The Billionaire's Fourth Wife

*Norman Pov* I slam my glass down on the marble counter. The crack of it cuts through the whole kitchen. "I'm getting married again." I say it hard. Flat. Not a question. Not news I'm sharing. An order dropped into the room, the kind that doesn't wait for anyone's permission. The kitchen smells like coffee and cut tomatoes. Morning light spills through the tall windows and lands gold on the marble counter. My three wives were moving through their usual rhythm just seconds ago. Ella at the cutting board. Luna at the coffee machine. Helen setting a bowl down soft and easy. It was a good morning. Calm. Ordinary. Not anymore. The knife in Ella's hand stops halfway through a tomato. Her whole body goes still, like someone hit pause on her. A thin slice of red hangs off the blade, not quite falling. Luna's hand jerks off the coffee machine like it burned her. Her mouth opens. It stays open, like she forgot how to close it. Helen's fingers slip on the bowl. It tips hard, and for one second I think it will shatter on the floor. She catches it against her hip instead, hard enough that I hear the smack of ceramic against her skin. She does not even flinch. Her eyes stay locked on my face. No one speaks. The room holds its breath. I reach into the fruit bowl. I take an apple. I bite into it. The crunch is the loudest sound in the whole kitchen. Luna finds her voice first. It comes out small, shaky. "I'm sorry — what did you just say?" I chew. I swallow. I look at her like she asked me something obvious. "I said I'm getting married again." Helen sets the bowl down slow, careful, like she does not trust her own hands anymore today. Her eyes search my face, hunting for a smirk, a wink, some small sign that says *joke.* She finds nothing. Because there is nothing to find. "Norman." Her voice drops low. Controlled, the way it always is right before it isn't anymore. "Tell me this is one of your terrible jokes." "It isn't." I take another bite. Another crunch, echoing off the marble walls. Ella sets her knife down slowly, deliberately, like she needs both hands free for whatever comes next. She steps back from the counter, putting space between us. The way a person steps back from a fire that's just gotten bigger than expected. "You can't be serious," she says. "I'm completely serious." "You already have three wives." Helen crosses her arms tight over her chest — a wall going up right in front of me. "After everything we went through. We finally stopped fighting each other. We finally became something like a family." I shrug. "And?" Her eyes go wide. "*And?*" "Yes. And?" Luna lets out a laugh with no warmth in it at all. Short. Bitter. Gone as fast as it came. "You're unbelievable." I lean back against the cool marble, unhurried, and finish the apple in three more bites. "I know," I say. "But I don't see the problem." Ella's eyes go hard. Cold, even. "You honestly don't?" "No." She shakes her head slowly, her hair swinging with the motion. "You're one of the richest men in America," she says. "You own the biggest social media company in the world. You founded Trust Bank. You own enough real estate to build a whole city." "I know," I say, smiling. "I've been fortunate." Her hands fly up into the air. "And somehow your favorite hobby is *collecting wives.*" That breaks Luna completely. She doubles over, one hand braced against the counter, laughing so hard her whole body shakes with it. Helen slaps both hands over her mouth, shoulders trembling, fighting a smile she clearly does not want to give me. I frown, feigning hurt. "I don't collect wives." "Oh, really?" Ella says. "Then what would you call this?" "Expanding valuable investments." Luna nearly falls off her feet at that one, gasping for air between laughs. "If anyone here is unhappy," I say, calm now, setting the apple core aside, "the door is right there." The laughter dies instantly. The room goes still in a way that feels heavier than before. I look at each of them in turn. Helen. Ella. Luna. I watch their faces shift from amused to serious, one after another, like a light going out in three rooms at once. "You're free to leave," I say. I reach into my jacket. I take out my pen. I set it down on the counter. The sound is small. But it lands heavy, like something final. "In fact — I'll make it easy. Whoever walks out that door today, I'll sign a check for ten million dollars. Right now. On the spot." No one moves. No one speaks. Ten million dollars. Enough to disappear completely. Enough to never see me again, if that's what any of them wanted more than they wanted to stay. Not one of them takes a single step toward the door. I chuckle, low and satisfied. "That's what I thought." The laugh that follows is colder, sharper, filling the whole kitchen. "Now it's my turn to laugh." The three of them trade uneasy glances. Quick, sideways looks, none of them quite meeting each other's eyes. I watch Helen's arms tighten across her chest. I watch Ella's jaw set hard. I watch Luna's smile disappear completely, replaced by something tired and worn. They have lives here. Power. Status. Years spent building something inside these walls. Walking away doesn't just mean losing me. It means losing everything they've become since they married me. They know it. I know it too. I toss the apple core into the trash and wipe my hands against my suit. "I wasn't asking for permission," I say, adjusting the cuff of my watch. "I was simply informing you." I turn and walk toward the door. My shoes click sharp against the marble. I don't look back. The door swings shut behind me with a soft, final sound. I stop just outside it. I wait. I listen. For a long moment, nothing. Then the voices start, hushed and fast. "This is going to end badly for her." Ella's voice. Calm. Already calculating. "We can't keep letting Norman marry whoever he wants just because he's rich." Luna's voice. Angry, the words clipped short. "She hasn't even walked through the door yet," Helen says, "and she's already ruining the peace we worked so hard for." I smile to myself in the empty hallway. Let them plan. Let them scheme in that kitchen all they want. It changes nothing. I am Norman Benson. I built an empire out of nothing but nerve and timing. No one tells me what to do. No one has, in twenty years, and no one is about to start now. I walk down the hallway, my shoes clicking steady against the marble, already thinking ahead to the woman who does not know yet what she's about to walk into. She has been in this house three years. She has poured my coffee. She has cleaned my office. She has walked past me in hallways I own, and I never once really looked at her. I am looking now. And she still doesn't know one thing. She still doesn't know I have already made my choice.