Secret Marriage with the Ruthless Billionaire

Chapter 005 The Breakfast Rule

Elena had almost asked about the metallic sounds she'd heard from the rehabilitation corridor last night.

But nobody had called for help, and she'd promised Adrian she would respect his private spaces. Curiosity wasn't a reason to break that promise.

She was still thinking about the locked door when a staff member approached her in the breakfast room.

"Ms. Whitmore, would you prefer the everyday china or the formal silver this morning?"

Elena glanced at the table. Polished cutlery surrounded each plate. There were three glasses at every setting and a vase of fresh flowers in the center.

"The everyday setting is fine. I'm only here for toast."

"Of course, Mrs. Blackwood."

"Actually, Elena is fine. I haven't changed my name."

The woman hesitated. "Certainly, Ms. Whitmore."

Not quite what Elena had asked for, but she smiled anyway. The staff were trying to be helpful. She didn't want them worrying about getting her title right.

Another employee appeared beside the coffee service.

"Orange juice? A latte? Warm milk? We have sourdough and whole-wheat toast."

"An Americano, please. No sugar. And whichever toast is already made."

"Would you prefer—"

"You don't need to ask me about every little thing," Elena said gently. "I can help myself."

The woman looked alarmed. "I'm sorry."

"You haven't done anything wrong. I just want an ordinary breakfast."

Wheelchair wheels whispered across the floor behind her.

"Is something wrong?" Adrian asked.

Elena turned. He wore a dark shirt with the sleeves rolled back. A folder rested on his lap. Whatever had happened in the rehabilitation wing last night, his expression offered no clue.

"No. I'm trying to explain that I don't need a formal reception every time I want coffee."

He studied the table. "This isn't the formal service."

Elena stared at the glasses. "You're kidding."

"The formal service has more pieces."

"Then I'll need a diagram before our first dinner party."

The corner of his mouth lifted. He told the staff to prepare breakfast as usual and let her ask for anything extra.

Once they stepped away, Elena sat opposite him.

"Thank you. I don't want anyone thinking I'm criticizing their work."

"You aren't. You're telling them what you prefer."

"It felt like a job interview. Every thirty seconds, another question I might answer incorrectly."

"No one's going to cancel our marriage because you order the wrong breakfast."

She laughed before she could stop herself. "Good to know."

A cup of black coffee arrived, followed by toast and fruit. Adrian glanced at her plate but didn't comment on her choices.

Elena spread her napkin across her lap. "Can I suggest another rule?"

"Go ahead."

"We don't have to eat together every day. Whoever gets hungry first should just eat. If our schedules happen to overlap, great."

"Agreed."

"Just like that?"

"Were you hoping to negotiate?"

"I'm discovering you're easier to live with than your reputation suggests."

His gaze sharpened with interest. "What reputation?"

"You know the one."

"I'm curious which version you've heard."

"The one that says you expect everyone to follow your schedule."

"At work, I expect people to meet their commitments."

"And at home?"

"Breakfast isn't worth fighting over."

"A surprisingly reasonable philosophy."

A staff member returned with a basket of toast. Adrian noticed the untouched jam beside Elena's plate.

"Plain toast for Elena, please. No jam."

Elena raised an eyebrow. "How did you know?"

"You haven't used any."

"You're observant."

"Occupational hazard."

He took a sip of coffee. Elena glanced at his closed folder, then at him. For once, the silence between them didn't feel like a test.

"What are you working on today?" he asked.

"A portfolio and a budget."

"For what?"

"Taking independent jewelry commissions. Eventually."

Elena explained that Maya was still reviewing the ownership of several older designs. She couldn't simply publish everything she'd made while working for Whitmore Atelier. The designs she legally owned would form the beginning of her portfolio; the others would stay out until the rights were clear.

"And after that?" Adrian asked.

"Small custom orders. Work directly with clients, charge for the design, and use qualified workshops for production. I'd rather start with a few pieces than buy inventory I can't sell."

"What about suppliers?"

"I know people in the trade, but I need to establish relationships under my own name. That's different from ordering materials for Whitmore Atelier."

"It will take time."

"I know." She traced the rim of her cup. "And it might not work."

"Why do you want to do it alone? You could ask your former company to distribute your designs."

"Maybe someday, on fair terms. But I want customers to choose my work, not the Whitmore name."

He watched her for a moment. "You've thought further ahead than you let on."

"Not far enough. My spreadsheet is a disaster."

"That usually means you're putting real numbers in it."

Elena smiled. "Is that supposed to encourage me?"

"Was it convincing?"

"Almost."

She expected him to offer money or a team of consultants. He did neither. He listened when she explained production costs and client deposits, then asked whether she'd accounted for revisions to an approved design.

"Not properly," she admitted, making a note on her phone. "That's going on my list for Maya."

Noah appeared at the doorway. "Sir, your scheduled call is coming up."

Adrian checked the time. "I have to go."

"So do I. My budget won't fix itself."

He looked at her cup. "Your coffee's cold. Want another?"

"No, thanks. I spent too long talking."

"I didn't mind."

It was a simple answer, but Elena looked up. His expression was steady, almost matter-of-fact.

"Good luck with your call," she said.

"Good luck with your numbers."

After he left, she stayed at the table another minute. No lawyers, no family confrontation, no bargain to defend. They'd talked about toast and her work, and he'd remembered how she liked her coffee.

It wasn't trust. Not yet. But sharing a house suddenly seemed possible.

At her desk, Elena opened a fresh document titled PRIVATE COMMISSIONS.

Yesterday she'd sent Maya a list of old designs requiring an ownership review. Today she needed different advice: how to take a new client without creating another dispute over payment or rights.

She wrote down questions about deposits, revisions, cancellations, and whether a client would own the final design or only the finished piece. She added estimates for metal, gemstones, manufacturing, packaging, and shipping.

The total made her wince.

She removed an unnecessary equipment purchase and recalculated. Better. Still tight.

At noon, she emailed Maya about a standard agreement for independent commissions. This time, she didn't ask about Whitmore's old designs. She wanted to know how to protect new work from the first conversation with a client.

She looked at the empty line labeled FIRST PAID ORDER.

No amount appeared beside it yet.

That was all right. She could start with one client, one design, and a contract she understood.

At nine that evening, Noah delivered the final documents to Adrian's office.

"Tomorrow's schedule is confirmed," he said. "The additional shelving for Elena's workspace is still on hold. She hasn't requested it."

"Then don't order it."

"Of course. No issues with the household arrangements, either."

Adrian set down his pen. "She's settling in?"

"She seemed more relaxed at breakfast."

Adrian remembered her laugh when he'd mentioned canceling their marriage over toast. It had been unguarded, nothing like the careful composure she wore around Charles.

"She did," he said.

Noah paused. "Sir, one thing. She asked for privacy yesterday, and you agreed. I don't think the staff should be asked to report her personal activities just because we don't know much about her."

"I haven't asked them to."

"I know. I'd like to keep it that way."

Adrian looked at his assistant. "You sound very protective."

"I'm protecting the arrangement you made."

It was a fair answer, irritating only because Noah had delivered it so calmly.

"She hasn't tried to use my position to influence Whitmore's financing," Adrian said.

"No. But not doing something suspicious isn't proof of anything. It's just not doing it."

"You could have stopped after the first sentence."

"Probably."

Adrian shook his head. "Go home, Noah."

"Good night, sir."

Once the door closed, Adrian put aside the contracts he'd been reviewing.

Elena had talked about building a small jewelry business as though she were prepared to spend months finding her first clients. She'd discussed manufacturing fees with more excitement than the expensive collections at Ravencrest.

He liked that about her.

Liking it didn't answer the questions surrounding Whitmore Atelier.

She'd worked there for years. Its commercial dealings were still under review, and he didn't know what Charles had told her. She might be entirely uninvolved. She might have seen something without realizing its significance.

Neither possibility justified searching her private files. He'd made that promise, and he intended to keep it.

Adrian opened a drawer and removed a thin folder.

Elena Whitmore.

The background summary had been prepared before their marriage using lawfully obtained information. It contained her public education history, employment records, and references to jewelry collections with which her name had been associated.

He turned to the section on her professional work.

Some entries were detailed. Others offered little more than a project title and a date. Nothing proved misconduct. But the gaps left him with questions he couldn't yet answer.

He remembered her saying she wanted clients to choose her because they liked her designs, not because she was a Whitmore.

Perhaps she'd meant every word.

Adrian picked up a pen.

Beside the summary of Elena's work history, he drew a question mark.