Chapter 27 Lindsay
Chapter twenty-seven
Lindsay
Isee my mom's name on my phone and almost let it go to voicemail.
I'm in my guest room. The house is quiet. Arthur is at work. Henry is at school.
I answer on the third ring.
She launches into apologies immediately. Too fast. Too loud. She says she didn't mean it like that. That podcasts twist your words. That people were asking questions and she felt put on the spot.
I stop pacing and press my palm against the window. "You shouldn't have said those things," I say. My voice is steadier than I feel. "Arthur isn't forcing me to do anything."
There's a pause on the line.
"Your sister and I have hardly heard from you since you got your money. What if you never call me back and then I find out you've gotten married or something and I wasn't even invited."
"Ummm..."
"No. NO way." Mom starts freaking out on the other side of the line. "You didn't get married, right? You didn't marry that billionaire boss of yours. Right?"
"I might have."
Then she sighs.
"Oh honey," she says gently, like she's talking to a child instead of a grown woman who just married a billionaire, "he never even looked at you before you had money."
"You are a cog in the wheel," she continues. "You worked for him. He barely knew you. Now suddenly he's your husband?"
I open my mouth to argue.
But my mom isn't done.
"He's using you," she says. "Maybe not maliciously. But men like that don't change their patterns. You just can't see it because now you're the pawn."
"That's not true," I say immediately. It comes out too fast. Too sharp. I tell her Arthur respects me. That he treats me like a partner. That he never once made me feel small when I worked for him. That the money didn't create the marriage. It complicates it.
She listens quietly this time.
"That may all be true," she says. "But answer me this—would he have chosen you if you were still just... you?"
After we hang up, I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at nothing.
I tell myself my mom is projecting. That she's trying to find a place in a life she feels shut out of.
Still, the question echoes.
Would Arthur have chosen me without the money?
I think about the ERS office. About Evelyn's words. About how steady he is. How deliberate.
Deliberate doesn't mean manipulative.
But it doesn't mean romantic either.
My phone buzzes with a text from Quinn.
Four outlets reached out for comment. Want me to handle or block?
I stare at the message. The fact that Quinn even has to ask this question makes my stomach twist.
My mother's words turned into a weapon that needs "handling."
I text back.
Block.
Three dots appear, then:
You got it. Also, CAMICOM tickets arrived. Just saying.
I smile despite myself. Quinn knows exactly how to pivot without dismissing the problem. I set the phone down and move to the window, staring out at Arthur's immaculate grounds.
They don't feel like mine.
My clothes hang in the closet, neatly organized by color and season—a system I never used before. My sparkly bags sit on custom shelves, looking both defiant and out of place against the neutral walls.
Even my toiletries feel temporary, lined up on the bathroom counter like they're waiting for permission to stay.
It makes sense. The marriage was practical. Calculated. A solution to twin problems—his need for emotional support for his son, my need for protection.
Romance wasn't part of the equation.
Until that kiss. Until the way he looked at me after.
Maybe that's just what happens. Maybe it doesn't mean anything deeper than biology and opportunity.
My mother's voice echoes in my head.
Would he have chosen you if you were still just... you?
I grab my jacket and head downstairs, needing air, needing space. The security detail materializes as soon as I reach the front door, ready to follow wherever I go. I bite back a sigh. Even my need to be alone comes with witnesses now.
"Just the gardens," I tell them. "I'm not going far."
They nod, maintaining a respectful distance as I step outside into the cool afternoon.
Arthur's gardens are like everything else about him—deliberate, precise, designed to create an impression of effortless perfection.
No weed dares grow here. No flower blooms out of sequence.
Even the wind seems to understand its role, rustling the leaves just enough to seem natural without causing disorder.
I follow the stone path, my footsteps echoing slightly. The security detail trails behind, silent and watchful.
Near the edge of the property, there's a small clearing with a bench overlooking the city below. I sit, drawing my knees up to my chest, and try to sort through the tangle of thoughts my mother's call left behind.
Arthur is a good man. He's fair, honest, attentive in his own way. He cares about Henry more than anything. He's never made me feel less than.
But he's also methodical. Strategic. He approached our marriage the way he approaches everything—as a problem to solve, a system to optimize.
And I said yes for similar reasons. Security. Structure. Protection from a world that suddenly saw me as a target.
Maybe my mother isn't entirely wrong. Maybe this isn't about love. Maybe it never was.
But why does that thought hurt so much?
I stay on the bench until the shadows lengthen, until the city lights begin to flicker on in the distance. The security detail shifts positions but never complains, never suggests I should head back. Small mercies.
By the time I return to the house, dinner is almost ready. Henry is setting the table, chattering to Steven about something that happened at school. He looks up when I enter, his face lighting up in a way that makes my chest ache.
"Lindsay! Where were you? I wanted to show you this thing from science class."
I smile, sliding into the familiar rhythm of our evening. "I was just getting some air in the garden. Show me after dinner?"
He nods eagerly, resuming his task with renewed enthusiasm.
I help with the final preparations, moving around the kitchen with a confidence I didn't have weeks ago. This space feels more like mine than the rest of the house—probably because I've spent more time here, eating snacks with Henry, learning where everything belongs.
Arthur arrives just as we're finishing. He steps into the kitchen with his usual quiet authority, but something in his posture softens when he sees us. He kisses my cheek like it's habit, like we've been doing this for years instead of weeks.
"How was your day?" he asks.
Henry jumps in with a detailed account of his science experiment, and the moment passes.
Throughout dinner, I watch Arthur. The way he listens when Henry speaks. The way his eyes track to mine occasionally, checking in without words. The way his hand reaches for mine under the table, warm and steady.
It all feels so real. So genuine.
But my mother's voice lingers.
He never even looked at you before you had money.
After Henry goes to bed, Arthur and I move to the living room. He pours a drink, offers me one.
I decline.
He sits beside me on the couch, not touching but close enough that I could lean into him if I wanted to.
"You're quiet tonight," he observes.
I look at him. His face is composed as always, but his eyes are attentive, focused entirely on me.
Arthur asks about my day. I tell him I talked to my mom. He tells me something Henry said that made him laugh. Everything feels normal. Easy. I smile. I laugh. I respond.
And all the while, a single thought sits quietly between us, unnoticed but present.
I was chosen.
But if I stop being useful—would he still want me?