Shopping for a Billionaire's Wife (Page 65)

“That’s not the only difference.”

“No. It’s not,” I concede.

“Shannon, you’re entering my life by marrying me. I’m entering yours. I don’t reject any part of your family culture—”

“Hah!”

“—except for the intrusiveness by your mother.”

“Which is our family culture!”

We both marinate in that for a few beats.

“Why, then, is it acceptable for you to reject everything that has shaped me into being the man you love? You’re about to become a billionaire’s wife. I won’t hide my money. I have zero shame about wealth.”

“And I do?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“Shame? How can I have shame about money that isn’t even mine?”

Damn. One eyebrow goes up, a perfect, thick dark arc over that blazing green eye.

“That’s it, isn’t it? Self-worth again.”

“No! Why are you always making any decision of mine that doesn’t agree with yours into some kind of psychological problem with my self-worth at the heart of it all?”

“And why does any disagreement on my part always boil down to my being out of touch because I’m wealthy?”

Oh, burn.

My chest aches. The air in the room thickens with a kind of stifling feeling, an almost viscous quality that makes me think my lungs are sticking together. Each breath takes all my effort. Mind, body, soul, volition.

All of it.

“We keep coming back to this for a reason,” Declan finally says, his voice tight. A flaring panic fills me, his instant distance like having a knife plunged into my neck. “It’s not going away. Maybe this is the real reason you wanted to run away from your mom at the wedding.”

That knife in my neck moves to my chest.

“What?” I gasp.

Music begins outside our window, the lulling drift of a classical symphony that quickly evolves into an operatic tune. My ears perk and some bones in my body vibrate and turn toward the sound, instinct strong. I don’t give in to impulse, instead watching Declan with open hurt and a simmering resentment that finally boils over.

“We fled that wedding. We did. I came to you and told you I couldn’t stand it anymore, and—”

“Why couldn’t you stand it?”

“Two words: Jessica the Bitch.”

He opens his mouth to correct my math, then smartly doesn’t.

“Why are you so obsessed with Jessica?”

“Because she’s such a bitch!”

“Why?”

“Why is she a bitch? Come on, Declan. Don’t do this.”

“Don’t do what? Try to solve a problem?”

“Try to create one.”

“I’m creating your shame about my money?”

“You’re driving us apart if you keep this up.”

“Keep what up?”

“Pretending that the reason you’re giving me all these gifts isn’t because you’re competing with your brother.”

“Andrew is giving you emerald necklaces?”

“Andrew is CEO. Your father hand-picked him. The second he’s around, you compete for attention. Taking care of your woman and making sure she looks the part of a billionaire’s wife is important for being the one on top. So….”

“You think I want to give you nice things that represent my life because I want to one-up my own brother? That’s crazy!”

“I have a seven-foot animatronic teddy bear in our hotel suite that is crazy. Not me.”

“Let me get this straight: you think I am giving you gifts and asking you to live a billionaire’s lifestyle because I’m competing with my brother.”

“And you think I can’t handle being given these luxuries because I don’t think I deserve them.”

We both nod, but I can see his breathing grow harder, his anger bubbling below the surface, ready to emerge. We’ve had disagreements. We’ve gone cold with each other and had to thaw, eventually talking problems out.

Never, in more than two years together, have we faced each other from such a distance, as if ready to jump into a foxhole for safety from an unknown weapon.

“You’re wrong,” he says shortly, words clipped and fast. One hand drags through his thick, dark hair, a nervous fidget if Declan ever had one. “I’m not competing with Andrew by using you as a proxy!”

“Not consciously, no.”

“Not one damn bit!” He slams his fist against the bureau, upsetting the dry minibar, hundreds of dollars worth of chocolate-covered gummy bears and iPod headphones flying.

In the face of this kind of anger, I typically freeze. My dad doesn’t blow up like this. Dad’s anger emerges in a different way. Blood rushes so hard through my ears it sounds like a waterfall in my head, and I unlock my knees, willing myself to take steps toward the door so I can leave. Think. Breathe.

Be.

I take two steps, and before I can stop myself, I give him back his anger and more. “Shame? You think I have some misplaced shame around your money? I think you’ve got it backwards. You’re always going on and on about how I need to find my power, how I give my power away to others, and blah blah blah.” My face feels like someone napalmed it, and I’m stammering, tears filling my eyes because when I’m flustered, I cry. I shouldn’t say any of this. Not one word.

I do anyhow.

“How about your power, huh? I think you’re the one who has it backwards. It’s convenient to think you’re the cool, calm, self-controlled, unflappable Declan McCormick, the wunderkind who was poised to take over Anterdec one day. Was. Was,” I repeat, vicious now. “I think you go on about my power because deep down inside, you can’t figure out how to exert your own.”