Accidentally Married to the Billionaire 2(19)

“Where were you today?” he demanded.

“Work. And you?” she answered, unruffled.

“I came to take you to lunch, and you didn’t answer your phone,” he said, trying to dampen the accusatory note in his voice.

“I had a training session on the new software with IT. All of marketing and HR had to go. I’m sure it’s below your radar as head honcho, but I was at an official work function. So next time you decide to see me during the week, give me some notice,” she said flatly.

“I don’t see the advantage to having a wife if I can’t see her, spend time with her or even reach her on the phone.”

“The advantage, darling, is that you get to keep your dad’s fortune and corporation. Do not try to claim moral high ground and act like you married me because you wanted an affectionate, supportive relationship. You wanted your inheritance, and you have it. And if you don’t like being unable to reach me, tell your general manager at my job to quit making us silence our phones before meetings.”

“Quit! Quit your job. Seriously. You’ve seen what my life is like, how I have virtually no time for myself. Then when I get a sliver of time for a personal life, you’re unavailable. That doesn’t work for me. It isn’t like you can’t afford to quit your job, Marjorie.”

“Being your temporary wife is a part-time gig. Weekends, some evenings,” she said.

“Did you get the email my attorneys forwarded us? The one from Lena’s team citing an online publication that shows your current and active lease agreement, your pay stub and several other documents that make this appear to be a short-term arrangement? I can’t afford for you to look like you’re independent with your own apartment and job. You might as well leave if you’re not going to try.”

Marjorie calmly turned off the burner and gave the quinoa a final stir.

“You’re pissed because I wasn’t at your beck and call, and so you are insisting that I quit my job and dump my apartment. Overreact much? Because this should go in the negatives column on your phone list. Women don’t like ultimatums. Women don’t like having their independence and agency attacked. Women also don’t like being treated like prostitutes who are supposed to be available instantly at a phone call or text. I’m not something you bought with a pile of diamonds. I’m a person, and I’m going to act like one. If you don’t like it, then I’m sorry, Brandon.”

She stomped out of the kitchen as ostentatiously as one could with bare feet. He trailed after her, unsure of what to believe. Was he being unreasonable? If not, why did every sentence he tried to frame begin with ‘a man is entitled to have his wife home…” like some Neanderthal? She was making him crazy. That’s all there was to it. He, Brandon Cates, was an educated and fully evolved modern man. He could appreciate a woman’s accomplishments, her opinions. He preferred a woman of strong convictions, a woman who was strong and clever and able to take care of herself.

Yet, suddenly, he wanted to put this particular woman, the most bull-headed woman he’d ever known, no less—into a velvet case and keep her for himself. He wanted her to be at home, in his townhouse, and happy to see him anytime he had a spare moment.

It was completely and utterly confounding that he would hold such an antiquated, sexist expectation of his wife. It couldn’t be the marriage thing. He had little regard for the institution after watching his father neglect his mother and then fawn over Lena in her turn. He had a rather poor example to live up to, and nothing in his past explained this stupid desire to have Marj give up her job and be available to him 24-7. It was just—what he wanted.

He knocked on the door to their bedroom and then opened it without waiting for her response. He sat down on a chair and waited for her to come out since she had clearly locked herself in the bathroom. He heard water running and she came out the door.

“What?” she asked. “Me standing around the kitchen barefoot, cooking dinner wasn’t traditional enough for you? Do I need an apron? Do I need to give up my job? Maybe give up my driver’s license and my voter’s registration, too?” she challenged.

“You’re right, okay? It’s stupid and it makes no sense, but I want you to quit your job. Not because I’m worried about what Lena and her attorneys will say. Because I want you here. So I can see you whenever I want. I want that luxury. I needed you today, and I was furious when I couldn’t find you.

She gazed at him. “No, there’s more to it than that? What?”

He let out a long breath. “Okay, I’ll admit it. I was more furious at myself—for needing you so much,” he broke off.