Accidentally Married to the Billionaire 3(21)

Lena Cates, his sometimes-estranged stepmother, has been reticent with the press, but sources close to her express her deep concern for her stepson. It is important to note that, should his marriage be proven a sham, the rights to controlling interest in Power Regions would revert to the dowager Mrs. Cates. While legal teams wrangle over the legitimacy of the marriage, all basic requirements in the state of Nevada—both parties of legal age and of sound enough mind to sign the marriage license—seem satisfied.

While the marriage may seem quick by conventional standards, there seemed no outright cause for alarm until photos surfaced online of the newlywed pair fighting in first class on a commercial flight to Mexico and walking in stony, acrimonious silence at the airport. Further images of the young Mrs. Cates swimming solo and casting frequent glances at the doors as if waiting for her husband served only to fuel rumors that the two were on the outs. A lovers’ spat was one thing but with millions on the line, the appearance of impropriety or outright estrangement was too risky. A flurry of social media snuggling ensued with plenty of affectionate selfies in the surf and over cocktails at the resort—a seemingly desperate bid to bolster the supposed romanticism of their alliance.

Whether they’re madly in love or frantic to cling to a fortune, the couple agreed to sit down with me and set the record straight.

Poised and meticulously friendly in their Manhattan showplace of a home, the couple snuggled together on a green velvet midcentury modern sofa. Within seconds, it is obvious that the former Miss Reynolds hails from a working class background in New Jersey, far from the prep schools and European tours that molded her all-American WASP groom. Every line of Cates’ spare form bespeaks control and ease, a level of confidence in his power. In sharp contrast is his bride’s fidgety changeableness—by turns abrasive and embracing, flippant yet desperate to be liked, Marjorie Cates is many things, but fake is not one of them. While I entered their home a skeptic, I left a convert. Not because of the chemistry between the pair—of which there’s plenty—nor their self-satisfied answers to my queries about their whirlwind courtship. Rather it was a single small moment that won me over.

In the midst of his narrative, the charming multitasker Brandon Cates turned repeatedly to his phone screen, interrupting our conversation. His wife’s smiles grew less indulgent, more annoyed until she snapped and swore at him, insisting that he put away his phone instantly. The two dissolved into conspiratorial laughter like naughty children and I was left speechless. Had their entire marriage been a charade of convenience, surely his wife would have sat by making excuses about how dedicated he was to the stockholders and smoothed over any slight to the reporter. Instead, Marjorie Cates took her groom to task for his rudeness and managed to do so in a way both fierce and playful. The rapport between them was electric and this exchange was no different—full of fireworks and obvious affection. It was clear that this, at least, was unrehearsed and in its way showed their genuine love for each other.

Despite the obvious disparity in their upbringings and education, the cultural background, which shaped them, it was clear from our brief time together that the Cates marriage is a true match of affection.

“That’s the end of the article,” Marj said. “I can’t decide what I’m prouder of. The fact that she said we were obviously a real couple or that she noticed the midcentury modern couch.”

“I understand you’re excited about the design choice but I’m a little jealous of that couch just now.”

“It’s a great couch. It’s only rented, of course. If we like it, I understand they’ll give us a deal on it.”

“If I buy the couch, can we have sex on it?”

“Absolutely. That’s true of any furniture. Obviously, rental furniture we’d rather not think of what other people did on it before….ugh. Maybe we should spray some Lysol on it regardless.”

“If you love the couch, we’re buying it. Then you can spray it with anything you like. I promise.”

“Lysol is a disinfectant. It’s to kill other people’s sex germs.”

“But they’re midcentury sex germs. They’re elegant, right?” he said.

“No. This is only a reproduction. They’d be fresh germs from upscale renters who want their homes staged for sale or an article like this one.”

“Well, let’s assume they didn’t risk it because they didn’t want to lose the deposit,” he said.

She laughed.

“Don’t worry. I’d buy us a spanking brand new one from whatever company sold them.”