The Billionaires Secret Marriage

Chapter 3

Henry

After sending the kids home, I've been nursing a beer at the Sinners and Saints pub owned by one of my best friends Adrian. Thankfully, I haven't run into him today and with the way my mind is reeling, I'm not the best of company. I sip my beer again and inhale the neon light. The loud music is like the chaos I find myself in... louder, sharper, and harder to ignore. The kind of noise that won’t let you think straight. Maybe that’s why I’m here. Thinking feels too dangerous right now.

“Somehow, I knew I’d find you here,” Ernest says, sliding onto the empty stool beside me.

I glance at him, close my eyes, then turn back to my beer. “Why were you looking for me?” I ask. I had sent his kids home earlier after our Ice cream shopping. Sandra was home and said she was going to take over so I left them and came here to be quiet in the noise. I wanted to stay away from anyone who would make me smile brightly when that's the last thing I want to do.

Ernest doesn’t answer right away. When I finally look, his expression is somber.

“Well, it was surprising not to see you with the kids when we got back.” Oh right. I usually stay with them and catch up with them anytime I pick them up. I've been trying to get to know Sandra after I discovered she was my twin all over again so it was no wonder Ernest realized something was off.

“And why is that?” I ask taking another sip and pretending I don’t know what he’s getting at. Ernest raises an eyebrow. I smirk. He’s not getting much out of me today.

“Come on, man. What’s going on? I left my wife to come here.” That makes me laugh. Ever since Ernest got married, every other sentence is about his wife or kids.

“You know,” he says, leaning closer, “I heard snippets of something from my kids.”

“Goddammit,” I mutter. The kids are too much and too smart for their own good. Wait... Is the school a special school?

"Which school? The one my kids go to? Yes!" Ernest replies making me realise that I've asked the question out without knowing. I sigh.

"You know," Ernest starts, leaning back and giving me a knowing look, "when we first met, I thought you were too bubbly for your own good. Most people from families like ours... they weren’t like you. You seemed to have it all together. This is the first time in years I’m seeing you without that signature smile.” He clinks his glass against mine mid-sip, jolting me.

“I know, right,” I say, swirling the beer before taking a long gulp. Maybe it’s the spirit of the holidays or the weight of today but suddenly, it feels too hard to keep it all bottled up. "I met my wife today."

Ernest sputters his drink, coughing and wiping his mouth as if I’d just told him I’d seen a ghost. It takes a lot to shock Ernest. If this weren’t about me, I’d be laughing about it for years.

“Your wife?!” His voice shoots up an octave. “YOUR WIFE?!”

I glance around sharply. “Keep your voice down,” I hiss, though I can’t help smirking at his reaction.

He blinks at me, still processing. “You’re just gonna drop that on me like it’s nothing?”

“What kind of attitude are you picking up from your wife and kids?” I ask, deflecting. It’s easier to shift the spotlight to him, to pretend I’m not rattled too.

Ernest chuckles, shaking his head, but there’s a flicker of something that looks like concern, in his expression.

"Don't try to deflect," Ernest says, catching my drift.

"Who's deflecting?" I ask though the lump in my throat betrays me. Telling Ernest is hard enough. Telling someone else? That feels like stepping off a cliff.

Before Ernest can press further, a familiar voice cuts through the hum of the bar.

"What’s going on? And why didn’t you guys tell me you were coming out?" Jeez here goes being alone

Philemon.

I glance over my shoulder to see him striding toward us, all sharp eyes and easy confidence. He always has this way of making you feel like you’ve been caught in the middle of something whether you were or not. Ernest leans back, a grin spreading across his face, clearly relieved to have some backup.

“Perfect timing,” Ernest says, raising his glass. “Henry was just about to tell me the whole story.”

I shoot Ernest a look. If I thought keeping this from him was hard, explaining it to Philemon would be like trying to explain snow to a desert.

I knew I was going to pay for all the teasing I gave these two when they were fumbling to find their respective partners. What I didn’t expect was that it’d come back around like this—raw, direct, and aimed straight at me.

“Let’s find a booth then,” Philemon says, clapping a hand on Ernest’s shoulder. “It’s not every day Henry has something interesting to share.” He signals to the bartender without waiting for my protest.

“The usual booth?” the bartender asks, already reaching for the beer tap.

Phil gives him a thumbs up, and I shake my head, trailing behind them. There’s something lighter about him today like a weight he’s been carrying has finally shifted. Normally, he’s as heavy as I feel during this time of year, except his pain shows in the lines of his face, in the way he nurses his drink like it’s a lifeline. Mine? I’ve perfected the art of hiding it. No one knows about my marriage.

Everyone knows about his.

The missing wife. Still the favorite gossip in our circle.

“Did something good happen today?” I can’t help but ask as we weave through the crowded bar.

Phil shrugs, the kind that’s more answer than gesture, a mix of both yes and no. “Maybe,” he says.

We reach the booth, and he slides in across from me, settling his beer in front of him like it’s another player at the table.

“Which is it?” I press, taking my seat. “Yes or no?”

“Both,” he says, leaning back. “I feel like I’m close. Like I’ll find them soon.”

My chest tightens. Anytime Philemon talks about his wife, it feels like a mirror, a warped reflection of my own situation. Except his is a hunt for someone who doesn’t want to be found. Mine? Mine is someone who I now realize wouldn't recognize me if she stood right in front of me.

I swallow hard, swirling my beer as I force myself to say, “I know you’ll find her. But the question is... what will you find alongside her? Or how much has she changed over the years?”

The words feel sharp, cutting both of us. Looking for Ashley never led anywhere but dead ends. I told myself I’d apologize when I found her, even though I wasn’t at fault. As if an apology could bridge the gap between us. As if saying sorry could make her remember.

But I never expected to meet her like this. Not today. Not like this. I sigh, and Phil catches it.

“What’s that look on your face?” he asks, studying me over the rim of his glass. Before I can answer, he grins. “Ah… Thanksgiving’s coming up, isn’t it?”

The words make me snap my head so fast he chuckles.

“What? You always try to be your brightest during the holidays. Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter... you name it. We always thought you got more animated this time of year like the damn spirit of the season was contagious. But then I spent my first Christmas without my wife, and, man, all the fake care drove me nuts. I figured out how to play along, but that’s when I realized something was off with you.”

He leans forward, tapping the edge of his glass on the table. Ernest nods beside him, confirming it, and my chest tightens again.

I blink, trying to brush it off. “I thought the answer was about your twin,” Ernest says, his voice lower now, as if stepping carefully.

“The one who died. Or didn’t. But from what you just shared earlier, it seems like it wasn’t that. It seems like you never trusted us enough to tell us the truth.”

The words hit harder than they should. I shake my head, my pulse kicking up. “That’s not it—”

Phil raises an eyebrow, his calm piercing through my fumbling. “What did he say earlier?” he asks, nursing his beer like he’s got all the time in the world.

Ernest looks at me, eyebrows raised, waiting. Of course, he wants it to come from me. No one’s going to bail me out here.

I exhale slowly, my hand tightening around my empty glass. “I met my wife today.”

Ernest doesn’t move. He just nods because I mentioned it earlier before Philemon arrived. Philemon on the other hand tilts his head, his glass halfway to his lips.

“With two kids,” I continue, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. “Two kids who looked... a little like me.” I stop, shaking my head as the reality of it presses down on me. “No. Scratch that. The boy is the spitting image of me when I was his age. Like a damn photocopy.”

I rub the back of my neck, trying to find the right words, but my hands start moving on their own, gesturing wildly, as if they can make this easier. “And the girl? She’s... she’s Henrietta, my twin. I mean—” I stumble over her name. “She has both Sandra and her mom but her features are that of Sandra’s double.”

Silence falls over the booth, thick and heavy. Philemon sets his glass down deliberately, his movements slow, and calculated. His gaze locks on me, sharp and searching like he’s seeing me for the first time.

“Excuse me?” he says, his voice low and even, but there’s something razor-sharp in it.

I smirk, though it’s hollow, the kind you give when you’re on the edge of falling apart. “Yep,” I say, my voice dry. “And that’s not even the killer thing.”

Philemon narrows his eyes, but he doesn’t say anything. Ernest leans forward slightly, his hands clasped on the table like he’s bracing for impact.

“There’s more?” Philemon asks, his voice quiet but tight.

I down the rest of my beer in one go, the burn doing nothing to dull the knot in my chest. I slam the glass onto the table and look up at him.

“She doesn’t remember me,” I say, my voice cracking slightly. The words drop into the silence like stones, rippling outward. My chest tightens, and for a second, I can’t breathe. I thought saying it out loud might help, but instead, it felt like a confession I wasn’t ready to make.

For a moment, no one speaks. Philemon blinks as if he’s trying to process what I just said. Ernest exhales sharply, leaning back into the booth, his hands running through his hair.

“She doesn’t...” Philemon starts, his voice trailing off. He picks up his glass but doesn’t drink, just holds it like it’s the only thing grounding him. “What do you mean she doesn’t remember you?”