PART 2
Dinner with Kellan was supposed to be another performance, but he chose a quiet rooftop restaurant with no photographers, relatives or business partners. He asked what I intended to do with the four million dollars, and I described my future Oregon cottage in loving detail: heated floors, grocery delivery, blackout curtains and absolutely no committee memberships. Instead of mocking me, he listened as if my refusal to chase status was the most interesting thing he had heard all year. That should have warned me. The next morning, a woman named Portia Wren arrived at the mansion carrying a homemade lunch for him. Portia was the polished daughter of one of Bellweather Dynamics’ oldest investors, and Odette had clearly selected her as my replacement. She looked at my blanket, snacks and television remote with open disgust. “Kellan has been in meetings since dawn,” she said. “A real wife would care whether he eats.” I told her I cared deeply, which was why I would never make him gamble on my cooking. Then Kellan’s grandfather called and ordered me to visit headquarters before Portia created gossip. I considered refusing until he threatened to cancel the premium gaming account he had given me. Ten minutes later, I called a luxury catering company.
Portia reached the executive floor with one small container of cold chicken and wild rice. I arrived behind her with six carts of grilled salmon, steak, soup, pastries and enough food for Kellan’s entire strategy team. The executives had just finished a seven-hour meeting and attacked the buffet like survivors of a shipwreck. Tate declared me a humanitarian hero while Portia stood beside the elevator holding her lonely lunchbox. “I made this myself,” she said weakly. Kellan barely looked at it. He took a plate from the catering table, carried it into his private lounge and found me already asleep on the sofa. I had completed my marital duty and saw no reason to remain conscious. When I woke, my shoes had been placed neatly beside the couch and Kellan was sitting on the floor reviewing contracts with one hand while holding my discarded blanket in place with the other. Portia had left. “You embarrassed her,” he said without looking up. “I fed forty people.” “Exactly.” His mouth curved. “You defeated her without noticing she was competing.” I asked whether that counted as overtime under our marriage agreement. He said he would review my compensation personally.
Odette retaliated by assigning me responsibility for a private reception involving the spouses of Bellweather’s most important investors. She expected me to wear uncomfortable shoes, memorize family histories and fail publicly. Instead, I converted the mansion garden into a silent wellness retreat. Guests surrendered their phones, changed into soft robes and spent three hours receiving massages, drinking herbal tea and resting beneath heated blankets. Odette and Portia arrived dressed for a formal luncheon and were immediately instructed by a stern meditation coach to stop talking. Every time Odette tried to criticize me, the coach struck a brass chime beside her chair and reminded her that negative energy damaged the group. I slept through most of the event. The guests loved it. Their spouses arrived at Bellweather’s contract negotiations the next morning grateful, relaxed and unusually agreeable. Kellan closed a partnership worth nearly nine hundred million dollars. That evening he found me eating cereal in bed and placed a bonus check on my lap. “Your laziness just improved our negotiating position.” I inspected the amount. “This is lower than one percent.” “You slept through the event.” “Efficient leadership should be rewarded, not punished.”
Portia’s final attack was less amusing. She paid an entertainment site to publish photographs of me in sweatpants, claiming Kellan was preparing to divorce his “idle, ungrateful wife.” Reporters surrounded me during a morning walk beside the waterfront. Running away would have required unnecessary cardio, so I sat on a bench, opened a bag of roasted almonds and answered their questions honestly. Yes, I slept late. No, I did not clean the mansion. Yes, professionals cooked our meals. When a reporter asked whether I feared divorce, I leaned toward the microphones. “I fear he will refuse to divorce me. Please make the articles harsher. My settlement is four million dollars, and I am willing to share a percentage if public pressure convinces him to sign early.” The clip went live. Within minutes, millions of people were watching me openly campaign for the end of my own marriage. At Bellweather headquarters, Tate showed the video to Kellan during a board meeting. Kellan broke the pen in his hand, canceled the meeting and drove across the city himself.
He arrived while I was explaining my proposed media commission. The reporters expected an argument. Instead, Kellan sat beside me, took the almond bag from my hand and began removing the shells before feeding me one. Then he faced the cameras. “I did not marry Romy to hire a housekeeper. I employ housekeepers. I married her because she is the only person in my life who does not want anything from me except uninterrupted sleep and a properly funded retirement.” He pulled me against his side. “If my wife wants to spend the next ten years doing nothing, I can afford twenty.” The reporters fell silent. In the car, I congratulated him on an excellent public-relations performance and requested an additional fifty thousand dollars for emotional inconvenience. Kellan looked at me for a long moment. “You still believe I am acting?” Before I could answer, he leaned closer and said, “Spend my money. Sleep until noon. Let everyone else compete. I am not protecting the contract anymore, Romy. I am protecting you.” My heart stumbled, but my practical instincts screamed louder. We had only six months left, and the man who was supposed to pay me to leave had just announced to the entire country that he intended to keep me.
