The Marriage He Unraveled (Billionaire's Neglected Wives #5)

1. Nell

NELL

The floral installation in the center of the room cost about what it takes to run Ivester Woolen for a year.

I knew the number because I knew every number, and I'd done the arithmetic in the first thirty seconds I'd been standing there.

Eighty thousand dollars' worth of roses, orchids, and something white I didn't have a name for, all of it wired into an arch that looked like it had grown out of the marble.

The champagne tower next to it was another fifteen thousand, maybe twenty if they'd gone with the vintage everyone was drinking.

The string quartet in the corner was playing to a room that had stopped listening an hour ago.

I was holding a coupe of champagne I wasn't going to drink and a small hard clutch with almost nothing in it because I was used to pockets. The clutch held my phone, my license, and a lipstick I'd bought at the airport because I didn't own one. The coat I was wearing had been my mother's.

The helicopter pad on the roof hadn't stopped all night. I'd watched three arrivals from the window near the bar while I waited for Beckett to have a minute for me, and every time one touched down the room shifted a little, like water adjusting to weight.

A woman I didn't know appeared next to me holding two coupes.

"You look like you need this more than I do," she said, offering me one.

"I already have one," I said, holding up my glass.

"But you're not drinking it."

"No."

She laughed and took both glasses for herself. "I'm Caroline. You're Beckett's wife, aren't you? I saw you at the spring show."

"Nell," I said.

"This is quite the production." She gestured at the room with one of her glasses. "I heard he rented the whole building for a month just to get tonight."

"I hadn't heard that."

"Oh yes. Completely shut it down. The gallery was supposed to have a show opening next week and they just pushed it. That's Beckett though, isn't it? When he wants something." She smiled. "You must be so proud."

"Yes," I said.

She drifted off after that, pulled into another conversation, and I went back to watching the helicopters.

I'd been classifying myself as one of the arrangements for about an hour when he found me.

"Nell."

I turned. He was already straightening the collar of my coat, his fingers tugging it flat without once looking at my face. His hands moved with the same precision they did when he was checking a seam, making sure everything sat exactly right.

"You look good," he said, still adjusting. "I'm glad you came."

I'd driven four hours to get here. He'd sent the plane, but I'd driven instead because I'd needed the time to think about what I wanted to say to him when I got here. Now I couldn't remember any of it.

"Ten days," he said, finally looking up. Not at my face. At something over my shoulder. "I promise. After the spring line launches, I'm yours. We'll go anywhere you want."

I believed him. I always believed him.

"You promised me March," I said quietly.

His hand stilled on the collar. Then he smoothed it one more time and stepped back, and when he looked at me this time, he actually saw me.

"I know," he said. "I'm sorry. The Paris show ran long, and then we had that issue with the Milan supplier. This year, I swear. I'll block it out now if you want."

March was the anniversary of my mother's death. Six years ago, he'd told me he'd be there with me every year, and he had been, until this one. Until the first one where it mattered more than it hurt.

"Ten days," I said.

"Wherever you want to go. You pick. Paris, London, that place in Portugal you showed me."

I hadn't shown him Portugal. I'd mentioned it once, two years ago, and he'd remembered. That was the thing about Beckett. He remembered everything except the part where I'd been waiting.

"I'll think about it," I said.

"Good." He kissed my temple, his hand warm on my shoulder for just a second. "I have to get back. Stay close, all right? I want you to meet her."

He was gone before I could ask who.

Forty seconds. I'd timed it, the way I always did.

The room had a center, and I wasn't in it.

I could see it from where I was standing, the place where everyone's attention bent without anybody seeming to try.

A woman stood there in something that looked like it had been poured over her, deep blue silk that moved when she breathed, and I learned she was a princess before I learned anything else about her.

The woman next to me said it first. "That's Talia de Valois. Crown princess of Sauveterre."

"I didn't know Sauveterre had a crown princess," I said.

"Oh, they've got the whole thing. Tiny country, old money, very French. She's been working with Beckett for months now. The whole European launch is built around her."

"Months," I said.

"Since last fall, I think. October, maybe November.

She came to him, apparently. Wanted someone who understood craft.

She'd been wearing the Italian houses for years but she said she wanted something with more integrity.

" The woman laughed. "Can you imagine? Telling the Italians they don't have integrity? "

"No," I said.

"Beckett must have been thrilled. The European papers have been covering it like it's a royal wedding. There was a profile in Paris Match last month. Did you see it?"

"I didn't."

"Beautiful spread. Her in his studio, him draping fabric on her. Very intimate. The headline was something like 'The Princess and the Tailor.' He probably hated that."

"Probably," I said.

I watched Talia move through the room. She didn't seem to walk so much as let the space rearrange itself for her.

People stepped back. Conversations paused.

She was thirty-one, which I only knew because Beckett had mentioned it once in passing.

Thirteen years younger than him. Four years younger than me.

She was looking at my coat.

I felt it before I saw her coming toward me, the way you feel a room's temperature drop. She stopped about two feet away, close enough that I could smell her perfume. Something expensive that I didn't have a name for.

"Mrs. Crowe," she said, and her voice was warm. "I don't think we've been properly introduced. I'm Talia."

"Nell," I said.

"What a striking piece," she said, gesturing to the coat. She reached out like she wanted to touch the fabric, then thought better of it. "Wool, isn't it? Lovely weight. Beautifully made."

"Thank you."

"Though I have to say," she continued, and her smile never wavered, "it seems rather singular for the wife of someone as accomplished as Beckett Crowe. A bit out of step with the evening, wouldn't you say?"

I looked at her. I didn't smile.

"It was my mother's," I said.

Her hand dropped. Her expression shifted into something softer, sympathetic, and I hated that more than I'd hated the first thing.

"Oh," she said. She placed her hand on her chest, just over her heart. "I'm so sorry. Was she?—"

"She died six years ago."

"How terrible. I'm sure Beckett has told you how much I admire craftsmanship, tradition.

It's why I wanted to work with him in the first place.

So few people understand what it means to carry something forward.

" She paused. "How admirable to honour a tradition like that. Really, it's quite touching."

She tilted her head, and the sympathy deepened.

"What a shame there isn't a more worthy tradition for you to honour," she said. "But of course, we work with what we have."

I felt my thumb press against the seam of the coat's lining, running along it the way I did when I was checking whether something would hold. It was what my hands did when I needed to know if something was going to last.

I looked at Beckett. He was three feet away, holding a glass he hadn't drunk from either, talking to someone I didn't know. He must have heard her. He had to have heard her.

He smiled at Talia. "Nell's mother sewed for thirty years," he said, easy and pleasant. "Crowe still buys cloth from her mill. Beautiful work."

"How wonderful that you can support local industry," Talia said. "It must mean so much to the workers to have that connection to something larger."

"It does," Beckett said. "We've been buying from Ivester for three years now. The quality is exceptional."

"I'm sure it is," Talia said, and she turned back to me with that same warm smile. "You must visit the mill often. It must be lovely to see your mother's legacy continuing."

It wasn't a defense. He didn't know there was anything to defend. He thought he was agreeing with her.

I watched him nod at something else Talia said, watched him laugh, and I felt something settle in my chest. Not anger. Something quieter than that.

"Beckett," I said.

He turned. "Yes?"

"Can I have a minute?"

"Of course." He started to move toward me, and I thought for a second that he'd actually heard the question. Then Talia spoke.

"Actually, Beckett," she said, and her hand touched his arm, light and brief, "I'm so sorry to interrupt, but I need to steal you for just a moment. The Swiss ambassador is leaving in twenty minutes and he specifically asked for a word about the Geneva gala. Something about the venue."

Beckett glanced at his watch. "Now?"

"He's got a flight to catch. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important."

He looked at me, and I saw him make the calculation. The ambassador. Geneva. The European launch.

Me, asking for a minute.

"Stay right here," he said. "Winston will keep you company. I'll be right back."

He flagged down Winston Obi, his chief operating officer, the same way he'd flag down a server. Winston came over, already smiling the way people smile when they've been handed something they didn't ask for.

Beckett touched my shoulder. "Two minutes," he said.

Then he left.

"Passed you off to me again, Nell?" Winston said. He wasn't unkind about it. He never was. "What is it now? Fifth time this month?"

"Something like that," I said.

Winston sighed. "He's been underwater with this launch. You know how he gets."

"I do."