Neglected and Humiliated by My Billionaire Husband (The Wives They Wronged #2)

PROLOGUE

Laurel

The first photograph appeared behind Graham while the applause was still gathering.

Laurel recognized the apartment before she recognized her husband.

The kitchen window had been sealed with plastic against a February draft, their dining table was buried beneath secondhand monitors, and Graham was asleep with his cheek pressed against a stack of invoices.

She had taken the photograph at four in the morning after finishing the payroll spreadsheet that kept their first two employees from quitting.

In the version projected above the ballroom, the left side of the table had been cropped away.

That was where Laurel had been sitting.

She kept smiling as the master of ceremonies introduced Graham Weller, founder and chief executive of Weller Systems. Cameras turned toward their table. Graham rose beside her and buttoned his jacket, accepting the handshakes of people who had ignored his emails four years earlier.

His fingers touched Laurel's shoulder as he passed. The contact looked affectionate from a distance. It lasted less than a second.

The ballroom of the Lydian Hotel had been designed to make wealth appear tasteful. White orchids rose from low glass bowls. Candlelight moved across gold place settings. Beyond the windows, Manhattan glittered beneath a clear October sky, close enough to admire and too distant to hear.

Laurel had approved the flowers, rejected three versions of the menu, and spent six afternoons helping the communications team assemble the company presentation.

She had supplied the date of their first investor meeting when no one else could remember it.

She had found the photograph of Graham asleep at the table.

She had also provided one of them standing together outside the narrow Brooklyn office they had rented after signing their first serious client.

The next photograph filled the screen.

Graham stood outside the office alone.

Laurel stared at the empty space beside him.

The original image had shown her holding a bottle of grocery store champagne, laughing because the cork had struck the fire escape.

She remembered Graham pulling her against him afterward and telling her that every door with his name on it would have hers beside it.

Someone at the table leaned closer to admire the picture.

“He always looked certain, didn't he?”

Laurel turned toward the wife of one of the board members. The woman wore silver glasses on a chain and had spent most of dinner rearranging the place cards whenever someone left the table.

“He was terrified that day,” Laurel answered. “We both were.”

The woman smiled as though Laurel had offered a charming piece of trivia. “You would never know it from the photograph.”

No. You wouldn't.

Graham reached the stage and accepted the award from the chairman of the Manhattan Technology Council. It was a tall structure of dark glass and polished brass, substantial enough to require both hands. His name had been engraved beneath the company logo.

The room rose for him.

Laurel rose with everyone else.

Applause moved around her in a sustained wave.

She pressed her palms together until the rings on her right hand caught against each other.

Graham looked composed beneath the stage lights.

He had always known how to grow steadier when hundreds of people were watching him.

In private, uncertainty made him cruel. In public, it made him magnificent.

“Four years ago, Weller Systems consisted of an idea, a failing laptop, and more confidence than good judgment.”

Laughter answered him.

Laurel knew the line. She had written a version of it for his first investor pitch.

Graham thanked the Manhattan Technology Council, the board, and the employees who had transformed his vision into an international company valued at $8.

6 billion. He thanked Russell Ames for recognizing potential before there had been results.

He thanked his mother for teaching him that failure was only useful if it embarrassed him into trying harder.

At Evelyn's table, Graham's mother laughed and wiped beneath one eye.

Laurel folded her hands against the front of her burgundy dress.

“And there is one person who manages the impossible task of keeping my life functioning while I concentrate on the company.”

A warm ripple passed through the ballroom. Several people turned toward Laurel.

For one careless second, she believed he meant her.

Graham extended his hand toward a table near the stage.

“Taryn Pike, my extraordinary executive assistant, who has rescued me from missed flights, impossible schedules, and my own terrible memory more times than I can count.”

The spotlight found Taryn.

She rose with one hand pressed modestly against her chest. Her pale gold dress caught the light as Graham thanked her for being indispensable.

The word hung in Laurel's mind because Graham had once used it for her, back when they shared a bank account containing forty three dollars and an apartment where the bathroom door did not close.

Taryn sat down to another burst of applause.

Graham continued. He thanked the clients. The engineers. The investors. The city.

Then he lifted the award, and the speech was over.

Laurel remained standing because everyone else did. Her face held the expression she had practiced during the final months of their marriage, attentive without appearing needy, proud without appearing possessive. A photographer moved closer and captured her applauding.

That image, at least, would include her.

Graham returned to the table surrounded by congratulations. Men reached across Laurel to shake his hand. A woman from a financial magazine kissed both his cheeks. Russell Ames declared the speech perfect and lifted his glass.

“You made me sound much more courageous than I was,” Russell told him.

Graham placed the award on the table. “That is what anniversaries are for. Improving the past.”

The words struck Laurel with an accuracy no one else noticed.

Evelyn arrived a moment later and wrapped both arms around her son. “Your father would have been insufferably proud.”

“He would have asked why the valuation wasn't nine billion.”

“And then told everyone it was ten.”

Their laughter came easily. Evelyn reached for Laurel afterward and kissed her cheek.

“You look beautiful, sweetheart. I was hoping we would see more of you in the presentation.”

Laurel glanced at Graham.

He was already speaking to Russell.

“So was I.”

Evelyn's expression changed, but a journalist approached before she could respond. The woman introduced herself as Celia Hart from Mercer Business Review and asked Graham several questions about the company's expansion into medical data systems.

Laurel listened while he described the company's early years as though determination had been their only shortage.

He did not mention the eviction notice folded inside his first laptop bag, the electricity disconnected three days before their first demonstration, or the evening Laurel sold her grandmother's house because Graham could not meet payroll.

Celia eventually turned toward her.

“You were with him before Weller Systems, weren't you?”

Laurel felt Graham's attention sharpen beside her.

“We were together when it began.”

“What was your role during those first years? There is always someone behind the founder who understands what the polished company history leaves out.”

Laurel opened her mouth.

Graham's arm settled around her waist. His fingertips pressed against the fabric just firmly enough to direct her closer.

“Laurel made sure I remembered to eat.”

The journalist laughed.

Russell joined her, followed by two executives standing nearby. One of them remarked that feeding a founder during development season probably qualified as crisis management.

Laurel heard herself laugh with them. The sound was convincing enough that Celia smiled and moved to her next question.

Graham's hand remained at Laurel's waist. Anyone watching would have seen a successful man drawing his wife affectionately against him. Laurel felt the warning in each finger.

She could have corrected him. The records existed, even if no one had bothered to collect them. She had created the first operating budget, negotiated their lease, and rewritten the proposal that secured Russell's investment after Graham's original version alienated him in the second paragraph.

Instead, she stood beneath warm lights and allowed herself to become the woman who had made sandwiches.

Across the room, Owen Price was watching her.

Recognition took a moment. She remembered him in rolled shirtsleeves, carrying folding chairs into a borrowed gallery because the rental company had failed to arrive.

The exhibition had been seven years ago, before Weller Systems, before Graham began measuring rooms according to what they could offer him.

Owen had represented two of the artists. Laurel had volunteered to rescue the opening after its coordinator disappeared with part of the budget. She had found replacement lighting, persuaded a restaurant to donate food, and spent the final hour washing wineglasses in a utility sink.

His hair was shorter now. The dark suit and expensive watch suggested the years had been generous to him, but he still stood with his hands loosely folded instead of arranging himself for whoever might be looking.

His attention shifted briefly toward the screen, then back to Laurel. He knew, and she could tolerate strangers believing Graham's version of their history far more easily than she could tolerate being seen by someone who remembered her.

Owen started toward her.

Graham turned before he reached them. “I need you to meet the Carters. They're considering moving their entire infrastructure to us.”

His hand moved from Laurel's waist to her elbow.

“Owen Price was coming over.”

Graham barely looked in Owen's direction. “You can catch up another time.”