Shopping for a Billionaire's Wife

by Julia Kent

  He softens, but doesn’t back down.

  “And don’t you see, Shannon, that I am sharing who I am with you when I ask you to enter my world. I am designer clothing and private clubs and limos and Teslas and waterfront apartments. I am Milton Academy and private tutors and Harvard legacy. I hire people to manage the smaller details of my life because I can. Because I want to. I live like this because it’s all I know. You’re not the only one who looks at the other’s life and has a knee-jerk evaluative reaction to it.”

  “Huh?”

  “Every time we go to your parents’ house and Jason’s washing the car, I think, ‘What a waste of his time. He could be doing something else.’ Whenever yet another relative butts into our personal life, I wonder why they devote their psychological energy to someone else like that, when they could be working, or traveling, or just living quietly and entertaining themselves with something other than another person’s choices. Conversations around the dinner table about accepting what I consider abusive behavior from bosses get head nods and reinforcement, and in my world—growing up—that would never have happened.”

  “Because you didn’t have a job as a teen?” I feel the sneer before I hear it, and pull back just in time.

  I hope.

  “No. I did.” He tips his head back and forth, thinking. “Internships. I learned to stand up for myself. I learned not to take shit from any boss. Especially my dad.”

  “Was your ability to remain in your house dependent on that paycheck?”

  He pauses, green eyes taking me in. “No.”

  “That’s the difference.”

  “That’s not the only difference.”

  “No. It’s not,” I concede.

  “Shannon, you’re entering my life by marrying me. I’m entering yours. I don’t reject any part of your family culture—”

  “Hah!”

  “—except for the intrusiveness by your mother.”

  “Which is our family culture!”

  We both marinate in that for a few beats.

  “Why, then, is it acceptable for you to reject everything that has shaped me into being the man you love? You’re about to become a billionaire’s wife. I won’t hide my money. I have zero shame about wealth.”

  “And I do?”

  “Yes. I think so.”

  “Shame? How can I have shame about money that isn’t even mine?”

  Damn. One eyebrow goes up, a perfect, thick dark arc over that blazing green eye.

  “That’s it, isn’t it? Self-worth again.”

  “No! Why are you always making any decision of mine that doesn’t agree with yours into some kind of psychological problem with my self-worth at the heart of it all?”

  “And why does any disagreement on my part always boil down to my being out of touch because I’m wealthy?”

  Oh, burn.

  My chest aches. The air in the room thickens with a kind of stifling feeling, an almost viscous quality that makes me think my lungs are sticking together. Each breath takes all my effort. Mind, body, soul, volition.

  All of it.

  “We keep coming back to this for a reason,” Declan finally says, his voice tight. A flaring panic fills me, his instant distance like having a knife plunged into my neck. “It’s not going away. Maybe this is the real reason you wanted to run away from your mom at the wedding.”

  That knife in my neck moves to my chest.

  “What?” I gasp.

  Music begins outside our window, the lulling drift of a classical symphony that quickly evolves into an operatic tune. My ears perk and some bones in my body vibrate and turn toward the sound, instinct strong. I don’t give in to impulse, instead watching Declan with open hurt and a simmering resentment that finally boils over.

  “We fled that wedding. We did. I came to you and told you I couldn’t stand it anymore, and—”

  “Why couldn’t you stand it?”

  “Two words: Jessica the Bitch.”

  He opens his mouth to correct my math, then smartly doesn’t.

  “Why are you so obsessed with Jessica?”

  “Because she’s such a bitch!”

  “Why?”

  “Why is she a bitch? Come on, Declan. Don’t do this.”

  “Don’t do what? Try to solve a problem?”

  “Try to create one.”

  “I’m creating your shame about my money?”

  “You’re driving us apart if you keep this up.”

  “Keep what up?”

  “Pretending that the reason you’re giving me all these gifts isn’t because you’re competing with your brother.”

  “Andrew is giving you emerald necklaces?”

  “Andrew is CEO. Your father hand-picked him. The second he’s around, you compete for attention. Taking care of your woman and making sure she looks the part of a billionaire’s wife is important for being the one on top. So....”

  “You think I want to give you nice things that represent my life because I want to one-up my own brother? That’s crazy!”

  “I have a seven-foot animatronic teddy bear in our hotel suite that is crazy. Not me.”

  “Let me get this straight: you think I am giving you gifts and asking you to live a billionaire’s lifestyle because I’m competing with my brother.”

  “And you think I can’t handle being given these luxuries because I don’t think I deserve them.”

  We both nod, but I can see his breathing grow harder, his anger bubbling below the surface, ready to emerge. We’ve had disagreements. We’ve gone cold with each other and had to thaw, eventually talking problems out.

  Never, in more than two years together, have we faced each other from such a distance, as if ready to jump into a foxhole for safety from an unknown weapon.

  “You’re wrong,” he says shortly, words clipped and fast. One hand drags through his thick, dark hair, a nervous fidget if Declan ever had one. “I’m not competing with Andrew by using you as a proxy!”

  “Not consciously, no.”

  “Not one damn bit!” He slams his fist against the bureau, upsetting the dry minibar, hundreds of dollars worth of chocolate-covered gummy bears and iPod headphones flying.

  In the face of this kind of anger, I typically freeze. My dad doesn’t blow up like this. Dad’s anger emerges in a different way. Blood rushes so hard through my ears it sounds like a waterfall in my head, and I unlock my knees, willing myself to take steps toward the door so I can leave. Think. Breathe.

  Be.

  I take two steps, and before I can stop myself, I give him back his anger and more. “Shame? You think I have some misplaced shame around your money? I think you’ve got it backwards. You’re always going on and on about how I need to find my power, how I give my power away to others, and blah blah blah.” My face feels like someone napalmed it, and I’m stammering, tears filling my eyes because when I’m flustered, I cry. I shouldn’t say any of this. Not one word.

  I do anyhow.

  “How about your power, huh? I think you’re the one who has it backwards. It’s convenient to think you’re the cool, calm, self-controlled, unflappable Declan McCormick, the wunderkind who was poised to take over Anterdec one day. Was. Was,” I repeat, vicious now. “I think you go on about my power because deep down inside, you can’t figure out how to exert your own.”

  His gives me a ragged look so raw that I know I hit the nerve I’m aiming for.

  “Quit deflecting your own power issues onto me!” I continue. “You and Andrew compete because you feel like you don’t have as much power as you should—so go out and find it! Find your own damn power, Declan, but quit acting like I’m screwed up because I’m having a hard time adjusting to a life that I didn’t realize I was signing up for.”

  My legs unstick, and I storm to the door, opening it.

  “Where are you going?” His question is menacing, laden with a threat that says I don’t have the right to leave, with that golden authority I admire in him, until moments like this.r />
  “Out. For coffee,” I add, turning around. “NEXT DOOR! I’m going to go find my self-worth one damn latte at a time!”

  And with that, I slam the door.

  With all the power I can muster.

  * * *

  “I don’t understand,” Mom says as I sob into a Grind It Fresh! triple breve with cinnamon and ground Madagascar vanilla beans sprinkled on the New Zealand whipped cream top. “You got into a fight because you don’t want goats to go to African villages?”

  I texted Amanda in the elevator, and she came rushing over to Grind It Fresh! to commiserate. Sadly, Mom saw her as she walked past the poker table where Mom’s been butchering hands. She followed. Amanda was too worried to notice the tail.

  My ability to process anything is hampered by the massive fight I just had with my almost-husband.

  “I can’t!” I huff, looking at Amanda, who translates my words into Momspeak.

  “They got into a fight because Declan is using Shannon as a pawn in his fight for dominance with Andrew.”

  “Oh. Now I understand. Just say ‘it’s because they’re men,’ honey—that’s shorthand.” Mom takes a drink of her half-caf mocha and sighs. “This coffee is bliss.” She gives me an evaluative look. “Does this mean you and Declan broke up? Because if so, I might need to text someone at the networks.”

  “You’re feeding information to the press?”

  “James says Anterdec’s getting a ton of interest and new financial boosts from all the news about the runaway bride! I knew my plan was genius.”

  “Your plan?” Amanda and I say in unison.

  “Well,” she falters, going silent. I can only imagine what she’s been feeding the press. As long as it’s not Minion boobs, we’re good.

  “He was really angry.”

  “So were you,” Amanda points out. “And rightly so! I think the whole Andrew-Declan one-upmanship contest is getting out of hand. Did I tell you he’s taking me on a helicopter tour of the Grand Canyon and afterwards we’re going to Mexico to see the solar panels he’s donating to schools on coffee farms?”

  “Oh, come on!” I groan. “They’re competing to see who can be more philanthropic? As if that’s the measure of who is the better man? Giving to charity doesn’t count if you’re doing it to win a contest.”

  “It’s better than the giant jewels they’ve been giving us.”

  Mom’s eyes narrow to slits. “Giant jewels?”

  “Right,” I say flatly, drinking more.

  “That’s not a euphemism for their penises, right?”

  “MOM!”

  “MARIE!”

  “You know,” I point out, “you weren’t originally invited for coffee with us.”

  “I wasn’t invited to Vegas, either,” she says, forlorn, her lower lip starting to tremble. Dad’s story about Grandma Celeste feels like someone dropped a chunk of concrete on my heart from a Mass Pike overpass.

  “Do you understand why Shannon and Declan escaped the wedding, Marie?” Amanda asks, her voice going low, her hand on Mom’s free hand on the table.

  “Because I invited Jessica Coffin.”

  “And why did you invite Jessica Coffin?”

  “Because she controls the society pages and trends for Boston.”

  “And why was it important to have the wedding in those—”

  I brush my hand against Amanda’s knee and give her a look. “I can take it from here,” I say.

  She blinks rapidly, but recedes. “You sure? You were ready to drown her in whale sperm the other day.”

  The waitress happens to deliver a new round of lattes and French macarons at that exact moment and gives us a freaked-out look, hurrying off after emptying her tray.

  “I’m sure.”

  Amanda gives me a big hug and whispers, “It’ll be fine.”

  “I know. I’ll call you if I need help moving the body.”

  She looks at Marie and laughs. “No,” she says, turning back to me. “I mean with Declan. I’ve never met two people more perfect for each other, and he loves you like crazy. Andrew says so.”

  “I think you and Andrew are pretty close in the ‘perfect for each other’ department.”

  “We don’t have the history you and Dec have. Go talk to him. Work it out.”

  “We will. I just—I need time. Space.”

  “I’ve got this, Amanda,” Mom says. “Don’t worry. Shannon’s got her mommy now and everything’s going to be just fine.”

  Don’t leave me, I mouth.

  As Amanda gives me an apologetic look, her eyes dart over my shoulder and narrow suddenly, telescoping like a big game hunter spotting a target. Amanda’s head turns, her hair brushing against her jaw, those big, round brown eyes turning into evaluative slits.

  “No. It can’t be,” she whispers.

  “What?” I crane around to look.

  “Don’t look!”

  I twist back around and accidentally dump my latte into Mom’s lap.

  Mom screams.

  “You’re drawing attention to us!” Amanda hisses.

  “Shannon just burned my cooch!” Mom shouts.

  So much for being covert.

  The cafe manager rushes over with a wet washcloth, a thousand apologies, and offers to clean everything up and bring us a new round of coffees.

  In the meantime, a slim woman in a sleeveless dress the color of a sunflower click clacks her way across the floor, her features coming into focus as she nears.

  Or, I should say, fokus.

  “Kari Whitevelt?” I squeak. She’s Amanda’s equal at Greg’s main mystery-shopping business competitor, Fokused Shoprite.

  That’s right.

  She’s Foked.

  “What are you doing in Las Vegas?” she grills Amanda, who stands her ground and gives Kari a Cheshire Cat grin.

  “We’re here on business.”

  Kari has long, wavy blonde hair and bright, whisky-colored eyes. She has a wide face but sharp bones that stretch nicely when she smiles. I would never in a million years admit this to Amanda, but...I like Kari.

  I’ve worked with Kari.

  Because Anterdec hires Fokused for some market testing we do.

  Amanda has no idea, and somehow—I need to keep it that way.

  With a broken heart and a hoo-haw-injured mother with a drama queen complex.

  “My poor vulva,” Mom whines as the coffee manager delivers the new drinks, a tray of French macarons in a variety of flavors that are arranged like a double rainbow, and a gift card for $100 for Mom.

  “You, too?” the employee, Jonah T. (according to his name tag), commiserates. “Mine breaks all the time.”

  I look at Jonah speculatively.

  “What model do you drive?” he asks Mom. “Mine’s an S60.”

  “Mine is a pink Cadillac,” she croons. “Best ride you could ever imagine.”

  Jonah’s perplexed suddenly, and I can’t blame the poor guy.

  “I thought we were talking about Volvos,” he says, backing up and giving me a confused smile.

  “One of you is.” I give him a head shake that is the universal gesture for Don’t even try to talk to the crazy lady. Las Vegas resort employees are fluent in Head Shake, and Jonah scampers off.

  Meanwhile, Kari and Amanda’s prickly conversation has turned to outright suspicion and accusation.

  “Are you trying to snipe the wedding chapel accounts?” I hear Kari snap at Amanda.

  What wedding chapel account? I wonder. Greg doesn’t take too many accounts that require extensive travel.

  Amanda is trying to freak Kari out, I see, because she replies in a smooth tone. “You know we can’t talk about it even if we are, Kari. Client confidentiality.”

  Kari reddens, and then damn—she notices me.

  “Shannon!” Kari is a hugger. By the time she rocks me left and right a few times, I have established that I was a metronome in a previous life. I keep ticking for ten beats or so after she lets go of me.

&nbs
p; Amanda’s narrow gaze turns me into an injured mother lion with three cubs. I can see her imagining my pelt on her living room floor. “How do you two know each other? Kari didn’t start working for Foked until after you left for Anterdec.”

  Kari reddens at the word Foked, but c’mon. They have to know we’re that juvenile.

  “Good thing you left Constipated Value-flop, Shannon. Anterdec is such a great company. And congratulations on your weird wedding fiasco. I wish I had been there, but I was here on assignment and—”

  Amanda does, in fact, look constipated right now. I have to give Kari that.

  “How do you know each other?” Amanda asks again, drawing out each word.

  “The wedding account!” I blurt out. “You know, the one we can’t talk about.” I over-enunciate those last words, sounding like a preschool teacher with nineteen shots of Novocain in her mouth, and wish this day would just end.

  “Shannon?” Mom asks. “Can coffee infect a tattoo? Because last night your dad and I got a little drunk, and now—” She points to her nether regions.

  Kari makes a face of disgust.

  Saved by Mom.

  “It’s been charming,” Kari says, looking at Mom the way one would watch a rabid raccoon, “but I have to go get married eleven more times in the next three days so I can do my job.” She smirks at Amanda. “Have fun!”

  And with that, Kari is gone.

  Amanda is about to kill me.

  “You’re hiring Fokused Shoprite, aren’t you? You’re mystery-shopping-cheating on me.”

  “Not you, too!” I throw my hands in the air. “I give up.” Between fighting with Declan an hour ago, my mother’s crotch emergency, and Kari’s sudden appearance, I blurt out something that is about as inopportune as you can get.

  “Anterdec is buying Greg’s company anyhow, so you won’t be competing with Foked soon.”

  See? I’m clearly half Marie.

  “WHAT?” Amanda bellows. “Andrew never said a word!”

  “It’s not like you two were even talking to each other before the wedding.” I snort. “And now that you’ve made up, I’ll bet talking about Greg’s company isn’t top of your list of Things To Do In Vegas.”

  She gives me a patented Chuckles look.

  “It’s not final,” I continue. “It’s why Greg’s been so busy. He has a ton of business details and his wife’s cancer and...”