Chapter 4 New Home and King-sized Bed

Barbara's POV

"Barbara! He's here! Get your butt off the bed, NOW!"

My mom's voice ricocheted off the walls like an overcharged pinball, jolting me from my dream-addled state. I catapulted out of bed, and a glance at my phone confirmed my worst fears: 8:57 AM. He was not only punctual but early.

By the time I stumbled out of the house, the car door swung open with the precision of a Swiss watch, revealing my new husband. He was scrolling through something on his tablet, one long leg crossed over the other. The morning light caught in his dark curls, giving them an almost halo-like quality that seemed cosmically unfair.

My mouth went dry as I slid into the leather seat. The man was a walking billboard for "Why Some People Shouldn't Be Allowed to Be This Attractive." It was actually offensive how good he looked so early on weekend.

Then I realized, with dawning horror, that I was staring. Worse, he had noticed. Those deep brown eyes flickered up from his tablet, meeting mine with such sudden intensity that I felt like I had touched a live wire. My face ignited like a matchstick, and I snapped my gaze to my lap.

Smooth, Barbara. Real smooth.

The silence stretched as we left the neighborhood. I could still feel the afterimage of his eyes burning into me, but when I risked a glance up, he was back to reading, his face a perfect mask of indifference. Had I imagined that look?

The car slid through Harbordale's morning traffic like a shark through water. I tried to focus on the scenery, but my mind kept circling back to the man sitting across from me. What was he thinking? Did he regret our marriage already? The questions buzzed in my head like caffeinated bees, but I couldn't bring myself to break the silence.

I was so deep in thoughts that I didn't notice the car had stopped, until Chandler's voice cut through my daydream. "Ma'am, we've arrived."

Outside the tinted windows stood a modernist palace of glass and stone that made my parents' suburban home look like a dollhouse. Three stories of architectural perfection perched on manicured grounds, with what looked like infinity pools reflecting the morning sky.

I turned to Levi, expecting him to exit first, but to my surprise, he remained seated. "Take her inside," he addressed his assistant. "I have an emergency meeting."

And just like that, without so much as a goodbye, the car purred back to life, and I found myself standing on the curb with Chandler, watching the Maybach disappear.

"This way, Mrs. Gardener," Chandler said, gesturing toward the front entrance with the formal precision of a royal escort.

I shifted my weight awkwardly. "Chandler, could you maybe... not call me Mrs. Gardener? It's kinda weird."

His expression didn't change. "What would you prefer? 'Ma'am?'"

"Just Barbara? Or Ms. Cooper, if you must be formal."

He nodded with the gravity of someone receiving state secrets. "Very well, *Mrs. Gardener. This is Mr. Gardener's primary residence, and now your home as well."

I sighed, recognizing a lost cause. Apparently, my new title was sticking whether I wanted it or not.

As we approached the entrance, automatic doors slid open with a whisper. The ceiling of the house soared at least twenty feet above us, the floors were polished concrete, so smooth I could almost see my reflection in them, and the walls were a sophisticated palette of grays and whites. Everything inside was in shades of slate, charcoal, and cement, colors as cool and controlled as the man who had chosen them.

"This way to your quarters," Chandler said, leading me up a floating staircase.

The second floor continued the theme of minimalist luxury, with a long hallway branching off to several closed doors. Chandler stopped at one, swinging it open with a flourish that suggested I should be impressed.

"Your room, Mrs. Gardener."

I stepped inside, my sneakers sinking into plush carpeting. The room was massive, dominated by a king-sized bed. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the manicured grounds and the distant skyline of downtown Harbordale.

My brain stuttered over the words "your room," their implications sending heat rushing to my face. This was where I would sleep. With Levi. My husband of less than 24 hours. In that enormous bed. Together.

Images flashed through my mind unbidden: tangled sheets, skin against skin, those intense eyes gazing down at me in the darkness. Suddenly, the room felt about twenty degrees warmer.

"Ma'am, are you alright? You look flushed." Chandler's voice sliced through my inappropriate fantasy.

"I'm fine!" I squeaked, the words coming out an octave higher than intended. "Just... overwhelmed. By the room. The big, um, spacious room."

Chandler nodded. "This room hasn't been decorated yet. Mr. Gardener said it should be furnished according to your preferences. I'll take you to the mall later."

"Oh. That's... thoughtful," I managed, surprised by the unexpected consideration.

As we stepped back into the hallway, Chandler gestured toward a door further down. "Mr. Gardener's quarters are next to yours."

I blinked, processing this new information. "Oh. Sure. Of course."

Relief flooded through me, immediately followed by a strange undercurrent of... disappointment? That couldn't be right. The thought of sharing intimate space with a virtual stranger would tie my stomach in anxious knots. So why did the confirmation of separate bedrooms leave me feeling oddly hollow?

We continued the tour, with Chandler pointing out everything from the security system to the closest subway station. By the time we went out again, my head was spinning with information, and I was already dreading my new morning routine. Getting to work from this remote palace would mean waking up at the crack of dawn.

The galleria he brought me to turned out to be a cathedral to consumerism where the mere act of breathing probably incurred a service charge. Even the air smelled expensive, perfumed with something subtle and likely distilled from endangered flowers.

"Mr. Gardener will meet you here in two hours," Chandler informed me. "I need to return to the office until then."

And with that, he was gone, leaving me standing in the middle of luxury retail purgatory, wearing a Target T-shirt and feeling about as sophisticated as a gas station burrito at a Michelin-starred restaurant.

I wandered aimlessly in the following hours, doing my best to ignore the side-eye from salespeople who could probably smell my middle-class status from across the room. Even so, the mannequins in the windows still somehow managed to look judgmental.

"Jesus. Is that you, Barbara Cooper?"

Suddenly, a voice hit me like a bucket of ice water. High-pitched, nasal, and dripping with false sweetness — I would recognize it anywhere, even though I had spent two years trying to forget it.