New York Billionaires Series

I follow him through a sitting room with a giant fireplace, into a dining room with a table that’s large enough to seat twelve. I drink everything in. The antlers mounted on the wall. The framed picture of a family tree that looks yellow with age. It’s like a cabinet of curiosities, meticulously decorated and richly furnished.

“You married me to inherit this house,” I say.

He’s stopped by the bay windows in the sitting room. It would make for a great reading nook, I think, looking out over the backyard. Although I’m not sure if backyard is the right word. Property, perhaps, or estate. The lawn and gardens beyond look endless.

“Yes,” he says.

“Was it a good bargain?”

Victor gives me a wry smile. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“Because of me, or because of the house?”

“Both,” he says, and it feels like his gaze goes right through me. “Both.”

I swallow. “Will you show me the rest?”

He nods. We walk through the kitchen, a guest bedroom, three baths. We finish our loop back in the entryway and the two grand staircases. The house is beautiful. It has character ingrained in every single floorboard.

“Do you want to see upstairs?”

“If you want to show me, yes.”Exclusive content from NôvelDrama.Org.

He leads the way up the staircase and I let my hand slide along the worn railing.

“That was his room,” Victor says, nodding down a hallway. I can just barely see a master bedroom.

“This,” he says, pointing to an anonymous-looking guest bedroom, “was mine.”

I know so little of his background, of his life, of his family. I know his parents are out of the picture. “You grew up in this house,” I murmur.

Victor nods. “Since I was eight.”

He pushes open a half-closed door and my eyes widen at the treasures beyond. It’s a study, and it’s glorious. Multi-paned windows look out on the property, letting the last daylight into a room that could have been made for Winston Churchill.

A wide, oak desk with a leather inlay sits in the middle. The floor is covered in a thick oriental rug. All around us are bookshelves. My eyes travel over the spines, over memorabilia and trophies and pictures.

“This was your grandfather’s study? It looks beautiful. It could be the set of a movie.”

Victor doesn’t answer and I turn away from my perusal of a small bronze statue of a dog. He’s standing in front of a framed picture hanging by the side of the door. His hands are in his pockets, jaw tense.

Perhaps taking me here was an impulsive decision. Something to show me I was wrong when I accused him of sleeping around.

But this is not a place where he’s comfortable.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“For what?”

“For the loss of your grandfather. I didn’t tell you that, when he passed.”

“You organized his funeral,” Victor says. “You were there.”

“In a way, I suppose.” I step closer, my voice dropping. “Do you come here to feel close to him?”

Victor looks away from me. “No. Not consciously, at least.”

“It’s your house now. Are you planning on… changing anything?”

“Yes. I have to clean this place out. His things are everywhere. My parents’ things are everywhere.”

“Your parents died when you were eight?”

“Yes.” He inclines his head toward the picture behind him, the one he’d been studying.

Two boys, one a head taller than the other, are standing in front of a smiling couple. The man has his arm around the woman’s waist and his free hand on the small boy’s shoulder. They’re standing in front of this very house, I realize, but at the height of summer. The smaller boy’s knees are scraped and his grin is wide.

It’s Victor. The eyes are familiar, as is the thick mop of hair, much lighter back then. He’s smiling at the camera like he’s never known anything but joy.

Victor turns. “That was a long time ago.”

“This is your brother?”

“What was his name?”

“Phillip.” Victor rolls his neck, every line in his body tense. He’s uncomfortable. Uncomfortable with me here. Uncomfortable in this space.

I step back from the picture. “Thank you.”

“For showing me this.”

He opens the door and I step out of his grandfather’s office. Victor follows me, and halfway down the hall, his shoulders relax.

I catch his sleeve. “I’m sorry.”

He halts, a tall, suit-clad shadow beside me in the dimly lit hallway. “You already said that.”

I shake my head. “No, I accused you of something I had no proof of, and no way to back up. Not to mention something you’re allowed to do under the terms of our marriage.”

“Don’t apologize,” he says. “Or you’ll force me to as well. For claiming you like that at your friend’s gallery.”

“You, apologize?”

“It would be a first.” He puts steady fingers beneath my chin and tips my head up. “I’m not sneaking out at night. I’m here. Not having sex.”

I can’t think with him this close. “Good,” I murmur. “I’m not interested in Jake.”

“Good,” he says. He’s so close that the word ghosts across my lips, and then he descends, kissing me.