The Billionaire's Marriage: A Romance Novel

by Marshall, Marnie

  Flynn smiles. "I will. He'll be glad to hear that."

  ~ EDWARD ~

  I'm fucking furious. That letter… that fucking letter! My equilibrium has shifted into the darkness, now that I have an object upon which to focus my fury… forget Kane, it seems he's nothing more than an irritating and resourceful pawn in the realm of a grander, more sinister scheme. But Christ… somehow I'd known… I'd suspected only a few, and of that small collection, one has proven me correct, once again.

  Oh, how I hate being right, the very few times that it's a feeling to be despised… but it's far better than being caught unprepared.

  My gut expels the soundness and logic of my brain like last month's moldy leftovers. Fuck me; I nearly keeled over when I recognized the writing style, and the little squiggle at the end was a dead giveaway, despite the lack of actual signature. I had chills. I'm not sure that's ever happened to me before. And then I literally had the urge, if she'd been present, to lay the author flat on her ass. How the fuck can she do this? What ungodly reason is there? Fucking why? And why now?

  Keep it together, King. Justice will be served. As it stands, the bitch's life is over. As soon as I can resolve the minor issue of connecting her to the crime, and then there's the little matter of proving she's crazy enough or stupid enough to do this… I'm going to bury her, our history be damned. God, what a waste. What was she thinking? Nothing good could possibly have come to her through such instigation.

  Taylor insisted that we leave a bit early, citing traffic concerns. Fine. I brought a load of paperwork along with me, not the least of which is a copy of the damned letter, in all its creased and smudged glory. I've memorized the entire text, demanded confirmation from the county forensics office that there were indeed no prints found on the original paper; Welch even ran it through a military-grade decoder to satisfy his endless paranoia. But none of that matters… I know exactly who wrote it, and the sorry bag of flesh will pay dearly for causing this, for her betrayal to my family, for her blatant disregard for my marriage, but moreover for conspiring to hurt Krissy. No one hurts my wife. No one keeps her or my son from me. I've not felt such an urge to inflict permanent damage on another person in almost three years, save one exception.

  The SUV rolls to a halt and I look up from the mess scattered across the seat; the wanderings of my twisted mind held me far longer than I realized. I look at my watch, and noting the time, an understanding of why we've arrived here so early blooms into being, and the anger briefly dissipates, only to be replaced by the acrid buzz of anxiety. I unclench my balled fists and my gaze shifts through the tinted window.

  Further down the block, a hundred feet, I'd wager, stands the entrance to John's practice… and parked out front, an identical SUV waits. My breath catches when I see her.

  She's so beautiful. Hair tied back, God, she looks tired, even from here. I desperately hope she's getting enough to eat. Sawyer emerges behind her, they exchange words, and her head turns… in my direction.

  So close, and yet, so far. All I want in this moment is to go to her. My legs itch and zing with the urge to bolt from this car and run to her, sweep her into my arms and escape with her; injunction be damned. So lost in my need, I almost miss her brave, fleeting smile and deliberate nod. She knows I'm watching.

  The other car pulls away from the curb, taking my love with it. Taylor waits a moment, and then pulls forward again, claiming the vacated space.

  "The traffic wasn't as problematic as I'd expected, Sir," he covers.

  To acknowledge his involvement in this little setup would require me to prohibit any further, well-meaning but unsanctioned interventions on the part of his team. "Thank you, Taylor," is all I can manage.

  And he knows what I mean.

  ~oOo~

  "How did she do?" I insist without preamble.

  Flynn ignores my bad manners, as a rule. "Well enough," he sighs, "I just went over the preliminary report. Ms. Mattox seems to agree that Krissy is hardly a survival identification victim, but there is some concern that she's perhaps a little on the dependent side, and wholly preoccupied with you. It can be attributed partially to the circumstance of her memory loss, of course… she's leaned on you quite a bit in rediscovering herself since the accident, but even I have to agree that she should be more independent by now, given her mindset and attitudes when you originally met."

  "I see." My eyes drift to the wall behind him, and I sink into one of the chairs. I see how anyone might have drawn this conclusion. It's just one more item to add to the list of things that I've fucked up.

  Flynn lowers himself into my line of vision. "I didn't tell you this to provoke your tendency toward self-blame," he guesses at my expression. "Krissy loves you, misses you. She asked me to pass that along before she left. She wanted you to know that she's willing to do whatever it takes to come home to you. But if that's to happen, there are a few things you're going to have to do."

  "Whatever it takes," I mutter, both in acknowledgement of Krissy's declaration and as an assertion of my own. "Tell me what I need to know."

  He sighs. "You may have to bend the truth a bit."

  My gaze sharpens. "I expect I may have to outright lie."

  "That may be so, and it's at your discretion to do so; but during the interview I cannot support or elaborate upon fiction. On a good note, Krissy deflected the more sensitive questions marvelously, despite her relative inexperience. I was impressed."

  This is news to me. "What did she say?"

  Flynn explains the line of questioning, and her admission. "Never, that I'm able to remember."

  Oh, Krissy.

  "I don't have to tell you what the outcome will be if you deviate," he tells me.

  "No shit."

  There's a soft knock at the door. Flynn raises an eyebrow. "Are you prepared?"

  I wave my hand in the air. "Let's get this over with."

  Lara Mattox is blonde, thank fuck. Not the slightest bit attractive to me, mid-forties, and her dark eyes linger upon me. Not surprising. Her passive expression is heartening, but caution reigns supreme. She's no less than a human lie detector, and her report will decide whether I have the barest hope of a chance to regain access to my family. The Dominant within me stirs and I strain to keep him in check, for now. He's still a major face in my professional appearance, but in this case, a hostile takeover might upset the delicate house of cards upon which the preferred outcome rests. This step in the process may prove unnecessary considering the most recent revelation, but in the interest of appearing compliant, I'll allow things to proceed.

  I cock my head to one side, considering today's enemy.

  "I have a number of questions for you, Mr. King." She crosses her legs, placing a folded-over legal pad on her knee, her skirt riding up just an inch. "If you're uncomfortable with any of them, be sure to let me know. Are you ready to begin?"

  God, she's practiced at looking disinterested, but she wants me. I can work with this. "Yes."

  "State your full name."

  "Edward Trevelyan-King."

  "How old are you?"

  "Thirty-one." My voice is even and soft.

  "Home address?"

  "That information is a matter of public record, Ms. Mattox," I test.

  "Baseline question, Mr. King, you understand."

  I do. "Forty-seven eleven Perkins Lane West, Seattle."

  "Thank you. Your previous address?"

  "Escala Tower, Nineteen-twenty Fourth Avenue, Downtown."

  She quickly makes a note on her pad. "And your reason for volunteering for this evaluation?"

  I suppress the urge to raise an eyebrow. "I should think the matter obvious."

  "Humor me."

  I lean forward a bit. "As a testimony to my character, but more importantly, in defense of my family."

  A trace of mild appreciation crosses her features. "Noted." She takes a moment to write. "You were adopted at an early age… what do you remember about your life before that time?"
/>   Besides being tortured and starved? "It was a long time ago. The details are difficult to recall."

  "Would you say the first four years of your life held pleasant experiences?"

  "Not particularly, no. Thus my adoption."

  "Were you abused?"

  Lady, Pandora's got nothing on my box. "Mishandled."

  "Can you elaborate?"

  "I'd rather not."

  "Mr. King's childhood is a long-debated subject," Flynn interjects. "Much of his success can be attributed to his dedication to moving forward. We focus on goal-setting rather than repeated evaluation of the unchangeable."

  "I see. Have you been in counseling long, Mr. King?"

  All my life. "Quite a while."

  "And would you say that your early years contributed to any feelings of anger or resentment in general?"

  "At times."

  "And how did you cope with these feelings?"

  By beating the shit out of women. And then fucking them. "Exercise is the finest form of control, Ms. Mattox."

  "So you never lashed out?"

  "I didn't say that."

  "Have you ever hit anyone, Mr. King?" she asks pointedly.

  Yes. "I'd think my primary school records would indicate that I have."

  She eyes me carefully. "And since?"

  I turn my head slightly, eyeing her at an angle. "I spar with Claude Bastille on a weekly basis. He was a former Olympic contender, you know."

  She continues to write. "Give me a little background into your relationship with Mrs. King."

  "What would you like to know?"

  "Start with how you met."

  "Kristina interviewed me for her school's newspaper. She resisted my advances at first, but in the end, I convinced her to give me a chance." I smirk a little at the memory. "She's the first woman, my mother and sister aside, who's stood up to me." Humility… humility is good.

  "Stood up to you, how?"

  I wash my expression with just a touch of rue. "I'm a successful man, Ms. Mattox. I didn't make my way in the world by being a patsy."

  "So, you attempted to strong-arm her?"

  "Nothing of the sort. I simply found her resistance… refreshing."

  "You don't often encounter resistance, I take it?"

  "Oh, I encounter it quite often." Just not usually by women.

  "You're quite deflective, Mr. King. Is that your intention?"

  Yes. "Of course not; I prefer directness. 'Fluff' isn't something that comes naturally. I'd be glad to clarify anything, all you have to do is ask," I offer, charitably.

  She writes some more. "There is some speculation as to the timing of your engagement and marriage to Mrs. King. What were your reasons for committing so quickly?"

  Are we really going there? "Ms. Mattox, I'm a very private man. I'm not sure I see how this is relevant to the matter at hand; why do you ask?"

  "It's important for me to establish what kind of relationship you have, your reasoning behind life-changing decisions helps me to understand your tendencies and gauge reactions. The information I gather will remain private, but it's significant to this assessment."

  "Very well." I cross my legs, casually. "Krissy and I knew very early on that we wanted to be together, indefinitely. She continually challenged me. Still does, in fact." God, I miss her. "I admit, to some it may have seemed that we rushed into marriage for another reason, namely the discovery of our son's conception, but that wasn't the case at all. We simply felt that we'd found life partners in one another, and that was that."

  Her face falls, ever so slightly, imperceptibly to the untrained eye. No, Blondie, I didn't marry my wife out of paternal obligation. You have no chance with me.

  "And how has your relationship developed since?"

  "It's been a ride, for sure." My directness catches me off guard. "But Krissy shows me every single day that marrying her was the best decision I've ever made." Smooth, King. Now you sound like a bleeding romantic. Put a lid on it!

  "Was there ever a time you regret marrying in haste?"

  "Never."

  "Not once?"

  "No."

  She makes a few more notes. "And since Mrs. King's accident, how have you coped with her memory loss?"

  "I've… coped. It hasn't been easy."

  "To be sure. Could her accident have been avoided?"

  A question I ponder frequently. "All evidence points to no, but I always wonder."

  "Always wonder what?"

  "Ms. Mattox, have you ever had something happen to you, something that you think, 'What if I'd done this differently?'"

  "Of course."

  "Well, what if I'd picked her up from work that day, myself? What if her driver had collected her a few minutes earlier, or later? A few seconds, even? What if the bastard who hit her car had gone somewhere else that day? Any of these scenarios, and our daughter would in her arms now, not in the cold ground. My wife would know herself." I'd better not fucking cry. I threaten my subconscious with certain punishment should it allow my body to disobey.

  "My condolences for your loss, Mr. King."

  "Thank you."

  "Are you able to continue?"

  "Of course." I swallow the tightness in my throat and blink the threatening tears away.

  "Your wife spoke of episodes when her memory returns. What's that like for her?"

  Fucking frightening. "It's unsettling. She loses consciousness for a short time. She's often confused and disoriented when she wakes, but recovers quickly."

  "And how do you react, when this happens?"

  "React?"

  "What do you do?"

  "Obviously, I tend to her well-being, first and foremost."

  "Witnessing one of her episodes must be upsetting."

  "It is."

  "How have you helped Mrs. King to cope with them?"

  "We talk about them, after. There isn't much more I can do aside from clarifying the details for her."

  "That helplessness bothers you."

  It's frustrating as hell. "It does."

  "If you could control them, make them stop, would you?"

  "In a heartbeat."

  She scribbles something on her notepad.

  "So, you'd rather she stopped regaining her memories."

  What the fuck? "Please refrain from putting words in my mouth, Ms. Mattox. I want nothing more than for my wife to remember our life together. But if a cessation of her episodes were to mean that she'd never entirely regain her memory, I'd live with it. Her health is of the highest priority."

  "I understand." She doesn't apologize for her assumption. "You put a premium on Mrs. King's safety and well-being, and yet, claims to the contrary have surfaced. Can you…"

  "Let me stop you right there," I interrupt. Flynn's gaze is warily directed at his colleague; he isn't happy with this line of questioning either. "I'm not at liberty to discuss certain legal particulars, but I will clarify one thing, and I will say it only once. I do not. hit. my. wife." …anymore. "I do not threaten her with bodily harm or keep her against her will, nor would I ever wish to." …except when we occasionally play a scene. "The thought of treating her with anything but the utmost respect is abhorrent to me."

  "And your son?"

  I swallow. The imagery that rises disgusts me. "That goes double for my son."

  "You'd do anything to protect them."

  "Yes."

  "Anything?"

  "I've said, yes."

  She makes a final note on her pad and clicks her pen to retract the tip. "I think I have everything I need. Mr. King, John, it's been a pleasure."

  I stand on formality, as does John, and shake hands with Ms. Mattox. Her last question weighs heavily on me.

  John closes the door behind her. "She's promised me copies of both reports later this afternoon."

  "And… your assessment?"

  He frowns. "It could have gone better. You've been working on your avoid-dance, I see." He makes air quotes with his fingers. How he loves
that particular play on words. It's annoying as fuck.

  "Dispense with the puns, Flynn. What do you think she'll say?"

  John takes the seat across from me. "From where I was sitting, the only time she truly believed you was when you spoke of your child." He pauses for a moment. "The rest, well… even I could tell you were covering. You were a little too controlled and vague, my friend."

  "Shit." Once again, my inner god has kicked me in the kneecaps, the pretentious fucker that he is.

  "I told you it wouldn't be easy," he pulls his feet up and tucks them under himself. "If it's any reassurance, I don't think she outright discounted any of your answers as blatantly false. But Krissy did well, as I said… and her testimony is going to carry far more weight in this case."

  "Speaking of the case, I've seen the letter."

  Flynn's eyebrows shoot upward. "And?"

  The fury and disbelief returns, like a recent death, momentarily forgotten and acutely disarming upon awakening. I feel my core begin to shake, the tremors spreading to my extremities. "I want to hurt someone. I want the person that wrote it to hurt."

  "That's a very natural reaction," he reminds me.

  Yes, natural… for me. It's natural for me to want to lash out, to strike others down. It's what I should have done so many years ago, when things started. Perhaps if I'd reminded her of her place at the time, she'd not have done this. Perhaps if I'd taken her in hand, she'd have known better than to cross me. I thought she'd given up. She ought to have given up. Goddamn it, there must be some proof in her persistence; there's no way she'll admit what she's done. No way to force her confession. I have nothing to hold over her head that she can't turn around on me. Of all the people in my acquaintance, and with the exception of the fifteen, that's a blasted rarity.

  "Care to share the monologue?"

  How does he fucking do that? After all these years, I should have some idea, some warning of his aptitude for mind reading. I shake my head, but rather than deny, I think out loud. "The person responsible... I have no proof. There are no prints. Nothing to connect her to that damning letter."

  "Do I dare assume whom you imply by 'her'?"

  "Would you focus?" I sputter, exasperation getting the better of me. John can be so astute and yet so obtuse in the same cluster of brain cells. Fuck it all, if only I had something else she'd written, even from back then...