Trusting the Billionaire

Chapter Six: Lunch I

The last Sunday of the month was for family lunch, an unspoken law in the King household that no one dared break. Marshall pulled into the compound and parked his car, he noticed an unfamiliar sedan tucked besides his mother's car that he didn't recognize. A car that belonged, unmistakably, to a woman.

He exhaled slowly. Three months since his cousin Francis had gotten engaged to Prisca, and in that time his mother had transformed from a woman who occasionally sighed about grandchildren into a full-time matchmaker with a rotating cast of "prospective wives" she paraded through Sunday lunch like job candidates.

He already knew how today would go. She would mention with casualness, that Francis and Prisca's wedding was only three months away. She'd remind him that his younger brother, Donald, had married three years ago and now had Ethan, the most adorable toddler to ever exist, as if Marshall needed convincing of his own nephew's charm. And somewhere between the appetizer and dessert, she'd find a way to steer the conversation toward him "settling down," her eyes drifting meaningfully toward whichever poor woman she'd invited that week.

Since Francis's engagement, though, she'd stopped being subtle about it entirely.

He got out of the car, squared his shoulders, and walked in.

His father, Logan King, was exactly where he always was on a Sunday, folded into his favorite armchair with a newspaper he probably wasn't really reading.

"Hey, Dad."

Logan glanced up over the rim of his glasses, a knowing look already forming. "Marshall." A beat. Then, without looking up again, "Kitchen's full today."

Marshall didn't need to ask what he meant. He could already hear it, three distinct feminine voices drifting from the kitchen, weaving in and out of each other. His mother's voice, warm and animated. Laura's, softer, familiar by now. And a third voice, one he didn't recognize at all.

The prospective wife. Right on schedule.

He tilted his head toward the kitchen, a silent question aimed at his father.

Logan finally set the newspaper down on his lap, unbothered. "Women stuff," he said simply, waving a hand as though that explained everything. "You know how your mother is. She means well."

Marshall huffed a quiet laugh, more resignation than humor. "That's what worries me."

Before his father could respond, footsteps approached from the direction of the living quarters, and his brother Donald emerged, Ethan balanced on his chest, one small fist curled into the collar of his father's shirt.

"The billionaire has arrived," Donald announced, loud enough to be heard clearly, his tone carrying that familiar bite that had, lately, stopped bothering to hide itself.

Marshall let it slide, the way he always did. "Good to see you too."

They'd been close once, genuinely close despite the four year gap between them, the kind of brothers who felt more like buddies. But two years ago, when their father had announced Marshall as CEO of Construction Co. Ltd in front of the entire family and company, something had quietly shifted. Donald had smiled that day, clapped him on the back, said all the right things.

But something in his eyes were off.

.......

Audrey's phone buzzed against the granite countertop just as she'd finally settled into her Sunday hot chocolate in hand, feet tucked beneath her on the kitchen stool. She glanced at the screen. Mum.

She almost let it ring out. Almost. But guilt won, the way it always did, and she swiped to answer.

"Hi, Mum."

"Audrey, darling, finally." Her mother's voice came through bright and breezy, the kind of voice that belonged to someone with absolutely nothing weighing on her. In the background, Audrey could make out the clink of glasses, a ripple of laughter that wasn't her mother's. "You never pick up on the first try anymore."

"I've been busy."

"You're always busy." A pause, the sound of ice shifting in a glass. "I'm at Diane's for brunch, we're doing the club's charity thing next weekend, you should come. It would do you good to be seen somewhere other than that office."

Audrey pressed two fingers to her temple. It always started this way. Casual. Light. As if her mother existed in a different universe entirely, one where grief was something you dealt with once, tidily, and then set aside like a coat you no longer needed.

It had been about two years since her father died, and in that time her mother had returned, seamlessly, to the parties, the club luncheons, the weekend getaways with women whose husbands still golfed on Sundays. Audrey didn't begrudge her the socializing exactly. But there was a difference between healing and forgetting, and some days she genuinely couldn't tell which one her mother had chosen, spoke of him the way people spoke of a mild inconvenience from a season long past.

"How's the bank?" her mother asked, and there it was, the shift in tone Audrey had learned to brace for.

"It's manageable."

"Manageable." Her mother made a small sound, somewhere between a sigh and a scoff. "Audrey, you don't have to carry this. You know that, right? Your father tried so hard with that place, and look what it did to him, all those late nights, all that stress. He wouldn't want you making yourself sick over it. Sell it, darling. Let it go. You're young, you're beautiful, you should be living, not drowning in loan portfolios."

Audrey closed her eyes. "It was Dad's legacy, Mum."

"Your father would want you happy. Not exhausted. There's a difference." A beat, and then, more pointed, "Women aren't meant to carry this much on their own, you know. It's not natural, all this working, working, working. When was the last time you actually enjoyed yourself?"

This was familiar territory too, worn smooth from repetition. Her mother's particular theory that a woman's ambition had an expiration date, that Audrey's early twenties had been an acceptable window for career building and her late twenties were now overdue for something softer. Marriage. Ease. A husband to hand the weight off to.

"Which reminds me," her mother continued, seamless as ever, "Carol's son, Bennett, he's back from London, did I tell you? Wonderful young man, very established, and Carol's been asking when we can all get together. I told her this weekend. You, me, Bennett and his mother, lunch at the club."

Audrey set her coffee down with more force than she meant to. "Mum, I told you I wasn't interested in that."

"You haven't even met him."

"I don't need to meet him to know I don't have time for it right now."

"You never have time, Audrey, that's exactly my point." Her mother's voice softened, took on that wounded edge she deployed so effectively. "I just want to see you settled. Happy. Is that so terrible? Your father would have wanted grandchildren, you know. He always said—"

"I have to go, Mum." Audrey pinched the bridge of her nose. "I've got a call in a few minutes."

"On a Sunday?"

"Banking doesn't stop for the weekend." Not entirely true, but close enough to end the conversation. "I'll call you next week, we'll figure out a time to see Carol and Bennett then."

A vague promise, the kind she'd perfected over the past year, always dangling a next time just far enough away to avoid confrontation now. Her mother sighed, clearly recognizing the tactic for what it was, but let it go with a soft, "Fine. Don't work too hard, darling," before the call ended.

Audrey set the phone face down on the counter and exhaled slowly, letting her shoulders drop for the first time all morning. The weekend stretched out in front of her, quiet and hers, and she intended to guard every hour of it.