The Billionaire’s Neglected Wife

Chapter 9

When Emily returned hours later from visiting her sister it was dark. Her husband’s tall, brooding figure didn't wait for her in the foyer this time and the whole place was really quiet. Her heels clicked loudly across the marble floors as she made her way up the winding staircase.

She didn’t pause or try to find out if her husband was at home, she just went straight to the guest bedroom where she’d spent the last nights pretending this wasn’t her home anymore and she wasn't anyone’s wife.

A hot shower helped melt the chill from her bones, but not the knot in her stomach. She eventually managed to relax into bed, letting exhaustion carry her into a dreamless sleep.

When she got up the next morning, bright sunlight pierced through the gauzy curtains. She blinked, sat up slowly and froze. This wasn’t the guest bedroom.

The soft navy and ivory palette, the custom oak wardrobe, the faint scent of Nicolas’s cologne lingering in the air—it was unmistakably the master Bedroom.

A glance to the other side of the massive bed answered the question that came to mind: the sheets were rumpled. Nicolas had slept beside her.

Emily peeked beneath the covers, heart racing, and let out a breath of relief when she saw the same silky sapphire nightgown she’d worn to bed. At least nothing had happened while she was unconscious.

She stood up and immediately regretted moving that fast because somehow the room tilted.

Grabbing the headboard, she steadied herself and frowned. Her muscles ached from the days of stress and undernourishment, but the dizziness was new.

She tried to think—what had she eaten? Not much breakfast yesterday, No lunch because her appetite had vanished after overhearing that soul-destroying conversation between Nicolas and her father. Dinner was also skipped entirely.

Even Quinn’s gentle coaxing hadn’t been enough to get her to eat.

Now her body was screaming in protest. She forced herself to keep moving and shuffled into the bathroom, where a splash of cold water revived her just enough to make a decision.

Brunch. A proper one.

The kitchen was bathed in soft morning light by the time she descended from the bedroom. She opened the French doors to let the soft breeze drift in as she gathered ingredients.

She sliced up fresh strawberries, cubes of watermelon, and golden mango, arranging them in a cold bowl with sprigs of mint. She cracked eggs into a bowl and beat them with a splash of cream and sea salt. The idea was to make a soft scrambled egg on toast with avocado and smoked salmon. Something simple but still delicious.

But the moment the eggs hit the buttered skillet, the scent made her stomach twist in the worst way.

She barely made it to the guest bathroom before she was on her knees, heaving violently. Her throat burned and her eyes watered badly. She groaned and pressed her forehead against the cool porcelain, trying to steady her breathing.

When her stomach finally stopped convulsing, she dragged herself outside and far away from the house, the smells, the unbearable twist still happening in her stomach.

She wandered through the back garden to the lower terrace. It overlooked the private beach below, and this early in the day, the tide hadn’t yet come in. Gentle waves lapped against the rocks and the air was fresh and cool, carrying the scent of salt and jasmine from the hedge nearby.

She collapsed onto a cushioned daybed in the corner of the terrace, curling into herself. Her hand instinctively touched her flat stomach.

“No…” she whispered, eyes fixed on the horizon where the indigo sky met the ocean.

“No. No, no, no… please not now. Not like this.”

She buried her face in her hands, rocking slightly. The signs were there. The nausea, the dizziness, the emotional swings, and now that she thought about it, she missed her period. But she refused to believe it was what she suspected. It had to be stress.

She had been under immense pressure and her eating habits had been bad enough. Her sleep was almost always restless. So she figured anyone would feel off balance after the week she’d had.

But as she stood and made her way slowly back toward the house, the doubt stayed coiled tight in her chest.

She tossed the eggs into the garbage disposal with a scowl and settled for a slice of toast and some chamomile tea instead. The toast tasted like cardboard but she forced it down anyway.

Once finished, she retreated to the one place in the house that felt wholly hers.

The storage room.

Once a dusty, forgotten space, Emily had transformed it into her sanctuary. The sunlight poured in through the angled skylight, pooling across the wooden floor. Shelves lined the back wall, stocked with supplies. Watercolor pans arranged by hue, tubes of oil paint, and Mason jars filled with brushes, palette knives, and graphite pencils.

Her easel stood near the window, a large piece of textured watercolor paper clamped to it. The scent of linseed oil, turpentine, and faint lavender hung in the air, which was oddly comforting to her.

She pulled on an oversized linen smock and tied her hair up. A playlist of soft cello and piano music began playing through the speaker in the corner. She grabbed a jar of water, dipped a sable brush into a pool of cobalt blue, and began to paint.

Or tried to.

The strokes were clumsy and the image in her head—a figure standing alone on a beach as waves crashed around her—refused to come alive.

She tried again and again but the connection wasn’t there. Her chest ached with frustration and with a soft growl, she let the brush fall to the ground. Her hands pressed into her eyes as if she could block out the whole world by sheer force.

“Emily, are you in here?”

The voice was soft, but it cut through the haze of her frustration and she startled violently, scrambling to her feet.

Then she recognized the voice and froze.

Nicolas.

He stood in the doorway of the room, hands raised, palms out as if he were trying to soothe a cornered animal.

“It's just me. You don't need to look so surprised.” he said, his tone quiet.

“Yes I do,” she snapped, pulse still racing. “What the hell are you doing here by this time? It’s the middle of the day and you’re usually locked away in that glass tower of yours until half the city’s gone to bed.”

“Well I wanted us to get lunch together or something.”

She blinked. That wasn’t the answer she expected.

While he spoke, his eyes were busy roaming the room. Taking in her sanctuary. The canvases leaning against the wall, the partially-finished watercolors, the organized chaos of her paint table.

He moved slowly, reaching for a small ceramic pot that held her finest Kolinsky brushes which were extremely hard for her to get.

“Get your large hands away from that!” she snapped, more sharply than she intended. Her hand flew out protectively. “Those were hard to get and they are nearly impossible to replace.”