If his phone hadn’t rung so insistently, if the chiming of email notifications hadn’t clanged to an overwhelming riot, they might have had some real fun. As it was, he climbed off of her and reached for his phone. Flipping through his notifications, Brandon groaned.
“This isn’t something I can ignore,” he said to Marj who made a rude gesture at him and sat up.
“I thought everyone was off our ass for the time being thanks to the article going live. What fresh hell is this?”
“Lena’s team is turning up the heat, trying to make it look like we paid off the magazine to print an article favorable to our side. I need to call the publicist apparently. And about nine other people.”
“Can’t we put them all on a Skype and tell them to fuck off? We showed up and did the interview, and it went really well despite everything and it didn’t even buy us one night of peace.”
“I tried to tell you when you married me, and shortly afterward, that being married to a Cates wasn’t going to be as trouble free as you’d think. There’s a lot of scrutiny in any case from the media because I’m a public figure, but with the disputed inheritance, it’s off the charts.”
“That’s a polite way of saying that it’s insane. Fine, go make your calls. I’m going to be pissed off and do some Pilates. Work off all that tension,” she said pointedly.
Brandon went to his home office to return the calls and messages. Marj worked out, showered, and got online to plan a romantic evening for the two of them that week. They’d put in a lot of effort on the interview and regardless of how Lena’s camp decided to spin it, it had been a victory because their authenticity had been obvious. She felt vindicated, as if it were proof that their marriage was real. As if she needed any proof, which, of course, she didn’t.
They deserved a celebration, a special night to share their love, be carefree and joyous that they had come so far from a one-off in a Vegas bar to actually admitting their feelings for each other. It had started out fake enough to fill Lena with glee had she known, but the way Marj and Brandon had come to care for each other and count on each other was unbelievably special and unexpected.
Marj had married him to defeat the Wicked Queen and for the satisfaction of millions settled upon her after they divorced six months in. Now there was no divorce planned, nothing but a lifetime of happiness together. And while most couples had a wedding reception to share that bliss with their loved ones, she and Brandon had gone about this backward, so she thought a more intimate party was called for. Just the two of them, a night on the town. A candlelight dinner for two at an exclusive restaurant, cocktails, and dessert at the fanciest hotel bar, a romantic posh suite with a balcony, a profusion of rose petals and champagne and kissing.
She searched the local hotspots, seeking out the ones with the fever pitch buzz and set about trying to gain entrée. In the old days, this would have involved a top that showed cleavage and perhaps a twenty for the bouncer. Now it entailed calling the club and saying her married name once distinctly in order to gain VIP admission. The velvet ropes, it seemed, would be raised for her anytime she decided to drop by.
She settled on Locust, which was much more glamorous than its unfortunate name. The up and coming club, with its unique door, made to look black from the street and to gleam an iridescent aquamarine up close and its art installation chandelier that appeared to be composed of short infrared tubes dripping from the ceiling was a study in theming and design. It looked dazzling on the web page, and there was a certain visceral thrill to bypassing the queue to take precedence. She hadn’t spent much time at the front of the pack in her life, and the novelty of entitlement had a certain shine to it.
Marj caught herself browsing on Rent the Runway, where she used to fill a cart with aspirational designer gowns that were available for one wearing before return. She’d never actually checked out, never invested the money in a borrowed gown or jumpsuit, but she loved to look at them and read the reviews and imagine what it would be like to wear one of those dresses or even to have an occasion for one.
Now as she scrolled through Tracy Reese and Jenny Packham gowns, she realized that she didn’t have to rent a dress. She could totally buy one for herself. As much as she loved the clothes she’d bought and worn in heavy rotation as Brandon’s wife, she was still reluctant to indulge in over the top glamor. She didn’t want to be labeled a gold-digger (although she had technically married him for money initially) or called tacky for her conspicuous consumption.
She was hardly a Kardashian walking around in a nine thousand dollar jacket or anything, but she was still a mite squeamish about a top-flight dress for going out. Until now. This, the occasion of their triumph and the evening of celebration, merited new fancy lingerie and a dress worthy of concealing it until the opportune moment.