The Marriage He Gutted (Billionaire's Neglected Wives #4)

1. Etta

ETTA

I was late, and I smelled like the water.

The bathroom at the Hotel Grayson had marble counters and flowers in a vase and little pyramids of soap wrapped in paper that felt like cloth.

I'd locked myself in the far stall with half a lemon I'd grabbed from the bar.

I was working the juice into my knuckles, under my nails, across the backs of my hands where the cracks ran deepest. The sea doesn't come off easy.

Neither does eight hours of shucking, even when you're only supervising.

I hadn't planned on being late. Daniella's ride to dialysis hadn't shown, and Yolanda had called me at dawn. So I'd driven Daniella to the clinic, waited while they got her set up, and then driven ninety minutes north to Norfolk in a rented dress that was too tight across the shoulders.

Because Sven had asked me to come.

I rinsed my hands under water so hot it hurt, dried them on one of the thick towels, and checked my face in the mirror.

The dress was charcoal silk, cut high enough at the neck that nobody would see the line where the sun stopped.

My wedding ring caught the light. I'd had the same ring for eight years and it still looked new.

I smoothed the dress, left the bathroom, and went to find my husband.

The ballroom was full of people I didn't know. There were round tables with white cloths, arrangements of something pale and expensive on every one, and a long banner across the far wall that read MAGNUSSEN SEAFOOD – SCANDINAVIA. I stood just inside the door and looked for him.

He found me first.

"Etta."

I turned, and there he was. Sven Magnussen, six foot four, shoulders like a doorway, wearing a suit that fit him the way sails fit wind. His hair was almost white in the light from the chandeliers. He was forty-six and he looked like a man who'd built something.

He smiled at me, and for a second I forgot I'd been standing in a stall with a lemon.

"You made it," he said.

"I did."

He took my hands. Both of them. He didn't flinch at the rough skin or the cracks or the fact that I'd been working that morning and we both knew it. He just held them and looked at me like I was the only person in the room.

"I'm glad you're here," he said.

I believed him.

"Daniella's ride didn't come," I said. "I had to drive her."

"Is she all right?"

"She's fine. Yolanda's with her now."

"Good. That's good."

He nodded, squeezed my hands once more, and let go. "You look beautiful."

"Thank you."

"I mean it. That dress—" He smiled. "You should wear that color more often."

"It's a rental."

"Still." He looked at me a moment longer, then seemed to remember where we were. "We should get you a drink. Have you eaten?"

"Not yet."

"Come on."

He put a hand on the small of my back and steered me into the crowd. I could feel the warmth of his palm through the silk. I'd driven ninety minutes for this, and right then it felt worth it.

We made it three steps before someone called his name.

"Sven!"

A man in a gray suit waved from one of the tables. Sven raised a hand, said something I didn't catch, and kept walking. Then another voice, then two more. People wanted him. Of course they did. This was his night.

He stopped next to the bar and signaled for the bartender. "What do you want?"

"White wine is fine."

"They have champagne."

"Wine's fine."

"You sure? It's a celebration."

"I'm sure."

He ordered a glass of white and a whiskey for himself.

The bartender nodded and turned away, and while we waited Sven turned to look back at the room.

He wasn't looking at me anymore. He was looking at two hundred people who'd come to celebrate him opening his company in Scandinavia, and I could see him counting them.

The bartender set the drinks down. Sven handed me the wine, picked up his whiskey, and checked his watch.

"I need to make some rounds," he said. "Stay close, all right? I'll come find you."

"All right."

He kissed my forehead and walked away.

I stood at the bar and sipped wine that tasted like cold stones and watched my husband work the room.

He moved the way he always moved in places like this—easy, certain, like he'd built the space himself and was just checking to make sure everything was where he'd left it.

People leaned in when he talked. Men shook his hand with both of theirs.

Women touched his arm and laughed at things that probably weren't jokes.

I finished the wine and set the glass down. A woman in a black dress who'd been standing near the corner walked over and stopped next to me. She had dark hair pulled back tight, sharp cheekbones, and pale blue eyes that looked like sea ice.

"You must be Etta," she said.

I didn't know her. "I am."

"Simone Astala. Vice president of sustainability and certification." She held out her hand and I shook it. Her grip was firm and quick. "Sven's told me all about you."

I doubted that, but I smiled. "It's nice to meet you."

"Likewise. I've been looking forward to meeting you all evening."

"Have you?"

"Of course. You're part of this too, in a way."

"He's been talking about getting you up here for weeks. I'm so glad you could make it."

"I wouldn't have missed it."

"The drive from Cutter's Neck is what, an hour and a half?"

"About that."

"That's dedication." She smiled, and it looked kind. "Well, we're thrilled you're here. This whole night wouldn't have happened without your support."

I didn't know what to say to that, so I just nodded.

"You must be so proud of him," she said.

"I am."

"Opening Scandinavia was a risk. A big one. But he trusted me to make it happen, and here we are." She tilted her head, looked at me a moment longer, then touched my arm lightly. "Enjoy the evening, Etta."

She moved back into the crowd.

I ordered another glass of wine.

Twenty minutes later Sven came back. He had three men with him, all of them older, all of them looking at him like he'd just pulled a boat out of a storm with his bare hands.

He introduced me—"My wife, Etta"—and I shook hands and said hello and tried not to let them see me check my knuckles for splits.

One of the men, silver-haired and red-faced, leaned in and raised his glass. "Your husband's a hell of a businessman, Mrs. Magnussen."

"He is," I said.

"Took guts to move into Scandinavia. Half the people in this room thought he was crazy." He laughed. "Guess he proved us wrong."

"I never doubted it," I said.

Sven glanced at me, and for just a second I saw something warm in his face.

One of the other men, younger, with wire-rimmed glasses, leaned forward. "The real question is whether you can hold the certifications. That's where most expansions fall apart."

"We're covered," Sven said. "Simone's got the fleet locked in across all three countries. Full compliance."

"And the supply chains?" the third man asked.

"Redundant at every node. We're not vulnerable."

The silver-haired man nodded slowly. "You've thought it through."

"I always do," Sven said.

"That's why you're standing here tonight and half the room isn't."

"Half the room didn't take the risk."

"No," the man said. "They didn't."

They talked for a while longer. I didn't follow most of it. I knew boats and I knew oysters, but I didn't know margins or shipping routes or certification processes. I just stood there and sipped my wine and waited.

Finally the man with the glasses turned to me. "And what do you do, Mrs. Magnussen?"

I opened my mouth to answer, but Sven got there first.

"Etta runs the family business," he said. "Oysters. Boone and Sons, down on the waterfront. Her grandfather started it."

I felt the correction in my chest before I let myself think it. Boone & Daughter. Named for my mother. Eleven people who counted on me to keep the lights on and the lease paid and the buyers coming back.

But I didn't say anything. I just smiled.

"Oysters," the man said, nodding. "That's good work. Hard work."

"It is," I said.

"Family business, that's something special. You don't see much of that anymore."

"No," I said. "You don't."

The conversation moved on.

Sven touched my shoulder. "I'm going to grab us a table. Stay here a minute, all right?"

"All right."

He walked away again.

I stood at the bar and thought about the sign over the door of the shucking house.

Boone & Daughter. My mother's name in faded blue paint, my grandfather's hand behind it.

Sixty-three years on the same stretch of waterfront.

Eleven shuckers, most of them past sixty, all of them depending on me to keep the water turning under us.

I looked down at my hands. The lemon had done what it could, but the cracks were still there. So was the sea.

A waiter came by with a tray of oysters on the half shell. I took one, looked at the shell, and knew where it had come from before I even tasted it. Pulled early. Held too long. The meat had that faint gray edge that meant it was already starting to turn.

I set it down and took another. Same problem.

Simone appeared beside me again, a champagne flute in one hand. "Everything all right?"

"The oysters are off," I said. I didn't mean it as a criticism. It was just a fact. "They were pulled too early and held too long. You can see it in the color."

Simone's smile didn't change, but something behind it did. "Really?"

"The meat's starting to turn. See the gray at the edge?"

"I triple-checked everything myself," she said warmly. "The suppliers I work with manage both quantity and quality. You don't get one without the other, not at this scale."

"I'm sure they're very good suppliers."

"The best. They handle volume I doubt you've ever seen."

"Probably not."

"They have to be perfect. At this scale, one mistake costs thousands." She took a sip of her champagne. "I can promise you, nothing will go wrong tonight."

She said it kindly. She said it like she was reassuring me. And then she leaned in just slightly and added, "Not like that quaint little operation down the waterfront."

I looked at her. She was still smiling.

Sven appeared at my elbow. "Everything good here?"