Accidentally Married To The Billionaire - Part 3 (The Billionaire's Touch) Page 8

  It was the concern-troll who really got to her. Bringing up the dead mother, how lost he had been, how desperate he must be. It struck near the bone even more than the slut shaming had. Sure, she needed to take down her Tinder profile. It wasn’t like it was Grindr, for fuck’s sake. But in the court of public opinion, she’d already been drawn and quartered. As if whatever was real between the two of them made no difference compared to the disparity in their upbringing, their socioeconomic status. As if by being born poor and growing up to hold a steady job she was beneath him, with the morals of an alley cat (quoting directly from one of the ubiquitous shaming comments). She shook her head, shut off her tablet.

  She tried to sleep but saw those lines of text behind her eyes, how nasty, how infected with STI’s, how Real Housewives of the Trailer Park she was to the public. How, in fact, disposable she was even to her husband. It wasn’t paranoia. It wasn’t chardonnay. It was starting to sound very, sickeningly reasonable.

  When she’d gone out on him, had looked for someone to pay attention to her, had swiped that fateful Tinder swipe that was getting her so much grief in the comments, hadn’t Brandon stepped up to the plate with talk about real feelings? Hadn’t he closed the deal, as he referred to himself even now as the ‘closer’? He had taken his game to the next level rather than lose the pawn he needed to win the game. And she had been so absurdly naïve, so credulous. So ready to believe that he had feelings for her, too. Of course, she’d fallen in love with him. Who wouldn’t? The guy checked her Pinterest boards and ordered up custom perfect treats, thoughtful gifts, showed how attentive he could be. How easily a bit of swift smartphone research had been enough to prove he was her soul mate, that he understood her inside and out. Figured out she liked coffee and chocolate, was good in bed, and she fell hard. Marj had never, not once, felt this stupid, this doomed.

  She tapped her phone, scrolled through the text archive, the ones she’d saved from Brandon, the screen captures of his photos from gossip sites, everything she’d accumulated to look at and reread and pore over. His messages were hardly a sonnet. She looked at them, wondering what she’d found so swoon worthy about them. Excuses about why he hadn’t returned a call. Instructions about an event they had to attend together. Sexual innuendo. More excuses about being busy with work. There were dozens of nearly interchangeable texts reading: Can’t talk now meeting. Crazy day will be late don’t w8 up. I’ll be late hope ur not tired. Wear the black thing?

  Marj started archiving them into separate mailboxes. One labeled #toobusy and the other #bootycall. By the time she was done, there were over two hundred texts saved in the first folder, fifty in the second. That left a total of nine messages that didn’t belong in either. Seven texts giving instructions for what she should wear or say or do. One asking if she was okay because she hadn’t replied to a previous text. And one solitary text that said I miss you. That was the closest she had to a love letter or a declaration. Once he had missed her, or said he had. She felt dumb and easy and damn well alone. Those days together in Mexico when he’d given her his undivided attention—those hours she’d relived a thousand times in her lonely nights—had been damage control. Nothing more. And that secretary that he’d narrowly dodged, the perfect one? It wasn’t that he adored Marj too much to look at another woman. He was quite simply too smart to be tripped up by Lena’s spy.

  He couldn’t even bother to tell her he loved her back. She declared her love to him but didn’t get back the same response.

  She pressed her knuckles to her mouth to keep the sobs from getting loud. She didn’t want the staff—his staff—to know that she was crying late at night. That she was alone again, they knew by now. They probably felt sorry for her, she thought, and the idea of it made her sick to her stomach. She let herself cry for a while and then she made a list of places she could volunteer. She’d stick out the six months, cash the check and try to do some good while she put in her time until then. She’d spend as little time with Brandon as possible, which wasn’t much of a challenge given his glaring absence. So she went to bed and stared at the ceiling and tormented herself with every single pathetic thing she’d said and done to reassure him that she loved him and wanted him and would never leave him. The notes, the emails, the text messages, the declarations and the sexual favors. That collection of devotionals far exceeded the #toobusy and #bootycall archives, regrettably.

  She dialed Britt’s number, knowing that her friend would pick up the phone no matter what time it was in LA.

  “What’s up?” Britt asked.

  “He didn’t know you were in California,” Marj hiccupped.

  “What?”

  “Brandon. It’s how I figured it all out. He remembered your name, but he didn’t remember that you are in LA or that he never even met you. He doesn’t listen, doesn’t pay any attention to me. He looks up shit from my Pinterest boards to prove his devotion, but he doesn’t care about me. Not one bit!” Marj said venomously.

  “Do you really think that’s true? Just because he can’t remember where I live? Because, for one thing, Jack and I move around so much with the tour that even I can’t remember where we live sometimes. And the truth is you’re underestimating how lovable you are. Totally sexy, smart, funny—hell, I wrote your Tinder profile, you know how fabulous I think you are!”

  “You’re very sweet, always have been. But I think it’s time we explored the possibility that you just may be the love of my life. Because it’s not rich boy. It turns out that he just wanted the inheritance. I mean, have you SEEN the shit they’re saying about me online?”

  “Honey, I haven’t been checking your…I don’t know…approval rating. So the answer is no, I don’t know what they’re saying or who THEY even are.”

  “People who commented on the magazine article.”

  “The Wicked Witch is trying to get to you. I’m sure she paid them to post stuff. She wants you to run, to get the hell outta of Dodge.”

  “You don’t know that for sure.”

  “Hon, you looked fabulous. And I love that couch. I mean, I love midcentury modern in general, obviously. I mean, who doesn’t?” Britt said.

  Marj bit back a laugh, recalling bitterly the way she and Brandon had joked around about that couch and about the design era and all. Even that happy memory was soiled by the knowledge that he only wanted a name-only spouse by which to acquire his dad’s property. Not a real partner and companion and lover. Just a rent-a-wife.

  “And to think he got all high and mighty when I suggested a gigolo for Lena!” Marj groused.

  “What?”

  “His stepmother. The Wicked Queen. We could hire somebody to distract her.”

  Britt laughed.

  “All I’m saying is that he married me to get the company, and then he acted like he was so above-the-fray when I suggested that Lena needed a man. He was morally offended, even though he was playing me all along just to get my cooperation. I told him I loved him! Can you believe I did that? I’m so fucking stupid. I can’t believe I survived to adulthood. Britt, I’m going to stay with him for the six months, because I think I should have to honor that commitment even though he took me in with empty promises and all. I promised to help him before I wanted to be married to him for real, so don’t you think I owe him that?”

  “Honey, you don’t owe him anything, and if you really think he played you all this time, I’m for outing him. Expose him on national TV, or international TV if you can! Let everyone know what a dick he is, what a lowdown, greedy, exploitive—”

  “You are the worst at insulting people, Britt, do you know that? You’re too sweet. You actually said ‘lowdown greedy…’ and I thought you were going to finish it with cowpoke.”

  “I’m glad my anger amuses you. The point is I’d be happy to beat the crap out of that cowpoke if he ever makes it out this way because he obviously doesn’t deserve you. He deserves a bad rash and some diarrhea and a kick in the nuts. Maybe Lena is right about him.”

  �
��Ha! You said nuts.”

  “You’re so mature. I can’t imagine why more men don’t propose to you.”

  “Men love a good nut joke. They love their junk and any reference to it is assumed to be flattering. Simpletons,” Marj smirked to herself.

  “If you have to leave, if you have to hurry up and file for divorce or something, I want you to come out to LA and be with us. We’re here another week at least, between tour dates. Jack’s laying down some tracks in the studio. It’s early days, and I think he’s not through writing the title song yet, but progress is being made, and we’re stationary for at least the next five days. I mean it. Come on out here. The weather’s great.”

  “My life is here. And by life, I mean my sham marriage and the place I’m going to start volunteering tomorrow. Because a girl has to do something to keep it together. Listen, thanks for answering the phone. I know I called stupid late, but it means a lot that I can count on you.”

  “You’ve got it bad. You’re sappy. You usually just tell me to shut up and quit being such a pussy when I tell you I miss you.”

  “I’m off my game tonight. Sorry.”

  “Oh my gosh! I’m going to have to rent a car and come to your house. I have never not once heard you apologize to anyone. Not even that time you put habanero pepper juice into Luke’s water bottle—”

  “I am still not sorry for that. And no one can prove that I did it.”

  “We had security cameras at work.”

  “They were tampered with. By bastards who had it in for me. I was framed.”

  “By yourself!” Britt laughed, “Now you take care and stop being sentimental or I’m calling 911.”

  “Deal. I don’t need the temptation of hot paramedics. I’m supposed to be happily married and fake tanned.”

  “Understood. And if he really is playing you, you have to tell me when you get proof because I’d hate to hire my very first hitman on the strength of unsubstantiated hearsay. I need evidence. Something definitive.”

  Marj loved how Britt tried to make her laugh.

  “You’re not hiring a hitman,” said Marj with a huge chuckle.

  “But see! I made you laugh!”

  “You sure did. Now please don’t hire a hitman.”

  “Okay, I’ll ask my big strong husband to hire one for me.”

  “Ha, ha. I just want Brandon to feel the way he said he felt. Which isn’t likely to happen but I was so content with it, so ready to just give up everything and live the life he wanted for as long as he’d have me. It’s so so so so pathetic and stupid and horrible,” Marj buried her face in her hands.

  “How are you fitting in with his world?” Britt asked.

  “Well, if I go out of character, they ignore me.”

  “What?”

  “I was jogging, and Brandon wanted to meet me at the park, so he sent the limo to look for me. The limo driver completely ignored me until I walked up to him and flashed my wedding ring and kindly told him who I was. Then he immediately slipped into kiss ass mode.”

  “Oh, the power of the ring!”

  “My pretty…”

  Britt laughed. “I love Lord of the Rings.”

  “Brandon’s ring on my finger does get me literally whatever I want.”

  “If you’re dressed the part of a socialite.”

  “Ha, ha. We both know I’d never fit in with those rich housewives.”

  “Why not? You’re pretty, funny, and rich.”

  “Because some of Brandon’s friends’ wives I’ve tried to hang out with just aren’t living in the real world.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I was having lunch with them. And these are the kind of women who maintain a dangerously low weight to fit into those sleek designer dresses.”

  “Yeah, I know the type.”

  “I heard our waitress crying because she was short on her rent. And the women I was with poked fun behind her back and laughed at her smeared mascara. Then, they just went on and on about Sally’s air-conditioned doghouse. And then they talked about how important it was to be seen in the right clothes at the right places. I don’t know, Britt. That’s just not me. I can’t hang out with women like that.”

  “That’s because you’re down to earth.”

  “I gave the waitress $5,000 as a tip. I hope it helps her.”

  “Marj, you are so generous and loving.”

  “That’s the kind of person I want to be. Not the kind of person that goes on and on about an air-conditioned doghouse and makes fun of people. I’m not sure if I can fit in his world. I’m not the daughter of wealthy, socially prominent parents. I didn’t grow up this way. Maybe I can’t fit into his upper-class world.”

  “Yes, you can. Just find different friends. Not all rich women are like that.”

  “I hope Brandon doesn’t have my life as a socialite all mapped out for me. Because I’ll so suck at it.” She yawned. “Okay, hon, I’m going to bed. Oh, wait. Do you think I could live in a snob-free zone? Move somewhere where everyone is nice and sweet?”

  She chuckled. “It doesn’t exist. Good night, babe. Let me know how you feel in the morning. Get some rest.”

  Marj turned off her phone and lay down and tried to shut her eyes. It had been the right decision to tell Britt. It was like tearing a scab off instead of picking it forever. If she’d held the secret so close, if she’d never admitted that she was nothing but a convenience to Brandon, then the hot coal of that knowledge would have eaten away at her. She had to admit it out loud before she could have closure—or some shit like that. Marj didn’t want closure. She wanted to howl and wail and sob and make Brandon Cates love her.

  She needed about thirty hours of sleep to even begin to wrap her head around all that had happened to her in the last day. Maybe after some sleep, things would make more sense. Maybe she wouldn’t feel like dialing some hotline to beg for advice. Maybe she’d become self-assured and poised. Maybe she’d figure out a way to keep busy and stop her emotions from going so insane. Because right now, in the exquisitely comfortable boudoir of their upscale Manhattan townhome, Marj was shivering hard, her teeth chattering uncontrollably, not from cold but from misery. From the absolute shock of reality.

  She wrapped her arms around her knees and made a little keening sound through her teeth for a while, pretending this was just a single indulgence in sadness and grief. Pretending she had any say in the matter at all when, in fact, she was perched on the maw of a devastation so great she couldn’t dare to look at it directly. A pit of darkness is how she imagined it, the kind of black emptiness that made your eyes hurt just to see it. She wasn’t sure she’d make it out of this. She bit down on her lip. Of course, she would. She had to.

  Marj tried to take a drink of water and just choked on it. When her phone lit, she snatched it up like it was the One Ring and she was Gollum who’d been in the damn cave too long. Except it wasn’t Brandon’s number on the screen. It was Lena Cates, the Wicked Queen.

  Chapter 10

  “Get thee behind me, Satan,” Marj muttered and dropped the phone like a hot potato onto the bed, “I have some gibbering and trembling to get back to. Don’t interrupt.”

  “Marjorie?” the voice came from her mobile’s speakerphone.

  “Shit! Are you there?”

  “Yes, pick up the phone, dear.”

  “When I dropped the phone it must have bumped the screen and answered. I didn’t mean to pick up the call.”

  “I suspected as much, Marjorie. And yet, I called nevertheless. It’s very nearly a civilized hour of the morning. I wondered if you’d care to join me for an early brunch. Brunch, you must know is breakfast with champagne. I recommend it highly. There’s a misnomer among the bourgeoisie that executive wives are ladies who lunch when, in point of fact, we pioneered the power brunch. A small fruit plate and keep the mimosas coming, darling. You can watch your figure and get a nice buzz on,” Lena said airily.

  Marj gaped at the dim windows that showed the lig
ht of dawn filtering into the grayness beyond the skyline. She wondered idly if she should call a driver to take her to the coast. She could walk along the shore, breathe bracing salt air and maybe find her backbone again. Vaguely she realized that Lena was still on the phone, waiting for an answer. Being impossibly kind to her when she so little deserved it.

  The recollection of her own arrogance swamped her with a blast of hot shame. What had this woman ever done to her? Nothing. She’d tried to hold on to the company her husband’s will entitled her to if the stepson remained a bachelor. So Marj had been the undoing of Lena’s hopes to attain the Cates fortune proper and still, here she was, making a friendly overture to Marj.

  “You tried to sabotage my marriage,” Marj said. “You plotted to break us up and make us look bad in the press. You want what you think is yours, what you feel entitled to. So the answer is no.”

  “Marj, let’s just talk. Nobody understands what you’re going through more than me.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “One meeting. And I promise I won’t bite. I just want to talk to you. Please. Can you do me this one favor? And if you come, and I win, I promise not to fire anybody in the company.”

  “You’re not going to win.”

  “Do you remember your work friends you went to Vegas with? Well, it’s unfortunate, but they’ve been terminated.”

  “What?”

  “But don’t fret. If you meet with me, I can promise to turn things around. So are you willing to meet me?”