Lexy
I love being married.
Love, love, love it to death.
I know most people will think I’m faking it, considering how Leon and I have also been leading separate lives for eight years. But that’s also what they don’t get.
Leon and I, we had an agreement from the start. We would respect each other’s boundaries. Honor each other even if we don’t share a bed. For both of us, it would always be honesty over deception, cooperation over divisiveness, the common good over self-interest.
No. Matter. What.
Most days, I’m dressed like a college dropout: battered but still-functional pair of Sennheiser headphones plopped over my head, clothes so baggy that even Cupid will have a hard time targeting my heart with his arrow, and my trusty, rugged-looking sneakers (all black, all-terrain worthy, and best of all, no shoelaces needed).
Most days...are the days when I’m just me, Lexy.
But on the days where I’m expected to show up as his wife?
I take to my role like a soldier with his orders.
I’ve taken lessons on everything from foreign language to professional makeup, large-scale catering to French cuisine.
Playing the role of a billionaire’s socialite wife will never be my favorite thing to do, but you’ll never guess it when you see me.
Because I made a promise, and I always keep my promises.
No. Matter. What.
And that’s why I’m here in Manhattan, dressed like how anyone would expect a billionaire’s wife to be dressed, complete with four-inch stilettos that I insisted on wearing, never mind if Leon himself told me not to.
Leon says it’s overkill. I say it’s all about not doing things in half-measures, and that includes coming up with a smile as I greet the woman I’ve flown halfway across the world to meet.
“Hello.” I manage to keep my tone light and friendly (billionaire’s wives don’t do nervous or shy!) even when my introvert heart is already squirming against my chest at the possibility of having to spend hours talking with another stranger.
I’m not xenophobic or anything, but my social energy is just really. ..almost...nonexistent?
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Gazis.” The genuine warmth in her smile catches me off guard, and it almost has me starting to smile back...until I catch myself in time.
Remember Leon’s warning!
The world is full of people who will take advantage of your kindness, Lexina. Guard yourself.
I nod in response instead, but for some reason, this has her pretty dark eyes twinkling in amusement as she invites me to take a seat. “Would you like a cup of hot ginger-infused lemonade?”
I usually say no to offers of refreshment to avoid small talk, and I’m about to shake my head like usual when I realize what she’s just said, and my gaze flies to her in shock.
How did she know—
“I’ll take that as a yes then,” the older woman says cheerfully.
She rises from her seat and moves to a small sidebar I hadn’t noticed, where a carafe sits warming on an elegant little burner.
The Kontides & Partners conference room is nothing like the intimidating legal offices I’d imagined. Yes, there’s the usual huge table, the usual floor-to-ceiling windows. All the usual things you’d expect as the status quo from a high-end law firm.
But...then there are the other things that you wouldn’t even expect.
At all. Like Bibles. Actual Bibles that look like they’re also actually being used, with page tabs of assorted sizes and colors sticking out.
There are framed photos as well, but these ones aren’t your usual either.
Only a few of them include Shayla and her own billionaire husband Adriano Kontides, who was also friends with Leon.
None of them were of any glamorous event or had any famous person in it.
Rather, they were photos of people from all walks of life, and the one thing they had in common was how they were all smiling. ..from the heart.
My gaze swings back to my potentially-new-legal-counsel.
Leon told me that she used to work for Adriano before passing the bar herself and was now dividing her time as co-partner in her husband’s law firm.
..and co-founder of Psalm 13 Community Center.
Although in her early forties, she looks nothing like her age, and when she comes back with my drink (how on earth does it taste just like how my Yiayia used to make it?
!), and starts asking me questions about what I want instead of simply expecting I’d go along with her suggestions because she’s older and smarter—
I’m sorry, Leon.
He always says (sometimes with affection, but most times with exasperation) that I’m too quick to trust, but.
..surely this one time, he won’t mind at all?
Shayla is his friend’s wife, and they also represent Aivan and Sienah.
Granted, that was when they seemed on the brink of divorce, but it never pushed through, and I never believed in jinxes anyway, so. ..
Yup, it’s official.
I’m adding Shayla to my ridiculously short list of People I’m Comfortable With, and she’s the first one who’s a New Yorker at that!
I know being married to someone like Leonidas suggests I have this jetsetting lifestyle and that I should be comfy with rubbing elbows with the rich and famous—people like my husband, in other words, and not like my family who used to have money—but I’ve always preferred to stay at home and do my own thing.
As such, the only thing I know about New Yorkers are what I’ve seen in movies, and they always seem to have such strong personalities. I was worried that our new lawyers would be so modern and liberal that they wouldn’t understand the kind of marriage that Leon and I have.
Thankfully, however—
Shayla only nods in a business-like manner when I confess to not having any skills or interest in handling my side of the finances.
“Leon takes care of everything, and I’m hoping it would stay that way.”
I hold my breath after saying this, wondering if Shayla would suddenly reveal herself to be passionate about women having to assert their independence—
“How you handle your money is your choice,” she assures me. “There’s nothing to be ashamed about.”
Phew!
I know money is important, and I know it’s also important to be financially literate and all, but I’m just not interested in it. I just want to do what I love, and if my husband wants to take care of my money for me, well—is it really that bad?
“As your lawyer, I’m duty-bound to warn you if I find something amiss, but as you can see here...”
She shows me several pages of printed spreadsheets, and they all look the same to me. Is it written in Greek? Aramaic?
“This report has been prepared by a third-party auditor. Your husband himself hired them, and they do quarterly checks to make sure your finances are all in order.”
Oh, so that’s what those numbers are all about.
“They didn’t find any discrepancy, did they?”
“The opposite, actually,” Shayla says with a laugh. “At the rate your money’s growing, I’m pretty sure many people would love to have their wealth managed by your husband as well.”
A tiny proud smile touches my lips. I know I’m not really a wife in the traditional sense of the word, but I just can’t help feeling proud every time someone compliments my husband’s skills in business.
I may not know much about making billions, but even an investment idiot like me can recognize how skillfully good he is at what he does.
“So, we just have one last thing to take care of then...”
My brows furrow at the way Shayla’s tone has become oddly...circumspect.
She closes the folder in front of her. Sets down her pen. When she looks up at me again, her expression is still warm, but there’s something careful in it now. Something professional in a way that makes my stomach clench without understanding why.
“I know this can feel intrusive, but as your lawyer, I need to confirm certain details for our records.”
“Of course.” I’m genuinely confused. The arrangement I have with my husband is the best. The past eight years have been nothing short of perfect, and—
“Our files indicate an amendment to your marital agreement,” Shayla says quietly, “dated approximately six years ago. This amendment acknowledges that your husband maintains a long-term companion outside your marriage, with monthly financial provisions allocated for her residential and personal expenses.” She pauses.
“I need to confirm for our records that you were aware of and consented to this arrangement.”
The words reach my ears.
But they don’t make sense.
I hear them, but they’re just...sounds. Shapes. Nothing that connects to meaning.
Long-term companion.
Monthly financial provisions.
Residential and personal expenses.
“Mrs. Gazis?”
Shayla’s voice sounds very far away.
“I’m...sorry.” I try but fail to keep my voice from wobbling. “Could you...could you repeat that?”
Leonidas...
Mistress...
Six years.
Property purchased by him...for her.
All expenses paid.
“According to the documents we received from your previous counsel, this arrangement was reviewed and approved by your designated executor.” A pause. “With your consent.”
The room tilts.
My ginger lemonade sits untouched, growing cold.
And my heart...
Who knew my heart could hurt this much for a man I’m not in love with?