CHASING THE BILLIONAIRE’S LOVE

The Anniversary Gift.

THE YEAR BEFORE

Aurora

He’d been nice this morning, I think as I roll the wooden rolling pin over the dusted dough, smiling to myself as I recall the memory.

He’d even snuggled deep into the bed last night. I bit my lower lip to contain the joy that almost slipped out. Making him dinner is only appreciative of me, even though I know he won’t eat it.

But still…

I’ll give him time. Because doesn’t every man, eventually, love the woman who stays? My thoughts fly to the schedule for the evening, I have to pick up the anniversary gift.

Yeah. One year with Lucian Stone deserves a celebration. I doubt he’ll even remember.

Maybe he’d smile when I hand him the bottle of vintage scotch, and my personal hand-wrapped gift box.

I blow out a deep sigh from my nose and roll my shoulder backward to ease the lock gathering. Brushing a red tendril away from my face, I take the napkin hanging on the edge of the countertop and open the tall, stainless steel pot, filling the illuminated kitchen with the rich, warm scent of the apple sauce simmering on the heat.

I inhale, nodding in affirmation, before I close it and grab a knife from the small knife set close to me, and proceed to slice my apple.

The abrasive sound of slicing echoes in the empty room, and I hum Noni’s happy song, swaying my shoulders to the melody. An attempt to contain my excitement for the evening.

It was in this kitchen that he’d kissed me and traced his hand on the skin inside my skirt after the wedding. He’d been drinking that night, but it felt really good.

We’d even shared a meal in here two months before, and the look of satisfaction on his face felt really good too.

I’ll give him time.

Done with the dessert, I rush into the shower to take a bath, then head downstairs to the shop around the corner to pick up my present.

“Mrs. Stone,” Daniel Cheddar, the doorman to the building greets me as I approach its wide doors. “Daniel, how’s it going?”

“Same old, same old.” His freckled cheeks give way to a paternal smile that I’ve come to love since living here. He’s 67, and the only friend I have in this building.

I pat his forearm and dash outside. I check the time when I exit the luxurious gift shop, and decide to get fresh fruits and wildflowers for the dining room, grabbing a cup of Starbucks coffee for Daniel on the way back.

“You know just how to steal my heart, Mrs. Stone.”

A soft laugh in response leaves me, and I wonder why I haven’t stolen Lucian’s. “See you around, Daniel,” I call out before stepping into the elevator for my apartment.

Inside, I arrange the fruits in a glass bowl, clip the intoxicatingly beautiful combination of black dahlias and white daisies, with sprigs of lavender mixed in, and I set them in a glass jar after adding the flower food and water.

The oven dings and I rush to bring the pie out of the oven and set it on the counter. My gaze returns to the table I’d set, and then to the door.

He’s always late, always working or somewhere else.

An image of him in rage, lifts the side of my cheek in a lopsided grin. He’d definitely notice the colours I added to this space. He’ll notice that.

Then he’ll sit down when I tell him, and he’ll eat the food I made, and I’ll hand him my gift. He’ll even smile.

I straighten the napkin by his plate, inhaling deeply, and plop down on the seat.

Now, we wait.

My chest tightens painfully. I hope it all works according to plan. What’s the worst that could happen, anyway?

The click of the front door makes me stand abruptly, bumping my thigh on the edge of the table, but the pain doesn’t register.

The time is a little over seven. He’s home!

Wait, he’s home early? Did something happen at work?

I wipe my hand on my pale dress and force myself to walk to the living room, a tight smile spread on my lips.

“Hey… you’re home early,” I say, leaning on the door of the kitchen. He raises his head to look at me.

The sight of him looking dishevelled quickens my already racing heart. I could stare at him all day. His short dark brown hair, usually crisp is mussed, a lock falls to his forehead; unreadable steel-grey eyes glance behind me then finally rest on me.

He steps in, black coat over white clad arm. Something feels incredibly wrong about the way he’s looking at me.

He says nothing, but walks past me to the kitchen, rich amber cologne filling my nostrils. Maybe he’s really hungry. Poor thing.

I trail behind him, my eyes mirroring his actions. He drops his briefcase carefully, on the marble floor, and hangs his coat over a chair, neatly.

He doesn’t glance at the table I set, or the colours screaming for his attention.

Instead, he drops a document I didn’t notice on the counter.

“I signed it.” his deep, warm voice breaks the silence.

He walks calmly, over to the black coloured fridge and opens it, lean muscles straining inside his white shirt. He pulls a bottle of water out and uncorks it.

What does he mean he signed it, signed what? I step closer to the counter and flip the cover page.

Then it hits me.

My name. Divorce.