I Married a Billionaire: The Prodigal Son (Contemporary Romance) (5 page)

And, of course, there was the distinct possibility that he was some crazy stalker and not Daniel’s father at all. But for some reason, I had a hunch that was telling me otherwise.

I laid awake for the next few nights, staring at the ceiling, listening to the soft even sounds of Daniel’s breathing beside me. The lack of sleep wasn’t helping my day-to-day exhaustion, but I just couldn’t switch my brain off. There were too many hypotheticals to run through, too many possibilities, too many potential choices. I had to try and think through all the possible consequences of each one, because if I didn’t…

Well, I didn’t know. And that was what scared me.

***

We’d fallen into a routine. On days when Daniel had to work, after he came home, we’d eat dinner, and then retire to the living room and talk about his past. I took notes when he said something particularly poignant, but for the most part, I was confident I could remember it. I was hanging on every word. There were so many things about him that I still didn’t know or understand, and every story he told was bringing me closer to knowing him in the way I’d always wanted to. Oddly enough, even when he was talking endlessly about his father, I found it was easier to forget about my current dilemma during these times.

It had only been a few days since Gen had followed me to my yoga class, but I was already feeling the responsibility weighing down on me. After rinsing the dishes and wiping down the counter, I dutifully went to the armchair with my notebook, looking forward for a few hours’ respite.

But Daniel, instead of going to his usual spot on the sofa, came over and stood beside my chair, looking down at the notebook in my lap. “That’s not very many notes,” he said, softly.

“I’ll remember everything,” I said, looking up at him. There was a familiar glint in his eyes.

“Tonight,” he said, “I thought we could take a break.”

After all this time, my heart still thudded a little harder at the implication.

“Okay,” I said, looking up at him innocently. “What did you have in mind?”

He looked at me for a long time, as if this were the most difficult decision he’d ever made.

“Go upstairs,” he said, finally. “Kneel on the floor by my bedside table. Wait for me.”

I stood and walked up the stairs, slowly, not looking back. He loved making me wait. At first I’d found it annoying and frustrating, but once I’d finally given into his demands - which seemed ridiculous at first - I started to understand the point of the whole exercise.

It had taken me a long time to give myself over to it. The first few times he’d done it, I’d been defiant. I’d read a book, or played with my phone, not really “waiting” for him at all. I thought he was just on a power trip, and I wanted none of it.

After many, many months, I finally realized something important.

It was all about me.

All he wanted was for me to relax, and clear my mind, and think of nothing but him. Him and me, and what we were about to do together. It was like a strange form of meditation, something to prepare me and make me ready to really
feel
.

It was that way with everything that we did. If were ever forced to explain our bedroom dynamic I’d say that he “liked to be in charge,” but that wasn’t really the whole picture. He liked the way I responded to it. He appreciated the way I blossomed under his care, after being so long neglected by men who didn’t understand.

Some people might think that these antics were some sort of bizarre, grotesque posturing - almost a parody of the real-life power imbalance that would always exist between us. But I never felt that way about it. It was something private between us, something beautiful. It had everything to do with us as human beings and nothing to do with the fact that he was one of the richest men in the world, and that before I met him, I was buried in student loan debt and had never even
touched
a five thousand dollar fountain pen. Because in spite of all that, he didn’t own me and he never would. Never could. I think knowing that - both of us knowing that - was part of what made the whole play-act so exciting.

It gave me the freedom to let go.

When he told me what to do, I never worried about what he’d think of me in the morning. I knew that no matter what happened, the next morning he would just look at me and smile. There was no judgment in his eyes. I had absolutely nothing to worry about, when I was with him.

As I knelt on the carpet, I closed my eyes and tried to clear my head. I tried to push aside everything Gen had said to me, everything I’d been thinking and feeling, and all the worries I’d had for the past few days. I took a deep breath, held it for as long as I could, and then let it out slowly.

One by one, I let the thoughts drift from my mind.
What will I…What if…When will I…What if he…

When they were all gone, I took another deep breath.

My mind was blank.

But deep in the void, there was just one thing left. Something ever-present. Not a thought, exactly; it was too deeply entrenched. It wasn’t even what I would call a feeling. It just
was
.

It was
him
.

I couldn’t have possibly explained it any better than that. It wasn’t an image or a memory or a smell or a sound. It was all of those things at the same time, and none of them. It was the way my arm shot out in the morning when I woke up, to feel if he was still in bed with me. It was the indescribable sadness that set in if we went days without talking after a fight. It was the curve of his smile. It was a thousand things I couldn’t name or remember but that meant more to me than anything else in the world.

Suddenly, I felt a stab of panic.

My breathing grew irregular. What
was
this? This wasn’t something that happened to me. I clenched my fists at my sides and tried to will my heart to beat slower, but I couldn’t control it. I felt my throat tightening, my whole body growing taut with panic and fear that I didn’t understand.

It wasn’t attached to any thought, or anything rational at all. My mind was still blank, yet it was somehow consumed with a nameless fear. Somehow, I felt as if I were separating from myself - my identity and my body no longer felt connected, drifting farther and farther away with each passing moment.

Still, in the midst of the chaos, I knew I was supposed to obey. I was supposed to stay here, still, and wait for him. I knew he wouldn’t be happy if I couldn’t fulfill such a simple request.

But at the same time, I knew this wasn’t what he intended for me. He never wanted me to be afraid.

I opened my eyes and stood, on shaky legs that didn’t feel like my own. As I walked down the stairs, I had the distinct sensation that I was watching someone else. I felt like my head was going to explode.

Daniel was in the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of something. I ran to him blindly, throwing my arms around him and clinging tight. I jostled him enough that some of whatever-it-was in the glass sloshed on me, but it still felt like it was happening to someone else.

I realized that I was sobbing.

He set the glass down with a thunk and wrapped his arms around me.

“What’s wrong?” he said, softly. But I couldn’t answer, burying my face in his chest, crying and crying like I’d never be able to stop. Touching him had abruptly grounded me, forcing me back into an awareness of my body. I had no idea what had just happened to me, but heart was still hammering in my chest.

“Maddy, Maddy.” He was confused, I could tell, but he wasn’t going to pressure me. His hand rested on the back of my head. I felt an enormous sense of relief that he wasn’t going to be upset with me for not following his direction, even though of course I’d known that he wouldn’t be.

“What happened?” he asked, when I’d finally calmed down enough to speak.

“I don’t know,” I managed to reply. “I don’t…I was just…I was afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

I shook my head against his chest.

“I’m here,” he said. “You don’t have to be afraid of anything.”

It was a nice sentiment, but I was still shaking.

When I finally felt able to pull away, I saw the worry in his face and felt horrible for not being able to better articulate what was happening. Because despite how it felt, there was nothing actually wrong. Alone in the bedroom, I had felt like I was dying, but I now realized what a ridiculous sensation that was.

“I’m fine,” I insisted, forcing a smile that was probably more horrific than my tears. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” He frowned. “Can you tell me what happened up there?”

“I don’t know,” I said, again. “I did the same thing I normally do. I just tried to…clear my mind. But after I did, I started to get scared and I have no idea why. I wasn’t afraid of anything. It was just…panic. I felt like I wasn’t…” I struggled to find the words to describe the feeling, which had only recently left me. “It felt…I couldn’t believe that I was real. Or that everything around me was real. Or…something like that. I don’t know. It was like I was controlling a character in a video game.”

His face changed a little. “Come here,” he said. “Come sit down.”

I followed up to the sofa, where he sat down beside me and held both of my hands in his own. “Have you ever felt something like this before?”

“No.” I shook my head. “Why, do you know what it is?”

“They call it depersonalization,” he said, simply. “It happens quite often when you have a panic attack.”

His calm, even tone was such a contrast to the horror I’d just experienced. I swallowed a lump in my throat. “Have you ever had this?”

“Not in years and years. But you never forget what it feels like.” He halfway smiled, a little dryly. “Are you sure you’ve never experienced anything like this before?”

I nodded. “Why?”

“It’s nothing,” he said, smiling more reassuringly now. “I just thought - but it’s nothing. It’s fine. I mean, it’s not, it obviously not fine. But you’re still alive. You’re still here.”

I took a deep breath. Oddly enough, just hearing those words was helpful.

“I’ve heard of the idea of a panic attack before,” I said. “Obviously. But I never knew…I didn’t realize it was like this.”

“Most people don’t, unless they have one.” He exhaled. “Actually, they’re so poorly understood by most people that it took me years to understand what had been happening to me, for all that time. I never knew. I never thought to attribute it to a phenomenon like that. I actually remember asking my grandmother - even being so little, I still didn’t want to bring it up to my parents - I remember asking her if she’d ever felt like she couldn’t believe she was real. But she didn’t understand what I was asking. Most people still wouldn’t.”

“That’s awful,” I said. “You had them when you were a kid?” I couldn’t imagine.

He nodded. “Lying in bed,” he said. “Always lying in bed. It would start with the feeling that I wasn’t real, and the panic would grow and grow. At that age I think I actually believed there was a possibility that I’d somehow be pulled out of my body, or lose my sense of reality altogether, and that certainly didn’t help. I used to endure it for as long as I could, then I would run down the ladder of the bunk bed and shake Lindsey awake and make her tell me I was still real.” He smiled. “She actually tried to complain to our parents about it once, but she often had strange dreams and night terrors, so I think they wrote it off as more of the same.”

“That’s awful.” I was beginning to rethink how much I wanted to know about his childhood. My heart was literally aching for him, and I didn’t know what to do with the feelings. But, at least they were better than boundless panic.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to…anyway, are you feeling better?”

I nodded. “I guess I’m just…” I was trying to think of an explanation other than
trying to figure out whether I should tell you that your father might still be alive
, but I couldn’t quite come up with one. “…tired,” I finished, lamely.

There was a flash of something skeptical across his face, but he just smiled and squeezed my hands. “Well, hopefully you can get some rest tonight.”

I still felt slightly shaky, but I honestly couldn’t think of anything I’d rather do than pick up right where we left off. Just, maybe without the silent isolation that had sent me into my panic spiral. “I hope this isn’t going to ruin your plans for the evening.”

He looked at me with an eyebrow slightly raised. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely,” I said, slipping my hand out from under his and resting it on his chest. “Nobody takes care of me like you do.”

“I should certainly hope not,” he said, leaning in for a swift kiss before he broke away and stood up. “Just give me a minute, all right?”

I nodded. “Just don’t go too far.”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t leave you alone tonight.”

The promise settled in my chest; it was a warm, comforting sensation. I stayed there obediently as I heard him run up the stairs, then quickly come down again. He approached me from behind, and I felt something light and silky brush against my neck. Then, he lifted it up, and suddenly it was covering my eyes.

“Is this all right?” he asked, as my vision turned to darkness.

“Yes,” I said, which surprised me. As long as I could feel the warmth of his body behind me, and hear his voice, I didn’t mind at all.

“Tell me right away,” he said, “if you don’t feel like you can handle anything.”

“I know,” I said. We’d established that precedent long ago.

“We’re going to walk upstairs now,” he said. “I’ll guide you, but I think you know them well enough by now to avoid stubbing your toe.” I could hear the smile in his voice.

“I hope so,” I replied, archly, letting him raise me to my feet and guide me over. It was actually harder to gauge where I was in space than I would have guessed, but once I’d begun to walk up the stairs, it turned out he was right. I instinctively knew just how far to lift my feet for each step.

I knew when we’d reached the bedroom as well, and not just because he stopped walking. The room had a different feel to it, in a way that I couldn’t quite explain.