The Billionaire's Marriage: A Romance Novel

by Marshall, Marnie

  What? I gasp, and my chest heaves in a fit of dry coughing. "You're kidding, right?" I say when I've recovered. I'm suddenly very tired, the spasms having drained all of my energy.

  "Believe me, I wish we were having a very different conversation right now," she says knowingly.

  I don't have much left in me, but I need to know something while I can still keep my eyes open. "The nurse... she called me Mrs. King..."

  Dr. Grace nods. "That's because it's your name. Kristina Rose King. You're married to my son, Edward."

  What? That's impossible. Who? Oh…tThe copper-haired angel? That can't be... this can't be real. I'm going to wake up and it'll be some sick, twisted dream. It's the stress of exams. Yes, that's it. I can't be married, I've not even passed second base. No, this can't be real. My eyes unfocus, but whether from exhaustion or the overwhelming and unbelievable conversation I've just had, I have no idea. The ceiling spins and goes dark.

  CHAPTER 4

  ~ EDWARD ~

  "Can I get you anything, boss?"

  Taylor has been standing over me for the last half hour. I'm not sure why. Probably because I pay him to, but I don't need a babysitter. "No." I swallow. But I feel something... remorse? This isn't his fault. I'm being an ass. I've been impossible, to everyone. Why is my sense of decorum rearing its fucking head now? "I'm sorry, Taylor. I know you're just doing your job."

  He nods. "Sir."

  My mother cautiously exits Krissy's room. She folds her arms. "Well, she's back among the living, that's the important thing."

  I nod to Taylor, and he moves away, but keeps within sight. "Tell me."

  "She thinks she's supposed to take her midterms today. Senior year."

  I squeeze my eyes shut, the blood rushes to my ears again. "Christ, she's lost it all." I want to hit something, put my fist through a wall. I've done worse. "How did this happen? Why these memories? Why not her whole life? Why not just the last couple of months? Why did she have to lose me?"

  Mom shakes her head at me. "She's lost Ryan, too."

  Of course. And our daughter. I've got to be the most self-centered bastard in the universe. I swallow, hard. "I know, Mom. I just..."

  "Oh Edward," she carefully wraps her arms around me. It's uncomfortable, but I bear it. This is my mother, I remind myself. She must feel my hesitation, because she releases me.

  "I'm sorry, Mom... I'm so worked up."

  "Don't apologize, darling. We all are."

  "This is so..." I shake my head. "Hard."

  "I know." She settles for clasping my hand. "We're going to take things slow. You should go home, get some sleep. See Ryan. Krissy needs to rest."

  "No... I need to stay. She needs me, whether she knows it or not. I can't leave her." I can't decide whether I sound desperate or unreasonable.

  "You haven't seen your son in nearly three weeks. Go." She shoots a look at Taylor and physically walks me down the hall toward the elevator, continuing to talk at me. "I'm staying. She's familiar with me now. Her parents are on their way up, when she wakes again they'll be able to reassure her."

  I feel the need to dig my heels in, but my mother's grip on my arm is much firmer than I ever recall. "But she'll think I don't care..."

  "Nonsense, Edward. You're exhausted. Pick up Ryan, and get eight hours sleep, that's an order. I don't want to see you here before seven a.m."

  I open my mouth to argue, then think better of it. I've gone fucking soft. I stop as she jabs the call button, and the doors open. "You'll call if anything happens. No matter the time."

  "Of course. I promise." And she pushes me into the elevator. Taylor follows.

  ~oOo~

  My son is focused intensely on his orange scribble. "Ryan?" I call him, hoping offhandedly that it's a nontoxic crayon he's holding.

  "Daddy!" he drops the crayon and launches himself at me. I scoop my boy up into my arms and swing him round, clutching him to my chest. I breathe in his hair, his baby scent so sweet and familiar and soothing.

  "Did you miss Daddy?" I ask as enthusiastically as I can manage.

  "No more bi-ness tips," my son insists in his two-year-old lisp. I flash a halfhearted glare at his aunt. I suppose it was a lie as the best form of defense, but evading the question may have been better, like we've been doing when he asks for Krissy.

  "Sorry," she mouths, balancing my niece, Ava, on her hip.

  I nod. "Thank you, for looking after him. It means a great deal."

  "We wouldn't have it any other way." Kate's very fond of Ryan. "Your mom called to tell us the news. So... she's...?" Kate raises her eyebrows.

  I return my attention to my son. "Ryan, go find Mr. Leo so he can come home with us," I set him down and his little toddler legs propel him from the room.

  Kate waits patiently. I didn't know she had it in her, but she's mellowed quite a bit since becoming a mother; she's far less unbearable.

  "She's... forgotten some things." I manage.

  "Forgotten?" Kate asks, alarmed. "Like what... her shoe size? Her name? Is she okay?"

  I sigh. "She thinks she's still in college."

  Kate's mouth drops open. "Oh..."

  I run my hand through my hair. "Yeah." I shake my head. I won't fall apart in front of Kate. I sniff, raising my eyes to the vaulted ceiling. "She didn't recognize me."

  "Oh, God."

  I nod. A silence stretches between us.

  "It'll come back to her, Edward," Kate says, shaking her head. "She has to remember. You're far too memorable to forget for long." Kate, always resorting to sharp jokes to lighten the mood.

  I scoff. "I hope you're right. For once."

  "Daddy, go home now?" Ryan has a raggedy, stuffed lion clutched under one arm and a soggy cookie in his free hand.

  "Yes, we're going home. Say thank you to Auntie Kate."

  Ryan blows her a kiss with his cookie hand, and crumbs fly. I offer a smirk of apology.

  ~oOo~

  "...good night stars, good night air. Good night noises everywhere." I close the book; my son is fast asleep. Leaning down, I press my lips to his forehead. "Good night, baby boy. I love you."

  I leave his door cracked, night light on. He should be fine, but just in case, I set the baby monitor for good measure.

  The open door across the hall causes me to falter. I quickly steel myself and pull that door closed before I see enough of the lilac-and-sage quilt draped over Krissy's rocking chair. I'll have Gail deal with packing up those items tomorrow. We won't be needing them now.

  My bed looms before me. My stomach tightens. I'm exhausted, but unprepared. The place I lay my head has never looked so unwelcome before. The last time I was here, the last time I truly slept, Krissy was here. She was with me, we were together. She loved me then. We hadn't quarreled in a long while. We were having a daughter. Things were good. Really good. And now...

  I turn on my heel, returning the way I came. My son, sprawled out near the edge of his big-boy-bed, looks damn peaceful, and I envy him. My eyes droop of their own accord, and I barely make it over the safety railing before passing out. I'm barely aware of my son curling up against my chest.

  ~oOo~

  My phone angrily, albeit silently, wakes me. Shit. It's wedged painfully between my hipbone and the firm mattress of my son's sailboat-themed bed. Ryan is still curled against me. Shit. I roll back slightly, my son's body twitching at the movement, and retrieve the offender. Caller ID flashes a picture of my mother. Shit.

  "What's wrong?" I whisper harshly, attempting to extricate myself from the bed, pulling the covers over Ryan and tiptoeing from the room. The door closes with a soft 'click'.

  "Nothing at all, I was about to ask you the same." My mother sounds anxious.

  "What do you mean?"

  "It's... seven thirty."

  Shit. "Ryan and I, we uh... had a late night," I explain, rubbing my face. "How's Krissy?"

  "She had a good sleep. She woke for a while, and Ray and Carla got to talk with her. She's pretty upset, which i
s understandable, but they've explained some general things to her, nothing about the children, of course. It might be better to let her gradually absorb things."

  I sigh. "Yes, that's probably best."

  My mother pauses. This woman who raised me, cared for me, saved my life... I've not treated her so badly, not since I was a teenager... no, not even then. I've been horrendous to everyone, and she's been there for me, for Krissy, more than the rest, and hardly looks the worse for it. I'm about to apologize when I hear her voice again. "She's asked to see you."

  I feel the blood drain from my face.

  "She still doesn't remember, if that's what you're trying to work out. I can hear your gears spinning, dear."

  I sigh again. "You know me far too well, Mom."

  "Sometimes," she acknowledges. "She only wants to re-familiarize herself with her life. Where most others would be in perpetual denial, she's chosen to face this head-on. You married a strong woman, Edward."

  "I did." The thought reaffirms my commitment. "I'll be there soon."

  "I love you, darling."

  "You too, Mom."

  ~oOo~

  The mirror over our vanity is on my shit list at the moment. I've never found myself particularly attractive, not the way women do, but I've steadfastly prided myself on maintaining my appearance. The figure looking back at me when I entered the bathroom was grandly repellent. I'd not realized how utterly the events of the past month had affected me outwardly.

  Twenty minutes later I'm showered, shaved and dressed, teeth clean and hair tousled in a presentable manner. I had to tighten my belt a notch, but things being what they are, it could be worse.

  Ryan isn't in his room. A moment of panic stabs my gut, but relief takes over when I see that Gail has him on the deck, sharing waffles with him at the picnic table. I retrieve a yogurt from the fridge and join them; some vitamin D might do us all some good.

  "Good morning, Ryan," I kiss the top of his head and sit across from him. His mouth is stuffed with a sticky mixture of waffle and blackberry jam. "Good morning, Gail."

  "Good morning, Mr. King," Gail flashes a kind smile. "Your mother called me yesterday evening with the news. I hope you're doing all right."

  I nod, swallowing a spoonful of yogurt. For the first time in as long as I can remember, my food has flavor. "As well as can be expected." I pause, trying to recall. "It's Thursday, isn't it?"

  "It is." She's making faces at my son. I nod, spooning more yogurt. It's delicious, actually. Scraping the remnants of the crushed fruit from the bottom, I scoop it into my mouth and stand.

  "I need to get back. I'll be home this evening."

  "Would you like anything in particular for dinner?"

  I kiss my son's head again. His waffles are far too interesting and delicious to pay his father any mind. "I'll leave that for you and my son to discuss."

  "Six thirty?"

  "That's fine." I hesitate on the threshold. "Gail... I want to apologize for my recent behavior. You should know that I appreciate everything you've done for us. I hope you can forgive my lapse."

  Gail looks floored. It's rare that I speak out-of-character to the staff, and I normally wouldn't, but this is Gail. And furthermore, I need to start setting an example for my son, even if I think he's too young to understand. Krissy would expect it of me.

  "There's nothing to forgive, Mr. King," her eyes are sincere, understanding. "What should I say if he asks?" she cocks her head toward Ryan.

  "The same as before." I consider this, and come to the same conclusion. Our son is only two. The difference between 'Mommy isn't here right now' and 'Mommy isn't here right now' is negligible at his age, but I can't get his hopes up of seeing her when she isn't even aware of his existence. That reunion would shatter them both, I fear. He hasn't asked once since I picked him up yesterday, and I'm not sure whether to be relieved or worried. I settle for an unhealthy dose of both.

  ~oOo~

  My knuckles rap lightly on the heavy door.

  Her liquid blue eyes, unfocused and turned toward the window, snap to my face at the sudden noise.

  "May I come in?"

  Her lips part, breathing quickens. She looks so weak, and yet she responds to me, I think. Her casted arm is slung across her belly, and the other lies limply at her side. She's clean and dressed in soft cotton pajamas. The bandages have been removed from her head, and her hair has been brushed and braided over one shoulder. The irony isn't lost on me.

  I take her silence as an affirmative and enter cautiously. She watches my every move.

  "I've brought you breakfast," I say, holding up her thermal lunch tote. My mother said you haven't been hungry, but I thought you'd like your favorite." I've reached her bedside and pull out a cup of greek yogurt. I suspect the reason she hasn't eaten is that she's having trouble lifting her non-dominant hand to feed herself, even if it's broth through a straw, and is too proud to admit it.

  "No, thank you," she declines softly.

  I gulp, regrouping my tactics. She's going to be difficult. I settle myself in the overwhelmingly familiar bedside chair and pull her rolling table between us, setting the yogurt on it and pull out a spoon I took from our kitchen. "Krissy, I have to insist," I tell her gently. "You're far too light for my liking."

  I'm not sure if it's the sincerity of my knitted eyebrows or the audible grumble that emanates on cue from behind her cast, but she nods once. I peel back the foil cover. I have to consciously stop myself from blending the contents; my Krissy eats hers from the top down. Dr. Sluder just finished telling me that sometimes the slightest action or familiar process can stir a repressed memory, and I have nothing to lose. Krissy's eyes continue to grip onto me as I bring the spoon to her lips.

  "It's good to see you eat," I tell her, remembering a similar conversation in a room not too far from this one. We continue in silence. I study the deep purple-gray rims beneath her eyes, the hollowness of her cheeks, and the pallid tint of her skin. The few, light freckles dusting her nose and cheeks stand out in stark contrast.

  "No more... please," she resists. The cup is only half empty, barely breaking through the barrier between yogurt and fruit. I want to argue, but think better of it, setting down the spoon and pushing the table aside.

  "Thank you," she whispers. She looks exhausted.

  "Thank you, for letting me," I tell her.

  A long silence stretches through the room. It's not uncomfortable exactly, just unfamiliar. I concentrate on the sound of her light breathing, and she keeps watching me. Looking for what, I don't know.

  "Can I do anything? Bring you anything?" I offer.

  She sighs, frowning. The 'v' between her eyebrows tempts me, oh what I'd give to kiss her there, for her to let me. I must resist; I refuse to frighten her.

  "Tell me something," she decides.

  The corners of my mouth twitch upward. She loves it when I tell her stories. "What would you like me to tell you?"

  And in the following instant, she captures her bottom lip in her teeth. I inhale sharply. No. I mustn't react... it isn't appropriate. I close my eyes briefly, willing the autonomic, licentious reaction to cease. When my eyes open, Krissy is still staring at me, but she looks frightened. Shit.

  CHAPTER 5

  ~ KRISSY ~

  I can't imagine what I did.

  I don't think he can bear to look at me. I haven't had the chance to look in a mirror yet, but Dad insisted I looked okay, so I can't imagine why he's... is he counting?

  The copper-haired angel, my... husband, or so they tell me... his lips tremble with numbers. Nine... Ten... Eleven... oh no, he must be really angry to go past ten. And the way he's been looking at me since he arrived, almost... predatory.

  There it is again, that wolfish gaze. But it's gentled a bit. Perhaps his counting worked.

  "I'm sorry..." my voice is small.

  He looks confused. "Whatever for?"

  I gulp reflexively. "What I did to make you count past ten," I grasp. I really hav
e no idea why I'm apologizing. And my voice still sounds awful.

  "No, baby, I'm not angry, you misunderstood." Now he's uncomfortable. "You... biting your lip, it does things to me. Not your fault at all." His cheeks flush with embarrassment.

  Oh my.

  "So... what would you like me to tell you?" he continues.

  I have no idea. My mind is supposedly empty, yet full of questions, none of which feel appropriate to ask. I have no experience with romantic relationships, and I can't imagine what I did to deserve this one. I must look confused, and that predatory gaze is back.

  "Why do you look at me like that?" I venture.

  "Like what?"

  Like that.

  "Like you want to... devour me." If I had the strength to shudder, I would have on the word 'devour'.

  "Do I?" He looks around, as though the answer is written on the walls somewhere. "I suppose it's because... I love my wife. I want very badly to hold her hand, to help her through this." He hesitates, and his expression darkens. "But she doesn't know me. Every move I make dictates whether she'll learn to trust me again, and whether she'll ever remember... us."

  Wow, we've cut to the quick. And his face has dropped from predatory to contritely sincere and sad in a millisecond. I'm not sure what makes me do it, but with what little muscle control I have, I push my left arm out from where it rests against my side, turning my palm up toward him. I can't lift it.

  His gray eyes glitter, and he tentatively reaches out, brushing my palm with his fingers. He searches my face for permission, and in an instant my hand is clasped between both of his. His eyes are sincere and thankful.

  "We met when your friend Kate fell ill and convinced you to interview me in her stead," he begins. "I took you for coffee; English Breakfast Tea is still your favorite. We chased the dawn together. You stood up to me, challenged me, angered me and loved me. You awakened parts of me I didn't know existed. Marrying you was the best decision I ever made. You're my best friend. And I won't let you go. Not now, not ever."