Page 38 of If You Give a Billionaire a Bride

The driver is already waiting on the sidewalk when I get out of the backseat. I hand him a fifty-pound note and direct him to the doorman, who will make sure our suitcases are delivered to my apartment.

I stick my head back into the SUV. “Ready, wifey?”

Everly shoots me a disapproving scowl as she finishes putting the documents inside her purse.

“What will it take for you to stop calling me that?” she clips, ignoring my hand in favor of stepping out of the vehicle by herself.

“Already changing your mind about staying married?” I ask, a smile tugging at one corner of my mouth.

“No, but I…” She trails off when she sees the towering building above us. “Wait. Youlive here?”

“Welive here.”

There’s no telling how long we’ll be staying together, so she should get accustomed to the idea of the apartment being ours.

“This is where the city’s wealthiest residents live. I know Stafford Holdings is a billion-dollar company, but I’m surprised you’d choose this place, given your modest upbringing.”

I shrug. “I like extravagant things when they pique my interest. This building has all the amenities I could want, plus it’s close to the office, so it seemed like the most sensible option.”

The majority of my wealth comes from investments Dylan makes on my behalf. I’ve never been good at that kind of thing, and since he’s a number whiz and enjoys playing the markets, I’ve let him have at it. And it’s paid off big time.

My base salary goes toward giving substantial bonuses to my direct reports each year. Dedicated employees are what makes a company great, and by prioritizing my staff's needs, they’re happier and more willing to put extra effort into their jobs.

I’ve never brought up these additional bonuses with Harrison or Dylan. I’m sure they’d consider my decision foolhardy and imprudent.

The way I see it, I have more financial resources than I could ever use in my lifetime, and I want to share the wealth with those who’ve earned it.

Max, my doorman, nods in our direction as he opens the door for us to enter the building.

Standing tall with a neatly trimmed beard and salt-and-pepper hair, he never fails to offer a warm, welcoming smile when I walk by.

“Thanks, Max.” I shake his hand.

“My pleasure. And who is the lovely lady?” He grins at Everly.

The only other woman I’ve ever brought back to my apartment was Presley when she and Jack came to visit last month.

“This is my wife, Everly,” I say proudly, wrapping my arm around her waist.

“Congratulations.” Max beams with approval. “Welcome to the High Rise, Mrs. Stafford. If you ever need anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask.”

She smiles back at him. “Thank you, I appreciate it.”

If Max wasn’t in his sixties and happily married to his high school sweetheart, I might be jealous of Everly’s genuine reaction to him. As it is, I’m glad she’ll have someone other than me to look after her while she’s staying here.

We head inside, and Everly takes in her surroundings. The lobby is the definition of timeless luxury and elegance—the building manager’s words, not mine. A massive crystal chandelier complements the intricate white molding, and on the walls, modern art pieces depict famous sites in England.

Everly’s heels click against the marble floors as we walk to the elevator that goes straight to the penthouse. When the door opens, I motion for her to step inside first before following behind. I press my thumb against the biometric fingerprint scanner and the elevator begins its ascent.

She clamps her eyes shut and holds the handrail with a death grip.

My brow furrows with worry. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t like elevators,” she admits.

“Fuck,” I utter under my breath.

I rush to her side, wrapping my arm around her in a show of comfort. “I’m right here, Ev. I promise it’ll be over soon.”

---