Page 103 of Playboy Billionaire's Fake Marriage

Aiming for a subject change too, Gina muses, “Anyway, my niggling worry is that Chad might be the one for me. Letting him go now might mean I’ll come to regret it later—-”

“Does Ivy, by any chance, have a tattoo on her left hand?” I interject, my curiosity getting the better of me.

Gina observes me warily. “Yes, but how do you know this?”

I respond with another question instead. “Is Ivy Ryan’s ex?”

Please let her be an ex.

Gina begins, “She’s not exactly an ex…” Her tone sends my thoughts spiraling.

Oh fuck. Is he seeing her? Is she another one of his ‘Cathys,’ his submissives?

“Gina?” I prompt.

Gina’s hesitation hangs heavily in the air. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Look, I know all about Ryan’s…tendencies,” I state with false bravado but the words taste bitter, even as I force them out. “I’m married to the man. If he’s seeing someone on the side though, I would hate to be in the dark.”

“He’s not seeing someone else, Stella. Ryan wouldn’t—” Gina’s voice softens, her eyes filled with sympathy. “Ivy was his wife.”

“He was married?” I whirl on her in a near shout, my attempt to keep my composure failing miserably.

“Only for three years,” She explains quickly, “They were both very young, practically just out of high school, but she died. He was not the same for a long time after.”

The words hit like a physical blow. Ryan was married to his high school sweetheart. His first love.

“Stella? I’m so sorry. I thought you knew that was why he needed to re-marry.”

I thought I did, too. “I thought company policy dictated for him to marry before he turned thirty-one?”

“No, the laws actually mandate marrying before thirty years of age, not thirty-one. But for anyone widowed under the age of fifty, they have to marry again within ten years. Ivy died when they were twenty-one.”

I nod repeatedly, as if it all now makes sense. It doesn’t. Nothing makes any sense right now.

“Are you okay Stella?” Gina asks, worry stamped all over her face.

“I’m—It’s just… I’m a little surprised, that’s all.” But even as I say the words, tears well up and spill over despite my best attempts to hold them back.

Gina puts an arm around my shoulder, her concern etched on her face. “Ryan never talks about that part of his life. But he’s over her, you know. He doesn’t have room in his heart for anyone but you.”

“Of course, I know.” The lie tastes sour on my tongue. He’s so not over her. “I just hate surprises, that’s all.”

We change the subject and I throw myself into our discussion while I finish dressing up. I even help Gina get the severe bun look she was trying for earlier, ignoring the tremor in my hands or how much my chest hurts.

By the time Fred takes me to the restaurant, I’m the picture of quiet composure.

I call on every ounce of inner strength to remain composed all through the business dinner, smiling and laughing when appropriate, even inserting my own questions and comments. But beneath the surface, my world is spinning.

As if he senses something wrong, Ryan keeps his hand over mine and maintains that contact throughout the dinner.

On the drive back home, I’m silent, responding only with a terse “I’m fine” as Ryan keeps asking to know what the matter is.

I’m the furthest from fine. Jealousy, hot and fierce, has been gnawing at my heart all evening and has now left it a painful bloody stump.

Ryan and his wife wore matching PJs.

He’s stopped wearing his since that day you saw him in them. A voice in my head counters.

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