Chapter 3
That night, I couldn't sleep at all. My mind was racing, wondering if I was just dreaming and that I was about to wake up in my small apartment’s bed the size of a shoe box..
I couldn't sleep. At all. Maybe it was the room—too big.
Maybe it was the expensive lighting—too perfect. Maybe it was the pillow, which was so plush and luxurious that I swear it whispered sweet nothings in my ear like a long lost lover.
Or maybe, just maybe, it was because it smelled like a combination of old money and caviar, and my subconscious was having an identity crisis.
Or maybe because it felt like I was kidnapped and forced to marry a handsome billionaire and was paid three freaking million dollars and had my debt paid.
I tossed. I turned. Maybe it was because of the expensive five-star dinner that I had earlier. I flopped like a dying seal across every inch of the California king bed. Around 3 a.m., somewhere between overthinking my marriage and wondering if my goldfish was happier than me right now, I finally passed out.
And then—crash.
I jolted awake to the sound of loud voices and commotion outside my room. I sat up so fast I swear I saw glimpses of heaven. Disoriented, my hair tangled like a mop from the 1900s, I scanned the room.
Marble floors. Ridiculously long, luxurious curtains. Close to the size of a subway car. Oh, right.
I was still married.
To Art Freaking William Jr.
I sighed, then took the iPhone from the night table and saw the time. It's 8:30 am.
I stumbled to the door in my silky pajamas (Granny snuck those in my closet overnight, apparently,) opened it just a crack, and peeked out.
There stood Alvin, sharp as a knife in his ironed pastel pink morning suit, lecturing the two poor delivery men who were each holding one of my two small cardboard boxes. Two. Boxes.
That's it?
I opened the door wider and shuffled out barefoot. “Excuse me—why only two?”
Alvin sighed and turned to me with that exaggerated look on his face—the one that said I was just a stray small dog or a wet cat that accidentally got into the VIP section of a celebrity rooftop party.
“Ah, good morning, Mrs. William, I mean, Emily,” he said, as if he were a robot hired to be polite under protest. “Yes. Apologized, but we salvaged what we could.”
“Salvaged?” I echoed, blinking. “I wasn't in a fire, Alvin.”
“No,” he mumbled, checking his iPad. “But your apartment was…tragically uninspired. Most of your belongings were classified as, how do I say this—donatable garbage. We only took the essentials.”
I walked to the boxes. “Books. My tiny flowerpot. Mrs. Sunny. And—Goldy?”
He nodded solemnly. “Your fish—I mean Goldy—is now in a custom tank in the guest room. Filtered. Heated. LED-lit. Alexa-compatible. Some of your books have been alphabetized. And the flowers are currently in the east sunroom receiving filtered rainwater.
I just stared at him. My mind was blank. “My entire life,” I whispered, “fits into two boxes.”
“Correction,” he replied, without looking up, “your entire past life fits into two boxes, but your new life starts with a closet full of Prada and Chanel and a personal driver, Anthon.”
“What?”
“I was getting to that,” he said, sighing like I was the slowest student in the class of elite teenagers. “You’ll also be cared for by two full-time housekeepers—Maria and Dolores. Lovely women, Filipina. Very efficient. You’ll meet them after breakfast. And Aya, the chef, is already waiting.”
Cue: chef.
She entered like a goddess of flavor and five-star hotel breakfast—Aya was tall and elegant, with jet-black hair in a bun so tight it could cut diamonds. She wore a crisp gold and white chef's coat with ART WILLIAM RESIDENCE embroidered on the sleeve. Fancy.
She smiled. “Breakfast is ready, Mrs. William.”
I blinked at her. “Do I…have to call you Chef?”
She grinned. “You can call me Aya. Or The Miracle Worker. That's what Mr. William called me when he wanted truffle risotto at 1 a.m., Mrs. William.”
I bit my lip. “Call me Emily, I'm not really used to Mrs. William.”
“Sure, no problem.”
I followed her to the kitchen and immediately stopped in my tracks.
The kitchen wasn't just a kitchen; it was like a holy Architectural Digest. It was a dream. Glossy black marble countertops, gold hardware, touchscreen fridges, and stovetops with Bluetooth—I didn't even know stoves had Bluetooth. A coffee machine with more buttons than a spaceship. And in the center was a table so perfectly set it could host a UN brunch summit.
I sat down slowly, afraid I’d break something with my budget aura.
Aya places a plate in front of me—eggs that shimmered (yes, shimmered), a very delicious-looking sausage, croissants with layers softer than my self-esteem, a mango smoothie, and dark coffee that I'm pretty sure was blessed by angels.
I was mid-bite when Alvin reappeared, sipping a green drink that looked like blended envy.
“Oh, good,” he said. “You’re awake. Barely. We have a schedule.”
“A schedule?”
“You have a 10 a.m. spa appointment. You need it.”
I scowled. “Excuse me?”
He raised an eyebrow. “You look as if you rolled out of a donation bin.”
Aya snorted, then quickly looked away, pretending to polish the counter.
“I just woke up!” I protested.
“Exactly,” Alvin said, tapping on his screen. “You need a facial, a deep tissue massage, hair glossing, eyebrow shaping, and possibly an exorcism. No offense, Mrs. William.”
I rolled my eyes. “All the offense taken, and call me Emily.”
“You’re welcome.”
Aya chuckled and left the room. “He says this with love.”
“No, he doesn't,” I muttered, glaring at Alvin.
He smirked and turned on his heel gesturing toward one of the walls.
“By the way,” he said over his shoulder, “this penthouse is fully automated. Alexa controls everything. Lights, music, curtain, temperature. The vacuum is a smart robot named Genevieve. She will clean while judging you silently.”
As if on cue, a tiny, chic silver disc zipped by my feet with a soft whirr, paused, scanned me, and beeped twice—disapprovingly—before continuing on its way.
I pointed after her. “Did your Roomba just shame me?”
“Yes,” Alvin said, already halfway out of the room. “Get used to it.”
And so, I sat there, half-fed and emotionally bruised, wondering how I went from choking hazard rescuer to the freshly shaved, spa-bound wife of a billionaire CEO whose robotic vacuum had more self-esteem than me.
My phone buzzed.
A text.
From Art.
Granny said you moved in. Don't touch my whiskey. Or my record collection, I'll be home next week.
And just like that, he disappeared from my life again…via text.
I sipped my mango smoothie, then the coffee, because why not? into the whipped cream cloud of my croissant, “Goldy, we're not in our apartment anymore. No more overpriced Korean coffee downstairs.”
Wait a minute.
He’s coming here?
Art Freaking William?
As in, here-here? This penthouse? I thought it was Granny’s. Granny's style was pearls, wine spritzers, and floral-scented chaos—not manly leather sofas and whiskey decanters that screamed CEO with abandonment issues.
BUT REALLY?
COMING HERE?
I grabbed my phone and called Lillian faster than I could say marital confusion and cheese.
“Granny?” I said the moment she answered. “Is Art coming here?”
She gave that rich, sugar-glazed laugh that always sounded like she'd just won a silent battle of wills with a Manhattan banker and her golf buddy, “Darling, that is his penthouse. I never said it was mine but it was mine before.”
What? I swear she did.
“I thought you gave it to me!”
“Oh no, sweet pea. I assigned it to you. You’re his wife. You live together.”
My mouth hung open like a broken mailbox.
“Together?” I croaked. “As in—same roof? Breathing same air?”
“Well, not yet. He’s traveling for business. But when he returns, yes. You’ll live as husband and wife. In love. Or, you know, pretending for a few months until you two figure it out. Romance is such a late bloomer these days.”
She hung up before I could even scream.
There I was—sitting in my billionaire husband’s bachelor penthouse, living in a closet full of designer labels I couldn’t pronounce, and sharing oxygen with a fish named Goldy and a robot named Genevieve, wondering how the heck I was supposed to make a man fall in love with me when I couldn’t even fall asleep in his bed without crying into a caviar-scented pillow.