Page 92 of The Wrong Billionaire
“I know you can. That doesn’t mean you should have to.” He glances at me, reaches out, and takes my hand. “You’re my wife. That doesn’t mean you belong to me. And it doesn’t mean I get to tell you what to do with your life. It does mean that whatever you choose to do, I’ll be standing beside you, supporting you.”
I stare at him, shocked into silence by his devoted words.
“I want to be your best friend,” he continues, “and the first person you turn to if you’re in trouble and need help. I want to be everything to you. I’ve loved you for ten years. I’m exultant that you married me. And I’m not going anywhere. I don’t know how to make you believe that except by asking you to give me a chance.”
He turns onto our drive and, only a few moments later, he pulls up outside the farmhouse.
I press my fingers to my lips, emotional, and annoyed with myself because of it. I don’t usually cry easily, and yet since I’ve met him, I’ve been in tears nearly every day.
But it’s not because he makes me sad. I know the reason why. It’s because I’ve spent months, even years, squashing my emotions into a big trunk and making it secure with a huge padlock. I’ve trained myself not to feel. But Marcus has come along like a thief in the night, picked the lock, opened Pandora’s box, and let all those emotions come flying out.
“Come on,” he says, turning off the engine. “Let’s go inside.”
I get out, fighting against tears, and he takes my hand and leads me into the house. We take off our shoes, and then he leads me through to the kitchen. He takes a bottle of water out of the fridge, unscrews the top, and passes it to me.
I have a few mouthfuls, then give it back to him to replace the top. “That’s your answer to everything, isn’t it?”
“No. This is my answer to everything.” He pulls me into his arms and gives me a hug.
It’s such a lovely thing to say that my emotions bubble up again and spill over. I start crying, and he sighs. “Come here.” He bends and lifts me, takes me into the living room, and lowers down onto the sofa with me on his lap.
I curl up there, my arms around his neck, and sob for a while. He rubs my back and murmurs things like, “It’s okay,” and, “everything’s going to be all right.”
Eventually, the wave of emotion eases, and my tears dry up. He passes me a tissue from the box on the coffee table, and I wipe my eyes and blow my nose.
“Better?” he asks.
I nod and rub my nose. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’m prepared for some hormonal reactions.” He smiles.
He means if I’m pregnant. I’ve thought about it so much over the last few months, but for the first time since we came to the farm, I let myself think that it could have happened already. A baby could be forming inside me right now. We could have made a whole new person. It’s so shocking, so miraculous, that it makes my head spin.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he murmurs, and kisses me briefly. “I want you to be able to talk to me about anything.”
It’s late in the afternoon, and the room is filled with honey-colored sunshine. It’s pleasantly warm, and it smells of homemade bread and the coq au vin that Ruth put in the slow cooker this morning.
It occurs to me that despite being a businessman and one of the directors of a huge company, Marcus isn’t on his laptop all the time, nor is he constantly taking calls. He’s done his best to give all his attention to me on this vacation. Right now, his gaze is fixed on me, and his cognac eyes are patient and calm.
I’ve assumed all along that he married me because I turned him down ten years ago, and also because he knew I’d asked Caesar to donate for me, and he’s tired of coming second to his brother. I’m sure that’s part of it. But is it possible that he could be for real? He’s insisted over and over again that he loves me. That he wants to be with me.
Is it possible that I chose the right brother after all?
“I want a guarantee,” I whisper.
He tips his head to the side. “What kind of guarantee?”
“I don’t know. That it’ll work, I suppose. That you won’t get bored with me. That you won’t cheat on me. That you won’t leave. And I know it’s not possible to promise those things, because none of us knows the future. And that terrifies me.”
I swallow hard. How can I explain this better? “I thought Cory was the one,” I say. “I thought I loved him, and that he loved me. I moved to another country to be with him. And when he cheated on me… I can’t explain how it just crucified me. Now… I’m not sure if it was because my feelings for him were so deep. I’m not sure I even loved him. But I was so committed, so convinced we’d be together forever, that when it came to an end, it was as if my whole world came tumbling down.”
His eyelids lower a little; he doesn’t like me talking about Cory. I’m not sure whether it’s because he’s my ex or if it’s more that Cory hurt me. Maybe both.
“Sorry,” I whisper. “I’m just trying to explain what an effect it had on me. I think… it’s almost like I have PTSD from it. I relived that moment I walked in and found him in bed with someone over and over again. And I blamed myself. It was impossible not to. I told myself it had happened because I’m inexperienced, or just plain bad in bed. I’m so frightened of being hurt again. And it’s really hard to believe that someone like you could fall for someone like me. How do I take that leap of faith?”
Chapter Twenty-One
Marcus
