. Tiny, perhaps, but I know he’d have hated it if he knew.”

She laughs again and my own laughter grows, half-hysterical and half-sane.

The front door slams shut.

I try to stop giggling, but I’m still wheezing when footsteps sound in the hall. They’re familiar. I should know, having spent a year ruled by their comings and goings down the office corridor.

Victor St. Clair stops in the vaulted doorframe of his kitchen. He looks between me, still giggling, to where Bonnie is smiling by the stove. Suspicion blooms in his eyes.

“Welcome home!” I say. It’s over the top, but what’s the worst thing he can do? Fire me?

He steps into the kitchen and puts his briefcase on the counter. “Hello, Cecilia.”

He’s still in the fitted, navy suit from our ceremony, but his dark blond hair isn’t in its usual neat waves. It’s tousled, like he’s run his hand through it repeatedly. It’s been a stressful afternoon for him, then.

I don’t know if that makes me feel better or worse, that marrying me wasn’t stress inducing for him but work was.

“I moved into the guest room upstairs,” I say.

He nods, eyes on the papers he’s flipping through. “Right.”

“Steven and Bonnie were invaluable. They helped me pack up my old apartment, and Steven drove all my stuff to the storage unit. I couldn’t have done it without them.”

Victor makes a humming noise. “Good.”

“Yes. How was the rest of your workday?”

Blue eyes land on me. “It was a disaster. I had to spend over two hours on the assistant candidates HR prepared.”

“Oh,” I say. That explains the hair.

“I have a shortlist of three who might be passable.” He slides a document over the marble counter. “Call them tomorrow for me. You’ll be able to tell which one is best.”

I look down at the three unassuming names and phone numbers on the piece of paper. You might leave St. Clair’s employ, but you’re never really out, it seems. I flip through the resumes of three people who have no idea what they’re in for.

“I wired the money to your bank account, as per the contract. It should be there tomorrow.”

“Uh, yeah. Thank you.”

Victor shuts the briefcase with a loud snap and turns to the stove. “Lobster ravioli?”

“Yes. Ready in five,” Bonnie says.

This is my time.

I clear my throat and Victor turns back to me. I have no idea what he thinks of me sitting here, in his kitchen, in his house. Perhaps he expects me to live in my room and stay out of the communal areas.

“Yes?” he prompts.

“I’d like us to schedule a meeting about my start-up. I want to present what I have and get your input.”

His mouth tightens. “You should have everything in order before we meet. Treat it like I’m a true potential investor.”

“I know. I have most of it in order.”

“I find that hard to believe,” he says. “When would you have had time to work on it? While you were my assistant? I doubt it.”

It takes effort not to grit my teeth, not to back down. “So you were aware of all the late nights and weekends I worked. I wasn’t sure.”

“I paid you to be available.”

“On Christmas? On my birthday?”

His eyes narrow. “Yes.”

“Well, I did have time. Not much. But I carved it out, and I’m ready to present it to you. Next week?”

“I’d ask you to check with my assistant, but I don’t currently have one.”

“No,” I say. “You married your last one.”

Victor slides his briefcase off the counter, eyes locked on mine. They burn again. Like they did in his office when he first made me the offer. Like they did in the restaurant when he took in my outfit.

“Call the shortlisted candidates tomorrow,” he says.