CHAPTER 4

The following day, I woke up more devastated than I had been, embarrassed from the memory of the last night. I had never made a romantic advance towards a man and been turned down before, let alone by my spouse. I wandered the hallways looking to air out my thoughts and erase the tragedy that was last night, and decided I owed Michael an apology. I hurried down in hopes of meeting him before he left for work. I found him in the lounge going through The Times Newspapers. There was a certain aura about a man in suit pants and a neatly buttoned shirt that I was growing fond of, and for a brief moment, I forgot what I had rushed to say to him. I stood in front of him, mute and captivated, he steadily raised his head and caught my gaze, a strand of hair dangled loosely from the corner of his face.

"Yes?" he asked.

I jolted out of my trance,

"Oh, right," "Um.. I wanna apologize for last night, I shouldn't have ambushed you like that" "I promise, it won't repeat."

He stared at me without saying a word, and when I was done, he fluffed his papers and went back to reading. I stood confused and then began to retrace my steps slowly. Before I made it to the stairs, he called out

"Oh, Lauren!",

"Tonight is the Bryce family's annual dinner night. Miss Phillips will pick out something for you". I stood biting my lips and smiling, it was clear that my husband had several communication problems, but I couldn't deny the change I started to feel here.

"Of course," I mumbled under my breath and continued upstairs.

I decided to spend the rest of my day in the west quarter of the mansion, I needed a break from everything over the last few days, some time to deal with the chaos that blocked my creativity. On my way, I bumped into Emily, my dearest sister-in-law, who just yesterday gave me advice not worth sharing, one which ended up with me crowned Fool Of The Century.

She was brimming from a distance, ready to hear all the gossip of last night - maybe she was the country club type, after all.

"Hi Lau," she called, surprising me with our sudden familiarity. She leaned in, eyes full of curiosity, and asked,

"So, how did last night go?" I couldn't decide what was more unusual - my sister-in-law's interest in the intimate details of my sex life with her brother or my willingness to share. Without shame, I replied, "It was eventful," and continued on my way. Emily hurried up to me, puzzled,

"Everything good between you two?" she asked with a concerned look.

"Yeah, Everything's fine," I replied with a brim wider than hers.

"I hope it's no problem, but I'll like to have some time alone, I have some art project to work on. But if I'm needed, I'll be in the West quarter". She nodded, and I took the right bend to the studio. The room had a sizeable rustic decor, with framed paintings on the walls, a mid-century piano facing a large glass window, and a fireplace. The ambiance of this room was worth to be seen by a painter. I found a lovely space, set up my canvas lights, and brought out my brush. I accidentally knocked down a metal box that was placed on a small stool, and a framed letter fell, "My Dear Mary," the letter began and ended. I was curious why there was a framed letter that was never written or posted, but even more curious about who Mary was.

But I had more urgent needs to attend to, I placed the letter back and started to brush my paint, my mind already dreading the thought of facing the judgmental aunts, merry cousins, and drunk uncles at the dinner table. I had attended enough of these family gatherings to know the routine - conversations about my "happy" marriage, comments about how lucky Michael was to have me, and so on. But nothing would prepare me for how different it would be with a family as wealthy as the Bryce. Could a small-family girl like me handle the pressure of belonging to a billionaire family?

I found a perspective to focus on, inspired by the lighting angles in the room bouncing off the polished wooden walls. I dipped my brush in my red paint, and the first slash on my canvas triggered some flashes, I shook it off and continued painting, but soon it came again, this time with a sharp head pain. I knew what it was, I've been having them for six years now, since the night of my brother's accident. These sharp head pains gave me a mental block whenever I tried to paint my views and perspectives.

I got up and boxed my tools, made my way to the couch, and pulled out a book to read; some blissful moments before I had to entertain an entire family in what I knew would be an endless night of fake smiles and small talk. As I settled, my phone buzzed with a notification, interrupting my thoughts. I glanced down to see an unknown number, immediately making me uneasy. As I read the message, my heart sank - It was something I had only heard about before but never thought would happen to me, a stalker.

"I can spot a gold digger from a mile away. Congratulations on your wedding. We'll be seeing each other soon," the message read.

The words were chilling, and I could feel the color drain from my face. What did they want from me? Despite the fear that gripped me, there was a slight sense of relief in knowing that at least I had a valid reason for my nervousness about meeting my in-laws.

There were over twenty billionaires in New York, but only two were notable. The first was Luke Cassidy, the CEO of the Daily Times, a dapper blonde man who'd owned a rival company and actively worked to discredit Michael, the CEO of a fashion and magazine design company for years, and improve on any of Michael's designs. His company was on the square, near The New York Times, where he had copied Michael's fashion and magazine designs for years, but as the media always printed "allegedly," as Mr. Luke Cassidy also had a firm foot of shares in the Newspaper company. Despite the media's reports, it was believed that Cassidy also had shares in Michael's company.

The second was Michael Bryce, my husband, who was rumored to be in an exclusive society that could take care of any business outside the office walls for him. This rumor was carried and distributed in black and white print on front pages of papers throughout the city and soon built him the reputation of the "Cold-Suit CEO." I knew if I could trust anyone to handle this situation for me, it would be no one other than Michael.

The public did not sufficiently understand the exclusive society that Michael belonged to. The media never gave a proper representation of what that complete party entailed, it was hidden just like some affairs of his corporate world, and neither was it talked about in clarity in office stalls. It was lost to public translation, and I was one of the few people who loved not knowing - knowing too much about a person brought attachments, which was the last thing I needed.

I grabbed my keys and drove out to meet Michael. I arrived at his company, a massive 30-floor architectural complex, and took the elevator to the penthouse floor, where he was conducting a board meeting.

I watched through the glass walls making my way to the door with the front desk receptionist, who followed behind me. I stood for a moment and watched as he bellowed commands to his board members about a Call-To-Action on their most recent customer audience feedback, and I felt aroused. The respect he commanded from his board was admirable, even to me.

Michael spotted me, and his stare turned cold and piercing. He dismissed his board briefly and made his way to me. I could tell he was already enraged, but if he had any clue what I was about to say to him, he'd probably punch his way through the glass doors.

"What are you doing here?" he spoke sharply, taking my hand and leading it away to the lobby. It was strange that besides our wedding day, this was the next time my husband held my hand.

"Is this about last night?", "Are you trying to embarrass me?" he spoke apologetically. The front desk receptionist Lydia meekly interrupted, "I'm sorry, sir, I tried to tell her you were in a meeting," she said, cowering, but had no problem throwing me under the bus. These were some reasons I didn't like the corporate world.

"Weren't you supposed to be getting ready for tonight with Miss Phillips?!" he looked as if he had just suddenly remembered.

"Something happened, and I didn't know what to do?" I started. His looks changed to that of concern,

"Is everything alright?". I remained mute for a moment, unsure how to break the news, "I have a stalker," I said and showed him the message on my phone. He read it and paused briefly and then returned my phone, "Get back home. I'll take care of it",

"I'll worry about this, you just get home and get yourself ready for tonight's dinner, and one piece of advice, Lauren," "Try not to let this affect your mood. My family is very critical", he added. I felt reassured and walked away, before I was out of sight, he called

"Next time, inform me. I would like to make out time and show you around", he said as I smiled sheepishly and walked out with the receptionist behind me, almost like a personal bodyguard. I didn't know what Michael meant by he'll take care of it, there were several conspiracies surrounding him, including one which I was curious about. His involvement in my brother's accident. But I left the building feeling confident, with thoughts of the night that was soon closing in.

I made it to my car door, and my phone beeped another message, I reluctantly picked up the phone and read the message. It was yet another threat, this time even more aggressive than before. "$2,000,000 or I expose these photos and the truth behind your marriage," the message read, attached with several pictures of me in unflattering lights. One look at the pictures, and I realized I had gotten it all wrong, this wasn't a stalker. It was the oldest sport in human history, blackmail.