The Marriage He Starved (Billionaire's Neglected Wives #9)

1. Lena

LENA

I searched the dining room for Theo. Guests crowded the space, their voices rising above the piano's soft melody.

The charity gala had drawn the city's wealthiest, and they filled Theo's flagship restaurant with champagne glasses and designer dresses.

Crystal chandeliers threw warm light across white tablecloths.

A woman I recognized from the news laughed near the bar. Two tech executives stood by the windows. I moved past them, searching faces. The restaurant glowed under carefully arranged lighting. Flowers spilled from centerpieces in shades of cream and gold. Servers moved between tables.

Theo's work always looked like this. Flawless.

I spotted him finally, near the kitchen doors.

He stood with three men in tailored suits, his own jacket fitting him the way expensive things do when they're made for your exact measurements.

My husband. Twelve years, and I still noticed the way he carried himself — confident, at ease, completely in his element.

He gestured as he spoke, his hands cutting through air to make some point. The men leaned in, listening.

God, he belonged here.

He was in his world tonight, surrounded by people who valued what he built. I watched him smile at something one of the men said, watched him clap a hand on someone's shoulder. Easy. Comfortable. Here, he knew exactly what to do.

I made my way toward him, weaving between clusters of guests. A server passed with a tray of hors d'oeuvres, something delicate and architectural that probably took twenty minutes to assemble. The scent hit me — truffle, maybe thyme.

Movement at Theo's side caught my attention.

Bianca Sterling appeared at his elbow, her presence smooth and practiced.

She wore black, sleek and expensive, her dark hair swept up to show the long line of her neck.

Diamond earrings caught the light when she moved.

His PR agent — the woman who'd built his brand into something recognizable on three continents.

She leaned in to say something to him, her hand gesturing toward the auction stage.

Theo nodded. Then one of the men in suits addressed her and she turned to answer.

I closed the remaining distance. Theo saw me and smiled, that quick flash of warmth that had caught me all those years ago when he was just a line cook in my family's restaurant and I was the girl who seated guests and learned their names. He excused himself from the men and came to meet me.

"Lena." He kissed my cheek, his hand briefly at my waist. The touch was familiar, automatic. "You look beautiful."

"Thank you." I smoothed my dress, navy silk that I'd chosen because he once said he liked me in blue. That was three years ago, maybe four. I wondered if he remembered. I wondered if he even noticed the color tonight.

One of the suits called his name. Theo glanced back, his attention already shifting. I felt the pull of his work like gravity, constant and impossible to fight. The same force that had been winning for years.

"I wanted to ask you something," I said quickly, before he could leave.

He looked at me again, present for the moment. His eyes were dark brown, tired around the edges. "Of course. What is it?"

"The old diner." I kept my voice light, casual, like it wasn't important.

Like I hadn't been thinking about it for weeks, remembering the cracked vinyl booths and the coffee that tasted burnt but we drank anyway.

"The one we used to go to after shifts, when we first met.

I was wondering if you'd want to go back there with me.

Just the two of us. Maybe this weekend?"

His expression changed, not closing exactly but becoming thoughtful.

Careful. He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture I'd seen a thousand times when he was working through logistics.

"This weekend's difficult. I've got the investor meetings for the Seattle expansion, and we're filming two segments back-to-back on Sunday.

" He paused, his eyes on mine. "It's not a no, Lena.

I just need to see how the schedule shakes out.

Let me talk to Marcus, see if we can move some things around. "

Not yes. Not no. Just maybe, with a reason attached. A good reason. A reasonable reason. The kind of reason I'd heard so many times I could have written the script myself.

"Right," I said. "Of course."

"We'll figure it out." He squeezed my hand, and I wanted to believe him. I wanted to push, to ask when we'd ever figured anything out lately, but the words stuck in my throat. They always did.

Bianca returned to Theo's side, her timing impeccable as always. She smiled at both of us, warm and professional, the expression she probably practiced in mirrors.

"Theo, the auction's about to start. They need you to say a few words.

" Her voice carried the easy confidence of someone who belonged exactly where she stood.

She touched his arm, her fingers light against the fabric of his jacket.

"You know how these donors are. They want to hear from the man himself, not some printed speech. "

"I'll be right there," Theo said.

Bianca's hand lingered on his sleeve, just a fraction too long.

She looked up at him, her gaze holding his with something I couldn't name but recognized in my gut.

Affection. Wanting. The kind of look that belonged in private, not here under the lights with a room full of people watching.

Her fingers curled slightly against his arm before she let go.

But it was brief. Deniable. The sort of thing you couldn't point to without sounding jealous or paranoid. She stepped back, still smiling, utterly composed.

Then she turned to me. "Lena, you must be so proud of him. Theo's raised nearly two million tonight." Her tone was perfectly pleasant, admiring even. Each word shaped with care. "It must be such a comfort, knowing he's doing so much good in the world while you're managing things at home."

The words landed like a slap wrapped in silk.

Managing things at home. Like I was staff.

Like my work at the restaurant didn't exist, the family business I'd helped run for years.

Like I was just the woman who kept his house in order while he did the real work, the important work, the work that mattered.

My throat tightened. Heat crept up my neck. I forced a smile, the polite one I'd learned from years of dealing with difficult guests. "I'm very proud."

Bianca's expression didn't change. She'd made her point, and we both knew it. The smile stayed pleasant, professional. No one watching would have seen anything wrong.

Theo glanced between us, no awareness at all in his face.

He'd heard the words but missed everything underneath them.

He didn't see the knife Bianca had just slid between my ribs, didn't see her standing there waiting for me to bleed.

"I should go," he said, already moving toward the auction stage. "I'll find you after, all right?"

I watched him walk away. Bianca followed, staying close, her hand brushing his back in a gesture that could have been guidance or could have been something else entirely. Like she had the right to touch him. Like she belonged at his side.

He didn't seem to notice. He never did.

The rest of the gala blurred. I smiled at donors, made conversation with people whose names I forgot as soon as they walked away, and waited.

The auction ran long, each item drawing laughter and competitive bidding.

Theo worked the crowd the way he worked a kitchen — efficiently, with total command, reading the room and knowing exactly what it needed from him.

When he finally returned to me, the event was winding down. Guests clustered near the doors, saying goodbyes and trading business cards.

"Ready to go?" He looked tired but satisfied, the way he always did after a successful night.

"Yes."

We drove home in his car, the city lights streaking past the windows in blurs of gold and white.

He talked about the donations, the turnout, how well the restaurant had performed under pressure.

His staff had executed perfectly. The food was exceptional.

Three board members had specifically complimented the scallops.

I listened and nodded and felt the silence underneath his words, the space where a question about me might have gone.

Where he might have asked how my night was, if I was all right, whether I'd enjoyed myself.

He didn't ask.

At home, I set my purse on the entry table and slipped off my heels. The house was dark and quiet, expensive furniture arranged in rooms we barely used. Minimalist art on the walls, chosen by a decorator. A kitchen that cost more than most people's cars. Everything beautiful. Everything cold.

I went to the kitchen and pulled leftovers from the fridge — pasta from two nights ago, when I'd eaten alone. Again. I plated food for both of us and set the table the way I always did. Two places, two napkins, two glasses of water. His chair sat empty across from mine, waiting.

It was always waiting.

Theo came in, already pulling out his phone. He glanced at the table. "This looks great. Thanks."

He picked up his plate and took a bite standing by the counter, his eyes on the screen. Scrolling through something. Emails, probably, or schedules, or some crisis that needed handling. I watched him, this man I'd married, and felt the loneliness settle in my chest like an old familiar ache.

"Are you going to sit?" I asked.

He looked up, distracted. "Hmm?"

"Sit down. Eat with me." I gestured at the table. At the chair that had his napkin folded beside it, his water glass filled and waiting.

"I am eating." He gestured at his plate with his fork, not understanding. He took another bite, still standing, his attention already back on his phone. The blue light washed his face pale.

I stared at the empty chair. Twelve years of empty chairs. "Theo."

"Yeah?" He didn't look up.

The words came before I could stop them, before I could shove them back down where they usually lived. "Do you even see me anymore?"

That got his attention. He set the phone down on the counter, his brow furrowing. "What?"

"Us. This." I gestured at the table, at the space between us, at everything we weren't saying. "When's the last time we actually spent time together? When's the last time we talked about something that wasn't your schedule or your restaurants or your show?"

He looked genuinely confused, like I'd just spoken a language he didn't know. "We talk all the time."

"We don't." My voice cracked, and I hated it. Hated the way I sounded — desperate, needy, like some character from a bad movie. "You work. I wait. That's what we do now."

"Lena." He said my name like I was being unreasonable, like I was the one not making sense. "You know how demanding this is right now. The expansion, the new season filming — it's temporary. Once things settle down?—"

"It's always temporary." I cut him off, my hands shaking in my lap. I pressed them flat against my thighs to stop the tremor. "It's been twelve years of temporary, Theo. Twelve years of 'once things settle down' and 'after this project' and 'just let me get through this week.'"

He stepped closer, his expression softening. Trying. "I know it's hard. I know I haven't been around as much as I should be. But this is what we're building. What we've always been building." He reached for my hand across the table, his fingers warm. "I'm doing this for us. For our future."

The words should have helped. They didn't. They felt hollow, like something he'd rehearsed without thinking about what they meant.

"I just want you here," I said quietly. "At this table. With me."

"I am here." He squeezed my hand, then let go, already stepping back toward the counter. Toward his phone. "I'm just tired, that's all. Let me finish looking at these numbers Marcus sent and I'll sit down. Ten minutes. I promise."

Ten minutes. I'd heard that before. Ten minutes turned into an hour turned into him in his office until midnight, hunched over spreadsheets and vendor contracts.

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak, and watched him return to his phone.

The screen lit his face in cold blue light, pulling him somewhere I couldn't follow.

I picked at my pasta. The sauce had congealed slightly, the noodles soft from reheating. The empty chair mocked me from across the table.

His phone buzzed. Once, then again, a rapid double vibration that made him tense. He frowned and swiped at the screen, his jaw tightening. "Damn it."

"What is it?"

"Problem with the Seattle kitchen. The contractor found structural issues in the building.

" He was already typing, his fingers moving fast across the screen.

"Water damage in the foundation. I need to call Marcus.

And probably the architect. This could delay the whole opening if we don't deal with it tonight. "

"Theo—"

"I'm sorry. I know." He looked at me, apologetic but already gone. Already calculating costs and timelines and solutions. "I have to deal with this now. If we don't get ahead of it, we're looking at a six-figure overrun, maybe more. The permits alone?—"

He grabbed his plate and headed toward his office, the phone pressed to his ear. "Marcus, yeah, I just saw it. Tell me how bad it actually is."

His voice faded down the hall. I heard his office door click shut.

I sat at the table alone. The second plate of pasta cooled in front of the empty chair, steam long gone. My wedding ring caught the light, gold against my finger, a promise we'd made twelve years ago. I'll love you forever. I'll choose you every day.

I remembered the diner. The booth we'd sat in, night after night after our shifts ended, exhausted and smelling like fryer oil and talking about the future.

The restaurant we'd build together. How he'd looked at me then, like I was the only person in the room.

Like I mattered more than anything else in the world.

I couldn't remember the last time he'd looked at me that way.

The house settled around me, silent except for the muffled sound of Theo's voice behind his office door. Talking to Marcus about foundations and contractors and money. Always money. Always work. I picked up my fork and set it down again. The food tasted like nothing at all.

What was I even doing?

I cleared the table, scraping my half-eaten pasta into the trash. His plate went into the fridge, wrapped and labeled, same as always. Same as every other night this week, this month, this year. The chair stayed empty.

It was always going to stay empty.