One Weekend with the Billionaire novel Chapter 9

“Just get in the car, and don’t say a word,” Jeff tells me as we exit Merriweather Towers. He has me by the arm, and even though he’s not quite squeezing tightly enough to hurt me, it isn’t comfortable either.

I’m not exactly sure why he’s mad at me, though I can think of several reasons. I didn’t stay outside as he had ordered me to. I had interacted with Cindy and her friends as she’d taken me around the party. Though I had tried to keep to myself and be as quiet as possible, I had been forced to greet people, to shake their hands and be polite. I know Jeff doesn’t like it when I touch men, even to shake their hands, but I couldn’t be rude and ignore an outstretched hand, could I? Jeff doesn’t like it when I am rude either.

In the taxi, he tells the driver our address and mumbles under his breath about how this will cost a fortune. I feel bad. I know Merriweather doesn’t pay as much as a person would think, which I’ve always thought was odd considering the lavish parties Mr. Merriweather throws for his workers. But Jeff insists his check barely covers the rent and groceries. That’s why my allowance is so meager. I don’t know how much money he makes or how much rent is or anything about the amounts of the bills we pay because I am not allowed to see the money, but I know we don’t have excess money, and I feel so badly about two cab rides in one day. If Jeff had attended the party by himself, he would’ve taken the subway home and saved several dollars.

But he had been asked to bring me. I’m still not quite sure why. Mr. Merriweather made it seem as if he’d been wanting to meet me. I can’t understand that. He is a billionaire, the most eligible bachelor in our city, and I am literally no one. I think perhaps someone has said something nice about me, but I don’t know who it would’ve been. Surely not Jeff. I can’t remember the last nice thing Jeff said about me to anyone.

Once the cab is away from the tower, Jeff says, “Well, that was a disaster.”

I am not sure what to say, so I say nothing at all.

“Merriweather wants to speak to me in the morning. Damn asshole probably wants me to take on yet another account. I don’t know why he can’t do any of the fucking work himself.”

I keep my mouth quiet. My husband is drunk and even if I agree with him and call Mr. Merriweather names, it will get me nowhere. I sit perfectly still, as if my husband is a Tyrannosaurus Rex and can only see creatures when they move.