New York Billionaires Series

The heading on the top one reads Spring Plans, and the first item on the list reads Schedule regular lunches with Victor in the city.

I shut the drawer again.

I might have gained the legal right to this house, but I can’t sort through the belongings of a man who had been intensely private, his shadow moving over my shoulder.

I can’t do it.

And I can’t have anyone else doing it either.

I walk to the door, and from a habit that’s nearly twenty years old, I look at the framed picture that hangs next to it. The only place in this house where my mother and father are present.

They’re on either side of my brother and I. Smiles abound. Phillip has his arm around my shoulders, and my stupid fucking grin is missing two front teeth. I look happy. I also look like a fool, unaware of the tragedy heading our way.

I’ve always hated that picture. Hated it for what it makes me feel. Hated it for being the only one of my family that my grandfather allowed in the house.

I shut the door to his office behind me. No need to keep it half-open anymore.

Steven is still in the car in the driveway, and he fires up the engine when he sees me. We’re out of there without a single word spoken and the house on Granview disappears in the rearview mirror.

His house. My house.

A house with too many memories.

And a house that won’t simply be blown out and torn down and transformed because my aunt wants to have an open-planned kitchen.

The house I’d married to get.

If someone had told me I’d go to such lengths just a year ago, I’d have laughed. I lean my head against the leather headrest and close my eyes.

Married to Miss Myers, who is more than meets the eye, it seems.

She’s funny in a dry, careful way. From the looks of it she’s charmed my housekeeper, a woman who’d been nothing but professional around me.

And she’d strode into my office today, dressed in the same gray pencil skirt and silk blouse combo that had been her armor, and told me she’d finished training my new assistant.

“That quickly?” I’d asked.

She’d nodded. “I’ve promised to be available on email for the coming two weeks if he has any questions, but I doubt he’ll have many. I’ve left extensive written instructions.”

“Excellent.”

Cecilia had headed out of the office, heels clapping sharply against the floor. But then she’d stopped and done something she never did as my assistant.

She’d turned around and given me an order.

“Be nicer to this one,” she said. “Give him at least two weeks before you consider firing him. I won’t train assistant after assistant because you can’t be patient.”

The fire I’d seen in her echoed what she’d shown me when we negotiated our marriage. The same one that had burned in her eyes when she sat in my hallway, hair curling at her temples from her workout, and told me I had to up my ante.

Marrying her had been a good decision. I liked being straight with what I needed. It was ten times better than what I’d attempted before, dates after dates with women I’d tried and failed to have any lasting interest in.

Cecilia had been surrounded by the sycophantic gifts we’d received. All from people who wanted things from me. Time. Money. Connections.

She’d worn leggings. They’d clung to shapely legs, ending just above bare ankles and sneaker socks.

I don’t know why the image is burned into my mind. Miss Myers with her hair in a messy ponytail, her skin makeup free and cheeks flushed from her exercise. But it is.

And I can’t seem to get it out.

Steven bids me a good night when he drops me off outside my apartment and I ride the elevator with rising anticipation. There’s no telling what I’ll come home to anymore. Her wielding a saber or baking in the kitchen. The silence that had once reigned supreme is gone.

Cecilia’s in the kitchen when I get home. No Bonnie in sight, just her, her hair in that low bun at the base of her neck and an apron tied tight around her waist. My eyes drop down, but no leggings this time. Her legs are concealed in loose jeans. I don’t know if I’m disappointed or relieved.

“Hello,” she says.

“Hi,” I say. It’s the first time I’ve seen her cook here. It smells good. It smells like… “Are you making lobster ravioli?”

She turns from the stove. Tendrils of dark hair have escaped at her temples and they’ve curled in the heat. “Yes. I was wondering if we could have dinner.”

“Have dinner,” I say. “Together?”

She nods. “I got the recipe from Bonnie. I don’t know if I’m really doing it justice, but it’s an attempt.”

She’s cooking dinner for us. The two of us. “Why?”

Her lips curl into a half-smile. “We’re supposed to play an actual couple tomorrow night with your business partners. If we’re going to pull that off… well, I’m sorry to break it to you, but we need work.”This content © 2024 NôvelDrama.Org.

“We need work?”

“Yes. If you look at the two of us interacting right now, not a single person would think we’re married, not to mention in a relationship.”

I pull out one of the kitchen chairs. “Right. And that’s a problem.”

“Well, it is if you want us to seem married. If you’d rather tell your business partners the truth, then that’s all right with me.”

I grit my teeth. “I’d rather not.”

“Well, then have a seat, eat some ravioli, and let’s talk about our great love story.”

I stare at her for a long moment. She looks right back at me, spatula in hand. She looks like she did when I got home the other night, only it had been a champagne saber.

It would be easy to send an email to my business partners and rain-check. Avoid them altogether for as long as our marriage lasts.

Avoid having to do… this.

But something draws me to the kitchen table. The lobster ravioli, most likely. It smells good.

“Okay,” I say. “Our great love story.”