Page 111 of The Billionaire's Demand

Libby spun away from him, hating herself for the way those words pulled at her, weakened her. ‘Our baby’s safety is important to me too,’ she whispered, repeating something she’d already said, needing him to understand that she wasn’t being reckless or careless. ‘I am not taking stupid risks. I walk in busy areas in broad daylight. I never feel unsafe.’

‘Nonetheless,’ he said with his trademark authority, ‘either I will come with you in the future or I’ll arrange an escort.’

She stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. ‘Like I’m some kind of heroine in a Jane Austen novel?’ she asked, scandalised. ‘I’m a twenty-six-year-old woman,’ she reminded him, ‘and I’ve been looking after myself for longer than I can remember. Looking after everyone else too. If you think you can crash into my life like some kind of giant, arrogant wrecking ball and start taking over all of my...autonomy...and independence, then bloody think again.’

His features showed irritation. ‘I have no interest in curtailing your autonomy, only in ensuring your safety.’

‘They sound kind of the same, the way you describe them.’

‘Then you’re wilfully misunderstanding me.’

‘I am not!’ she responded with a disbelieving shake of her head. ‘You are insufferable.’

‘What a shame then that you have a lifetime to suffer me for.’

Libby dug her fingernails into her palms. A lifetime. It wouldn’t be a lifetime and they both knew it, but it felt like it in that moment.

‘Having regrets?’ she asked, bracing her other hand against the kitchen bench.

‘Regrets? I’m full of them,’ he said, almost to himself, thrusting his hands on his hips with no idea how much his admission cut Libby to the very centre of her soul. ‘But nothing changes our position now, does it? We’re married, with a baby coming in a matter of months, and I am asking you, for the rest of your pregnancy, to remember you are making decisions for three people, not just one.’

Libby floundered. Her heart hurt. ‘You don’t need to remind me, Raul, I’m well aware of my pregnancy at every minute of every day. You’re the one who’s carrying on as though nothing has changed, whereas my entire life has been turned on its head from the moment you learned of this pregnancy...’

His eyes narrowed. ‘You’re right.’ His agreement momentarily took the wind out of her sails. ‘So I am telling you: my life is about to change too. From now on, I’ll be here, with you. If you need a wall painted, I will do it. If you need furniture moved, ask me. You are not to do another job that involves even a hint of risk.’

‘Everything involves risk,’ she said on a frustrated laugh.

‘Don’t be argumentative for the sake of it,’ he replied. ‘You know some things carry greater risk, and scaling to virtually the top step of a ladder is one of them.’

She opened her mouth to say something, to dispute that, but slammed it shut again a moment later. Raul was right. There was an inherent risk in climbing up a ladder whilst alone in the apartment, and she’d known that. She’d been careful precisely for that reason.

She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at a point beyond his shoulder. ‘Fine,’ she said crisply. ‘It’s your life. Do whatever you want. But don’t for one second think I need you here with me, Raul. I’m perfectly capable of getting through this pregnancy without your help and, news flash, I always was.’ And with that she left the room.

A week later Libby felt as though she might burst.

Having Raul constantly around was like some kind of torture. He was everywhere. Working in the apartment from early in the morning until late at night, but frequently stepping into the lounge to check on her. If Libby wanted to go for a walk he came too, though he often worked then as well, using the time to make conference calls, so they were like two people on parallel paths, together yet apart. She had taken to walking two steps in front of him and doing her best to forget he was even there, or trying to at least, but Raul’s presence was oppressive and overwhelming. Even several paces behind her, she felt him, and wished on a thousand stars she didn’t.

But on their eighth day in this strange new form of hell, Libby came into the lounge room in the middle of the morning to find another woman standing just inside the apartment, a black leather briefcase clutched at her side, Raul in the process of greeting her.

Libby froze, frowning, wondering at the inclusion of someone else in their odd little arrangement.

‘Libby.’ Raul forced a smile, but there was a warning in his eyes. ‘This is Matilda Roletti—a designer I’ve called to consult on the nursery. If you tell her what you’d like, she’ll arrange it. And the installation.’

Libby’s heart tightened and she frowned, because this was the last thing she wanted.

‘Oh.’ She glanced from Raul to Matilda, then back to Raul.

‘I’ve brought some catalogues for us to look at, but perhaps you’d like to show me the space first?’ Matilda spoke with a polished accent. In fact, everything about her was polished and professional and instantly intimidating to Libby, who felt under-dressed and dowdy in comparison. Having not been expecting company, she was dressed in just about the only clothes she owned that still fit—a pair of stretchy yoga pants and a loose T-shirt. She wore no make-up and her hair was long and fluffy around her face—Libby had given up on blow-drying it weeks ago.

‘It’s just over there.’ She gestured to the nursery door—the bedroom beside her own. ‘Why don’t you go and have a look? I need a quick word with...my husband.’

Matilda nodded once then strode through the apartment with the same sense of belonging as the designer furniture. It was so obvious that Libby sucked in a sharp breath, the sting in the middle of her chest almost felling her. This was the kind of woman who belonged in Raul’s home. This was the kind of woman who would have been comfortable and content amongst Raul’s priceless collection of furniture in his incredibly extravagant penthouse. Not Libby Langham, a cleaner from Sydney. She swallowed past the constricting feeling in her throat.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ She rounded on him, hissing the question in a whisper, but her anger reverberated around the room as though she’d shouted. ‘I don’t need a designer.’

‘You said you wanted the nursery to be done.’

‘No, I said I wanted to do it,’ she responded.

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