The Marriage He Stranded (Billionaire's Neglected Wives #8)

1. Rae

RAE

The award caught the light as Nash carried it across the ballroom.

I watched him make his way toward me through the crowd, weaving past tables draped in white linen and centerpieces that probably cost more than I'd spent on my wedding dress.

Adriana was already at my elbow. She'd materialized the moment he stepped off the stage, which meant I hadn't had two seconds alone to absorb what had just happened — my husband accepting an industry honor for the airline he'd built, the airline we'd built, and not once mentioning my name.

The ballroom was too warm. I could feel sweat gathering at the back of my neck despite the air conditioning. Around us, people laughed and clinked glasses, their conversations a hum that made my head ache.

Nash smiled when he reached us, all easy charm in his tuxedo.

God, he looked good. The jacket fit him perfectly across the shoulders, his dark hair just slightly mussed from running his hand through it during the speech.

I hated that I noticed, hated that my pulse kicked up just from him standing close.

"There's my wife." He kissed my cheek, and the warmth of his mouth made my stomach flip even as I tried to hold onto my frustration.

Adriana's perfume was too strong, something floral and expensive that made my throat itch. She stood too close on my other side, her emerald gown probably worth more than our first plane had been.

A man in a gray suit approached, someone I vaguely recognized from the aviation expo in Dallas last year. He shook Nash's hand with the kind of enthusiasm that meant he wanted something.

"Incredible speech, McCallister. Truly inspiring.

" The man turned to me, his smile practiced and bright.

"You must be so proud, Mrs. McCallister.

" His eyes went back to Nash, admiration all over his face.

"To start with one plane and build it into an airline, and bring your wife along for the ride — that's the American dream right there. "

I felt my jaw tighten, waiting.

Nash would correct him. He had to. He'd tell this stranger about the months I'd spent in that hangar in Cibolo Heights, rebuilding the Cessna's engine piece by piece because we couldn't afford to pay someone else to do it.

He'd mention how I'd stripped corrosion off the fuselage until my hands bled, how I'd rewired the entire electrical system while he handled the FAA paperwork and chased down investors.

"Well, it's been a hell of a ride," Nash said, and laughed.

That was it. No correction. No acknowledgment.

The man kept talking, something about market expansion and investor confidence. But the words blurred together, muffled like I was hearing them underwater. My chest felt tight, like someone had wrapped a band around my ribs and was pulling it tighter with every second Nash stayed silent.

I wanted to say something. I should have said something.

But what was I supposed to do, interrupt to announce that I'd rebuilt that plane? Make a scene at his big moment? I sounded like a frivolous girl even in my own head, petty and small for caring about credit when Nash had just been honored in front of hundreds of people.

The ballroom pressed in around me, too many bodies in too small a space.

"Rae's always been my biggest supporter," Nash said, and slipped his arm around my waist. The touch was warm through the fabric of my dress. The man nodded like that settled it, like support was the same thing as skill, as labor, as partnership.

Like I'd been a passenger on Nash's rise instead of the one who'd made sure that first plane could actually fly.

The man finally excused himself, chasing after someone more important. Nash turned to check his phone, the screen lighting up his face, and he was already half-distracted. Adriana shifted closer, filling the space the stranger had left.

She touched my arm, her fingers cool through the fabric of my dress. "You look lovely tonight, Rae, though I'm surprised you chose something so sweet when all the other wives went bold."

Her voice was silk over steel. Her nails were painted a deep red, perfectly manicured.

I'd spent two hours getting ready, wanting to look right for Nash's night. The dress was cream-colored, simple but elegant — or at least I'd thought so when I'd put it on. Now it felt wrong, too plain, like I'd shown up to the wrong event entirely.

"Thank you," I managed.

Adriana's smile didn't reach her eyes. She leaned closer, her voice dropping. "I mean, it suits you. You've never been the type to make a fuss about appearances. You're much more... practical. Honestly, it's refreshing in a room full of women trying so hard."

The word landed like a slap even though her tone stayed pleasant. Practical. Code for boring, for unsophisticated, for someone who didn't belong.

Nash didn't even glance up from his phone. He hadn't heard her, or if he had, he didn't think anything of it. To him it probably sounded like small talk, two women chatting at a party while he handled business that never stopped.

My throat felt tight, something hot building behind my eyes that I absolutely would not let become tears. Not here. Not in front of Adriana with her perfect dress and her perfect smile and her complete certainty that I didn't measure up.

I wanted him to look at me, to see what was happening, to step between us and tell Adriana to back off. But he wasn't going to. He never noticed when she took shots at me, never saw the way she dismissed everything I said in meetings.

He never noticed.

"Excuse me," I said, and headed toward the bathroom before either of them could respond.

I didn't actually need the bathroom. I just needed air, needed a minute where I wasn't standing next to Adriana while she took me apart with compliments, wasn't watching Nash smile at strangers who thought he'd built everything alone.

The bathroom was all marble and mirrors, too bright after the dim ballroom. I braced my hands on the counter and took a breath, then another. My reflection looked pale, washed out. The dress that had seemed elegant at home looked plain here.

Ugh. I was being ridiculous, letting her get under my skin like this.

When I came back Nash was in conversation with a group of executives, his hand gestures animated as he talked about route expansion.

I caught the tail end of something about the San Antonio hub and stayed on the edge of the circle, not wanting to interrupt.

One of the men noticed me and smiled politely, but nobody made space for me to join.

I stood there for a minute, maybe two, feeling like an idiot.

The gala wound down slowly, painful and bright. My feet ached in the heels I'd bought specifically for tonight, and my face hurt from smiling at people who looked through me to get to Nash.

By the time we left, I wanted nothing more than to go home — except we didn't have a home anymore, not really. We had the penthouse, Nash's dream and my prison.

Nash drove, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the center console between us. The Austin skyline glittered through the windshield, all those buildings we never spent time in because Nash was always working and I was always waiting for him to stop.

"Can we go to Cibolo Heights?" The question came out smaller than I'd meant it to.

Nash glanced over, his brow furrowing. "Tonight?"

"I just thought... we haven't been back in so long. I miss the house." I miss you. I miss us. But I didn't say that part.

"Rae, it's almost midnight." He said it gently, reasonably. "We're fifteen minutes from the penthouse. Cibolo Heights is forty minutes in the other direction."

"I know. I just thought?—"

"Maybe next week," he said. "If I can clear the schedule."

Maybe. If.

The words I wanted to say stuck in my throat.

I looked out the window at the buildings sliding past and didn't push.

What was I supposed to say? That I wanted to go back to the little house where we'd started, where things had felt real and small and ours?

That living in the penthouse made me feel like a guest in my own life?

He'd think I was being ridiculous, sentimental about a house we'd outgrown.

We rode the elevator up in silence, the numbers climbing past floors full of people I'd never met. Nash checked his phone twice before we reached the forty-third floor, his jaw tight with whatever he was reading.

Inside the penthouse, he set the award on the hall table — crystal and chrome, probably expensive, definitely heavy. It looked out of place against the stark white walls, too flashy for the minimalist decorator's vision of elegance.

I hated this apartment. I'd hated it from the day we moved in, but Nash loved it, loved what it represented — success, arrival, proof that we'd made it.

Except it hadn't been just him. It had been us.

"Nash." I stopped in the middle of the living room, my heels sinking into carpet so thick it felt like walking on clouds. "Can we talk?"

"Sure." He was already loosening his bow tie, heading toward the bedroom. "What's up?"

I followed him, trying to find the words. "I just... I feel like we're not connecting lately. Like you're always working and I'm always—" Alone. "—waiting."

His eyes dropped to his phone, the screen lighting up his face. He was scrolling through something, his thumb moving, while I was still standing there mid-sentence.

"Rae, I'm building something here." He glanced up, slipping the phone into his pocket, and his expression was patient in a way that made me feel small. "You know how important this phase is. Once we secure the Dallas routes, things will calm down. I promise."

"You said that about the San Antonio expansion." My voice came out sharper than I meant it to. "And before that, the investor meetings. And before that, the FAA certification."

"Because it's true." He stepped closer, his hands coming up to rest on my shoulders. "This is how you build an airline, sweetheart. You know that. You were there from the beginning."

I was there from the beginning. Past tense, like I wasn't there anymore, like somewhere along the way I'd gotten left behind.

"I just feel like we never see each other," I said. "Like there's always another meeting, another flight. You said things would slow down after the certification."

"You're not alone. I'm here." He kissed my forehead, already dismissing my concern. "You're just tired. It was a long night."

My chest felt like something was cracking open inside it.

But I didn't know how to explain that to him.

How did I tell my husband that I was lonely when he was standing right in front of me?

That I wanted to build a family, not just a company?

That I needed him to see me as more than his biggest supporter, more than the wife who smiled at galas and stayed quiet when people erased her from the story?

I couldn't. The words were too big, too honest.

"Maybe you're right," I said instead, and hated myself for it.

His phone buzzed. He pulled it out, his eyes scanning the screen, and his whole face changed — sharper, focused, already somewhere else.

"I need to take this." He was walking toward his office before I could respond. "Adriana's got an issue with the crew scheduling for tomorrow's flights. The system's down and we've got six planes about to go out understaffed."

"Nash, it's almost one in the morning?—"

"Which is why I need to handle it now, before the morning shift starts.

" He stopped in the doorway, one hand on the frame, and looked back at me with something like apology in his eyes.

But not enough apology to actually stay.

"I'm sorry, Rae. I know you wanted to talk, but this can't wait. People's jobs are on the line."

And just like that, I was alone.

I stood in the bedroom doorway and listened to his voice carrying down the hall, calm and authoritative as he talked Adriana through whatever crisis had pulled him away from me. Again.

I thought about the award sitting on the hall table, catching the light from the city outside.

The man in the gray suit saying Nash had started with one plane and built an airline, like it had been a solo act.

Adriana's voice in my ear, making sweet and practical sound like insults.

Nash's hand on the center console, close enough to hold but never quite reaching for mine.

All of it so small. All of it so heavy.

I sat down on the edge of the bed, still in my dress and my painful heels, and didn't bother taking them off.

What was the point? Nash would be in his office for another hour at least, probably two, and by the time he came to bed I'd already be asleep — or pretending to be, which was close enough to the same thing these days.

The penthouse was silent around me, all that expensive space and nothing in it but me and my husband's work and the sick feeling in my stomach that something was wrong with my marriage and I was the only one who'd noticed.

God, what was I even doing?

I pulled off my heels and left them on the floor where they fell. Through the wall I could hear Nash's voice, steady and sure as he solved someone else's problem.

He didn't come back.