Chapter 15 Chapter 15
Scarlett's POV
My phone rang at six in the morning.
I groaned and grabbed it from the nightstand. Squinted at the screen. Unknown number.
"Hello?" My voice came out like gravel.
"Scarlett? It's Mike. From The Brew Station."
I sat up. Wide awake now. "Mike? What's wrong?"
"Sarah called in sick. Stomach bug. I know you've been out with the same thing, but are you feeling better? Any chance you can cover her shift?"
I was already throwing off the covers. "Yeah. I can be there in thirty minutes."
"You're a lifesaver. Thanks."
I hung up and jumped out of bed.
Finally. Something normal. Something that doesn't involve crime lords or getting locked in bedrooms.
I'd been planning to go back to work today anyway. I needed to move. To do something useful.
I grabbed clothes from my closet. That's when I noticed the door was open.
Not locked. Not sealed. Just... open.
The Germans must've fixed the security system overnight. Thank God.
I walked out into the hallway.
Damon stood near the stairs. Arms crossed. Eyebrows drawn together in that expression that screamed "I'm about to say something you won't like."
"Going somewhere?" he asked.
"Work."
"Work."
"Yes. Work. The place where people go to earn money."
His jaw tightened. "My wife doesn't need to work."
Oh.
The fire that had been simmering in my chest all night flared up.
I crossed my arms. Mirrored his stance. "The Romanos thought it was embarrassing for me to work. You think the same thing?"
Direct hit.
His expression flickered. Just for a second, I saw something like guilt cross his face.
"That's not—" He stopped. Ran a hand through his hair. "That's not what I meant."
"Then what did you mean?"
"I meant you don't have to work. You're carrying my child. You should be resting."
"I like my job, Damon. I like talking to people. I like making coffee. I like having something to do that doesn't involve sitting around your mansion waiting for my stomach to grow."
We stared at each other.
Come on. Push back. Tell me I'm not allowed. Give me a reason to start a real fight.
But he didn't.
He just sighed. Long and defeated. "Fine. If you want to go, go."
I blinked. "Really?"
"Really." He grabbed his suit jacket from the back of a chair. "But I'm driving you."
"You don't have to—"
"I'm driving you."
His tone left no room for argument.
Fine. Whatever. At least he's not locking me in the house.
"I need to get ready," I said.
I went back to my room. Took a quick shower. Brushed my teeth. Pulled my hair into a ponytail.
When I walked over to my dresser to grab my watch, I saw it.
A black leather card holder.
I picked it up slowly. Opened it.
Holy shit.
An American Express Centurion Card. Jet black. Sleek. The kind of card that whispered "I'm richer than you'll ever be."
And printed across the front in silver letters: Scarlett Wolfe.
There was a note tucked inside the card holder. Damon's handwriting.
For anything you need.
I stared at those four words.
Anything I need.
I looked back at the card. This wasn't just any credit card. This was the credit card. The Centurion. The black card. No spending limit. Annual fee higher than most people's rent.
And it had my name on it.
I sat down on the edge of the bed.
My mind was racing. Legally, we were married. Married people shared finances. This was normal. Rich wives used their husband's credit cards all the time.
Except.
Except I wasn't a normal wife. This wasn't a normal marriage. We'd gotten married so the baby would be legitimate. That was it. A legal arrangement.
And now he was giving me unlimited access to his money?
This feels wrong. This feels like... like being kept.
I'd spent my entire adult life being independent. Making my own money. Answering to no one. When I worked for Iron Circle, I got paid for my skills. When I worked at the coffee shop, I earned every dollar.
I didn't take handouts. I didn't rely on anyone.
And now?
Now I had a black card with no limit and my husband's note telling me to use it for "anything."
What does that even mean? Does he expect me to go shopping? Buy designer handbags? Get my nails done?
I looked at the card again.
He probably thinks this is helping. This is his way of taking care of me. Rich guy solution to every problem: throw money at it.
I should give it back. I should tell him I didn't need it. I had my own money from years of work. I could support myself.
But.
But refusing it would hurt him. I could tell from the note. He'd thought about this. He'd gotten the card made with my name on it. He was trying.
God, this is complicated.
I tucked the card back into the holder. Shoved it in my pocket.
I'll deal with this later. One crisis at a time.
I headed downstairs.
Damon was in the dining room. Full suit. Perfectly pressed. Eating breakfast like he hadn't just given me a card that could buy a small country.
I walked over to the table. Pulled out the card holder. Set it down next to his coffee cup.
"What is this?" I asked.
He glanced at it. Took another bite of his eggs. "Credit card. You'll need it."
"I don't need a credit card. I have my own money."
He finally looked up at me. "You're my wife. You should have access to our accounts."
"Our accounts?"
"Yes. Our accounts." He said it like it was obvious. Like I was being weird for questioning it. "The card has no limit. Use it for whatever you need."
I stared at him.
He genuinely thinks this is normal. He genuinely thinks giving me unlimited spending power is just... what husbands do.
"Damon—"
"You're carrying my child," he interrupted. "You shouldn't have to worry about money. That's my job."
Oh my God. He's doing the whole 'provider' thing. The alpha male 'I take care of my woman' routine.
Part of me wanted to throw the card at his head.
Part of me was... touched?
No. Stop. Don't be touched. This is a control thing. This is him trying to make you dependent on him.
Except... he said 'our accounts.' Not 'my accounts.' Our.
I picked up the card holder. Turned it over in my hands.
"I'm not going to use this to buy designer bags," I said quietly.
"I don't care what you use it for."
"I'm serious. I'm not that kind of person."
He set down his fork. Looked at me with those dark eyes. "I know you're not. That's not why I gave it to you."
"Then why?"
"Because you're my wife. And I take care of what's mine."
What's mine.
The words sent a shiver down my spine.
Possessive much?
But also... also there was something warm about it. Something that made my chest feel tight.
Stop it. Stop feeling things. This is a business arrangement. He's just being practical.
I shoved the card holder back in my pocket. "Fine. But I'm keeping track of everything I spend. And I'm paying you back."
His eyebrows shot up. "Paying me back?"
"Yes."
"With what money?"
"My coffee shop money."
He stared at me like I'd just said I was planning to fly to the moon.
Then he laughed. Actually laughed. "You're going to pay me back with minimum wage?"
"It's my money," I said defensively.
"Scarlett." He stood up. Walked over to me. Stopped close enough that I had to tilt my head back to look at him. "You're carrying a child worth more than everything you'll make in your entire life."
Wow. Okay. Way to make me feel like an incubator.
My face must've shown what I was thinking because his expression softened.