She Was Never Just the Billionaire’s Wife (Natasha and Chase) novel Chapter 132

(Julian)

I wake to a Beverly Hills morning that disappoints me almost immediately.

Yesterday was meant to be the day.

Yesterday was the day she would call.

Yesterday was the day she would send a stiff little message. Something like, Julian, we need to discuss what happened.

I would clear my afternoon and listen to her spiral and then do the gracious thing and assure her I stopped before things could go too far.

Not because I don’t want her, she knows I do.

Because I want her to be fully present when I make love to her for the first time.

I’ve been picturing the glorious way she would blush at my words.

She did not call.

She did not text.

What she did, apparently, was go to her office, get sued personally by Jeffrey Bauer's lawyers, and proceed to spend the entire day pretending I don’t exist.

Damn Jeffrey Bauer for his piss-poor timing.

I spent yesterday evening drinking a very good Scotch in this suite and arriving, slowly, at a decision.

Patience has been my whole campaign.

Patience has been working fairly well.

Patience also requires the other party to occasionally meet you halfway.

Natasha has now demonstrated that left to her own devices she will simply pretend the entire encounter did not happen and go on being married to the man who stopped deserving her sometime around Lily’s conception.

I have therefore been patient enough.

I roll out of bed at nine, pour myself a coffee, and call Marguerite.

"Mr. Morton. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Marguerite, darling. I need three arrangements. Identical. Spectacular. The kind of bouquet that arrives on a trolley because it cannot simply be carried."

I hear her laugh, which is the sound of a woman about to charge me a great deal of money.

"Don’t skimp on anything. You know I’m happy to pay for the quality you provide. I leave it in your very capable hands. Just make sure it’s show-stopping."

"Card?"

"Identical on all three. Handwritten in your best hand. Not in envelopes. I want them visible to anyone who cares to look."

"What should the message be?"

I’ve been composing this sentence in my head since I woke up.

"Natasha, Tuesday night was unforgettable. I can’t wait to wake up with you again. Already Yours, Julian."

This is not the time to be coy.

There’s a pause on the line.

"All three?"

"All three."

"Including the one to Mr. Warren's apartment?"

"Especially the one to Mr. Warren's apartment."

She does not sigh, because Marguerite is a professional, but I hear the sigh she’s fighting, and I love her for it.

I tell her to deliver to Natasha's office first, the townhouse next, and Chase's apartment last, with a thirty-minute gap between each, because chaos is best appreciated when it is allowed to compound.

Then I shower.

I dress.

I knot a tie I don’t need to wear, because the morning calls for it, and I take myself to a long lunch at a place on Cañon Drive where I am almost certain to be seen by someone who matters.

I’m barely in the door when I see Mason Stein.

He’s at a corner table with the woman he’s seeing.

Natasha mentioned her. Not favorably.

Chloe of the matcha and the wellness vocabulary and the unsolicited advice about manifesting outcomes.

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