Mr Reluctant Billionaire || BWWM

Thirty-six

Ping. Ping. Ping.

I wake up with a start, my eyelids flutter open and a groan slips past my lips as my gaze lands on the ceiling. The vibrations coming from under my pillow cease, I retrieve my phone to place it on the stool and my legs tangle in the sheets as I roll to my stomach.

No sooner does the phone hit the stool when another round of incessant vibrations start and I kick the air in anger. Glancing at Clarissa still asleep on her side of the bed with a hand over her eyes and snoring softly, I pick the annoying device without unlocking it.

I am doing my best to stay away from social media, the constant buzz and unwanted updates. Whoever is calling better be worth the interruption from my peaceful, beauty sleep, the only time my mind allows me respite from a certain wickedly handsome man.

The number of notifications on my screen jolts me fully awake, I throw my legs over the bed and rub the back of my hand against my eyes. Sliding my feet into a pair of fluffy slippers, one of the many things Clarissa and I bought on our shopping spree a day ago, my heart hammers my chest and my hand lowers to tug on the hem of my nightgown.

I suck in my lower lip as I skim the pop ups on my screen, reluctant to open them.

Mails. Instagram notifications. Missed calls and texts. I blink and shake my head to clear the fog thickening in my brain from seeing strange numbers and messages from sites requesting an audience with me. There are so many of them. Too much. I spare another glance at Clarissa, we stayed up late, filling our bellies with the most impossible flavours of ice-cream and unhealthy snacks while reminiscing over our, mostly my new life.

Billionaire’s wife is what she called me, I scoff, as a joke but the words lashed at me and I visibly recoiled, remained mute minutes after her apology. I hate the title, the fact that she thought about it only reinforces his words about me being with him for my gain.

Those are big lies, yes, we married to help my family but circumstances have changed. I will rather be known as Brandon’s wife, the cream to his plain, bitter coffee. My chest falls, I stare at my feet with my fingers laced behind my neck. I don’t care about his wealth but him as a person. We need money but we will do just fine without billions of it.

Sighing softly, I massage my temples and cast a long look at the phone that had slipped through my fingers. What if the calls and texts are from Brandon? I sigh. I have left the fate of our marriage to him and a part of me, the one familiar with his callousness knows he’s not the caller. His rigidness and ability to go days, weeks without speaking to me has Joshua’s words ringing in my head but I refuse to give much thought to it.

I am not making a mistake.

The phone is cold against my palm, I didn’t think to get a case or screen protector for it. A sad smile takes over my lips as I inspect the phone like it was recently gifted to me, I run my fingers over the camera affixed at the upper left corner, then trace the apple logo. I wonder if I will have to return this and his other gifts if we end up breaking up.

I have half a closet of designer’s clothes, shoes, all thanks to him. Clothes I barely wear because they feel too fabulous for places like school, the diner and Clarissa’s apartment.

On closing my eyes, an image of him appears behind my shut eyelids. His brows crease, his lips curl into a scowl he tries to fight back after he finds out about my quick visit on foot to the thrift store. We went to donate some of my old clothes, but I couldn’t resist the urge to pay for the flowery patterned knee-length gown Clarissa held out to me.

Brandon is opposed to the idea of sharing and wearing people’s stuff, even if it’s only a day used. He won’t be found dead in a thrift store. Why share when you can buy it? For a man of his status, he can afford to buy what he wants but it is not the case for everyone.