I Married a Billionaire: Lost and Found (Contemporary Romance) (22 page)

For some reason, in that moment, I realized that was ridiculous. It was as much my closet as it was his. I had every right to go in there, if I wanted to.

My heart was pounding as I approached the door. Even though I knew I’d be able to hear the front door open well before he could get upstairs, I was still taken with the ridiculous fear that I’d turn around and see him standing behind me, his arms crossed, and his eyes dark with anger.
 

I slid the door open, slowly. The sound of the runners scraping against the track was deafening in the silent room.

I’d caught glimpses of this side before, when he opened it in front of me. I knew that there were a few small floggers and whips hanging along the back wall, and several lengths of rope looped over the bar that was meant for hanging clothes. On the floor, there was a large black duffel bag that I’d never seen unzipped. I grabbed it by the handles and dragged it forward, with the intention of finally peeking inside, after all this time.

And then, I saw something that derailed me completely.

At first I thought it might just be a shadow, but leaning down further I could see there was definitely something on the wall - an outline of a square, almost like…

I reached out and touched it. I almost jumped out of my skin when that little portion of the wall popped open, displaying a small cubby in the wall. I wasn’t sure what I expected to find there - a safe, or some kind of strongbox. But instead, there was a small shoebox, slightly tattered around the edges.

I reached in and removed it, gently. Sitting down on the bed with it on my lap, I slipped my fingertips under the lid and raised it. As I did, a fleeting thought passed through my head - the box was too small to have ever held an adult’s shoes. He must have been holding onto it since he was a child.

Inside was a mess of papers, photographs, and tiny objects, disorganized in a way that ran counter to everything I knew about Daniel. I heard something rolling around in the bottom. A marble? I could see the corner of an old photograph peeking out from behind some folded papers, so I pulled them out and set them aside.
 

It wasn’t just one photograph, I realized, but a whole stack of Polaroids, beginning to peel and yellow around the edges, the chemicals starting to seep back into the photographs and distort the edges into a strange kaleidoscope of colors. The first in the stack was a classic. A little boy was sitting in his high chair, holding a handful of spaghetti noodles, with sauce smeared all over his face. The decor of the kitchen was distinctly late ‘80s. I flipped the picture over. Someone had written on it in a long, elegant hand - in pencil, so it was all but unreadable now -
Danny, Aug ’86
.

In the next picture, he was older, and a sandy-haired girl who must be Lindsey was there too. She’d just begun to reach that gangly stage of ten or eleven, and crouched between them, with her arms wrapped tightly around them both, was a woman who could only be Daniel’s mother.

Although she was obviously posing, she also looked to have been taken by surprise, mid-sentence, but still smiling. Lindsey looked like she was trying to smile, but the sun was in her face. Daniel was scowling.

I flipped through each picture, one by one. It was everything one would expect from a stack of family photos. The last one was taken in the midday sunlight, featuring Daniel’s mother sitting on the side of the pool, dangling her legs in the water. Daniel and Lindsey were swimming and splashing nearby, almost out of frame. I looked a little closer. Daniel’s mother was smiling, but that sort of faint, tired smile that you can only just manage when you’re sick. Her bikini almost looked baggy around her in certain places. And in spite of the bright sun, her skin was as pale as anything.

I shivered, and went to slide the picture back into the bottom of the box. As I did, my fingers brushed against something that felt…sharp, almost, yet delicate. Frowning, I lifted up the rest of the box’s contents and fished for the object.
 

As my fingers closed around it, I realized what it was. But I didn’t quite process it until I lifted it up and opened my hand, looking down at the little shell sitting in my palm. A tiny nautilus shell, as beautiful and delicate as it was the day I found it.

For some reason, as my heart twisted and my throat tightened, all I could think to do was pick up the pile of folded papers that I’d removed from the top of the box. The first one looked oddly fresh - cleanly folded. New.

I opened it.

I know you’ll likely never read this, but I have to write it. It’s the best way to clear my head, I think. I suppose we’ll find out if it helps.

I don’t know what to say to you, Maddy. I’ve been sitting here for hours just thinking about it, and I still can’t find the words I’m looking for. I don’t even know where to start. And if I can’t think of it now, how can I possibly hope to find them when I’m sitting there, looking at you? Seeing your face and knowing that there’s only one reason why you’re with me at all?

Things like this have never been easy for me. I’m sure you know that by now. But the reality of the situation is that I’m afraid. That’s all. I’ve come so close to losing you, but then again I’m not sure if I ever had you. If I tell you this, you’ll be offended. And rightfully so. Why shouldn’t I believe you, when you say you love me? Nobody wants to be with someone who doubts them. You deserve better than that.

So I err on the side of saying nothing, and most of the time it doesn’t matter much. But then things go wrong, and you wonder why I don’t confide in you. Why don’t I seem to trust you? Why don’t I act like someone who’s in love? Why do I go from lavishing you with love and attention to suddenly withdrawing, becoming cold - even hostile?

I suppose that question is bigger than just you and me. I suppose even if you weren’t just with me because of my money, I’d still find a reason not to let you in. That’s generally what I’m best at.
 

After a string of failed relationships I convinced myself I was better off alone, and you were the one who changed that. When I first started going through the motions, I told myself that was all it was. But I should have known I was getting in over my head, and dragging you with me. I can’t really bring myself to regret it. I’m happier than I’ve ever been. I know it might not always seem like that, but it’s true.

I love you, I love you - and I think I am going to spend the rest of my life trying to learn how to act like it, how to convince you it’s real - how to convince myself. You seem determined not to leave me. I’m not going to pretend to understand why, but I am grateful.

I know that neither one of us will be able to forget how things started between us. But in time, I hope it will dissipate - the dark cloud that hangs over us, the memory of how it began as a sham. How it used to be almost a joke to us. Pretending to be in love. I hope someday I’ll wake up, see you next to me, and forget to wonder if you’re still just pretending.

And maybe, someday, when all of that has passed, I’ll be able to show you this letter. Then you’ll start to understand, if only a little. I’m sorry for everything.
 

I love you, Madeline Thorne.

Hot tears were brimming in my eyes. I folded the letter up again, quickly, shoving it back into the box and hurriedly fumbling the lid back on. I hurried back to the closet and shoved it back into the compartment, which was as far as I got before I crumpled up on the floor and let myself cry.

Finally, I picked up my phone and hit the speed dial for Daniel. My throat tightened and my heart thumped in my chest as it rang and rang and rang, finally clicking over to his voicemail.
 

I hung up.

Taking a deep breath, I reached back into the closet and pulled out the box again. I took out the letter, unfolding it and smoothing it across my lap. His hand was still so even and elegant, even as he wrote something like this.
 

I went to his dresser and laid it out, carefully, weighting down the corners with a couple of cufflinks.
 

On the morning of the showing, I woke up early. And alone. I looked at the phone on my bedside table and thought about calling Daniel again, but I still couldn’t quite bring myself to do it.

"Ready for your big night?" Lindsey said, brightly, when she saw me in the kitchen.

"Yeah," I said, forcing a smile. "What should I wear, do you think?"

"Something flirty," she said. "But still semi-formal. You want to seem approachable, right?"

"Well, I don't know about that," I said. "But I'm hoping there won't be much of a presence from the media. Curtis didn't tell anyone that I'd be there."

"Ooh, you're the surprise guest? How romantic. Okay. Let's see what you've got."

She helped me rummage through my closet for a while, finally pulling out a slightly asymmetrical black cocktail dress that fell mid-thigh at its shortest point. I'd never actually worn it; it always seemed a little too sassy for more formal events, but still not quite right for something casual, either.

"You think?" I asked her, holding it up in front of me in the mirror and trying to imagine how it would look - me, the disgraced billionaire's wife, showing that much thigh at an art gallery.
 

"You're a featured artist. I don't think there's a dress code." Lindsey laughed. "And even if there was one, I'm sure that would be just fine." She went for my jewelry box and started picking through it.
 

"I guess," I said, sitting down heavily on the bed. "Pantyhose, or no?"

"I dunno, will they even be able to tell in that lighting?" She held up a pair of silver earrings that almost looked like little bunches of grapes. I couldn't remember buying them. "What about these? They're sort of fun and elegant at the same time."

"Sure," I said. "I almost wish the paparazzi
would
show. Let them see me ready for my close-up."

"Oh, they don't care about that. That's boring." She held the earrings up on either side of my face, tilting her head to look at them. "I mean, they might show up if you tip them off. I did some design work on a house - I'm not allowed to say whose, but it's somebody you'd know. His publicist had every single trashy newspaper and gossip blog on speed dial. It was completely ridiculous. He got pissed if he went to Starbucks and there weren't candid shots of him in line plastered all over the internet by the time he got home."

"God. I can't imagine."

Lindsey shrugged. "It's a different world, you know? That's what some people live for."

"I just want people to maybe like my paintings," I said. "Then I'd be happy."

She looked at me, serious for a moment. "Is that really all you need?"

"Well, you know," I said. "And maybe some other stuff too."

She smiled.

***

Lindsey had been right about one thing - the lighting in the gallery was incredibly dim, with the room mostly illuminated by the individual light sources that were dedicated to each work on display. I got there early, and I had to rap on the door for Curtis to let me in.

"Hey, sweetie! I'm so glad you could make it!" He clasped my hand as I walked in. "How are things going?"

"Well," I said. "Do you want a real answer, or just pleasantries?"

"Real answer, always. Of course."

"Not great," I said. "I mean, things were going better, but then I fucked up. As usual."

"How so?" He took my coat and went to hang it up in his office.

"It’s weird," I said. "We were able to successfully petition for a new judge, so we got exactly what we wanted. But afterwards, I just felt worse. And I ended up starting a fight about something stupid."

"That’s understandable," said Curtis. "You’ve probably been bottling everything up for months because you didn’t want to add to the general stress, and now that things are better, you can’t really tamp them down anymore."

"Yeah, I guess." I shook my head at the memory. "I had a couple beers, and all of a sudden it seemed like a good time to hassle him about a bunch of things that don’t really matter. You’re right, there’s a lot I’ve been ignoring. This journalist who’s been flirting with him…and, you know, other stuff…" I certainly wasn’t going to get into the prototype lawsuit now.

"Well," he said. "Couples fight about things like that all the time. I'm sure you'll bounce back just fine. It's not like anyone really did anything wrong." He glanced at me. "Right?"

"Right," I said. "As far as I know." I was talking about the prototype, but I was really talking about Gen, too.

He raised his eyebrows slightly.

"I mean - I don't really think anything happened," I said. "But does it really matter? I mean, ultimately what I want is for him to want to be with me. If he stays with me out of obligation even though he'd rather be with someone like her, it feels like winning on a technicality."

"I'm sure that's not true," he said. "I’m sure he’s with you because he wants to be, because you’re not like all the people who hang on him because of his money and his reputation."

"He's said stuff like that before," I agreed. "But I don't really understand. Like…if he was interested in just any old average woman, he could go down to the grocery store and pick one up just like anybody else could. He doesn't have to be with models and heiresses if he doesn't want to."

"But you're not ordinary," said Curtis, softly. "You're pretty extraordinary, actually, I think."

I felt my ears turning red. "Thanks," I said. "But a lot of people can draw."

"I'm not just talking about that." Curtis took a step towards me, and I didn't step back. "You're…I mean…I don't know you well, but honestly, I know exactly what he sees in you. I can't really explain it." He shook his head. "I'm sorry, I - this is weird. I'll shut up."

"No, it's okay," I said, smiling. "This is…it's nice to hear. Sometimes I never know when Daniel is being…you know, genuine."

"More than you think, I'm sure," said Curtis. "He's very…he's a very lucky guy."