Page 8 of The Billionaire's Wife

I slide it onto my left ring finger and stare down at it. Oof. A weird feeling flutters through my stomach.

Once again, it hits me what I’ve agreed to. Alec had said we’d go into more detail about it over the coming days, and that the trip would begin next week. I suddenly feel overwhelmed staring at the box of clothes I’m supposedly going to be wearing on a yacht in the Caribbean next week.

I glance at the time on my phone. 5:30 p.m. It’s after working hours, so presumably Alec would be home by now, right?

I grab my coat from a hook in the entryway, grab my keys, and head out the door. It’s a quick walk to Alec’s building, and soon I’m at his door, knocking.

I wait a few seconds, to silence. Technically, I have keys to his place. It’s how I get in to walk Betty. But it feels inappropriate to use them now. I knock again, but after a few minutes, I resign myself to the fact that he’s probably not home.

I should have guessed this. He’s most definitely the workaholic type. He probably works late into the night.

I sigh in annoyance. I pull out my phone and pull up Alec’s number. I’ve had it since I started working for him, although I’ve never had a reason to call it. After a moment of hesitancy, I call the number.

He picks up after a few rings.

“Ella?”

“Yeah,” I answer. “Uh. Are you home?”

There’s a shuffling sound on the other end of the line. “Almost.”

Suddenly the elevator dings from behind me, and I turn to see Alec King standing inside, his cell pressed to his ear. He purses his lips when he sees me, ending the call and putting his phone away.

“Do you need something?” he asks, brushing past me to unlock his door. He steps inside, beckoning me to follow.

“Yeah, actually,” I say, stepping inside his apartment. “I got that box you sent me.”

He nods. “Good. Do the clothes fit? I had my secretary guess your size.”

I frown. I’ve never even met his secretary. Did he show them a picture of me?

“I don’t … actually know yet,” I admit. “I haven’t tried them on. But—why did you send them to me in the first place?” I ask, shaking my head.

He frowns. “So you have things to wear on the cruise.”

I raise my eyebrows, my hands settling on my hips. “Oh, so you assumed I wouldn’t have anything of my own to wear?”

“Yes.”

I blink, taken aback by the simplicity of his statement. “You think I don’t own swimsuits?” I fire back at him. “Or a dress?”

He sighs. “You’re not going on this vacation as Ella Reed, you’re going on this vacation as Ella King, my wife.”

My name attached to his sends an odd fluttering feeling through my stomach, but I try to ignore it. “And?” I press.

At this, he looks annoyed. “And no wife of mine would be dressed in anything less than the best.”

“Hm.” I can feel the anger churning inside me. “So you just assumed, without even asking or taking a look for yourself, that anything I own wouldn’t be ‘the best’?”

He stares at me for a long moment, taking in my tone, the expression on my face. He cocks an eyebrow. “I know what I pay you, and I can therefore extrapolate your income. And no, I doubt that income can buy you that box I just sent over.”

An angry flush creeps up my cheeks. Did he really just say that? If he’s trying to rid himself of the asshole persona like he seemed to be doing yesterday, he’s failing horribly.

I sigh angrily. “Fine.”

“You’re welcome for the clothing, by the way,” he says.

At this, I can’t take it anymore. “No,” I snap back. “You’re welcome that I agreed to this crazy scheme.”

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