A Wife for the Billionaire
Chapter 100: SOFIA

Chapter 100: SOFIA

"Dear, are you alright?"

It was a woman’s voice, middle aged. But I didn’t bother lifting my face, I yelled, for what was more than the dozenth time already,

"Fuck off!"

It was maddening as hell, that someone couldn’t be allowed to cry and think in peace. But I suppose it was my fault for choosing a park, of all places.

I sat face down at the wooden bench, canopied by a willow tree. I don’t know how long I had sat there, but my tears were far from ceasing. I have tried to stop, to think, but every thought just brought more tears.

I didn’t even know what was the time, and I didn’t care one bit.

The appointment I had with Richard, became a trivial matter compared to the recent turn of events. And I really didn’t feel like facing the vexing billionaire after the shocking news of my marriage.

The bench creaked as someone too stupid to see that I didn’t want to be bothered, sat down. And worse he was eating; bagels and coffee. It reminded me that I hadn’t eaten all morning.

Alicia had been in a rush to marry me off, that she didn’t allow me to have breakfast. At the gnawing reminder, my stomach growled. I barely raised my face as I flashed him a glare of pure scorching hate, that he left scrambling.

Wiping my eyes, I dared lift my face. A small lake that must flow into the great Hanttan, ebbed slowly. A bunch of toddlers hubbled after butterflies, the mothers close by, one of them documenting with a camera. Few paces from them, couples sat on their blankets having a picnic, the sight reminding me of my lack of the necessity. At the stone face to face bench, sat an elderly couple playing chess.

A cool breeze wafted through, swaying the willow and as I turned to look at the tree,

"Shit" I muttered, as I realized where I was and its significance.

I sat at Willow Park, under the famous ’Love Willow’. The tree that was believed to throw shade of love to whoever who sat under her. So, folks say.

There was a story passed from generation to generation about the tree, long before it became part of a Park. It is said that once upon a time, a man wandered to the tree and sat under her shade, resting his back at her roots. The man was oblivious to the woman who sat also at the other side of the tree, crying. But as time stretched, he heard her soft sob as if it swayed with the thread branches of the willow.

As one, they had crawled to find out who was at the other side of the tree and legend has it that as their eyes met, they fell in love. Some say the threads of the willow wrapped itself around them binding them together while they expressed their new found love.

There have also been recent stories of couples who met and found love under the Willow. Their testimonies were evident on the bark of the tree, carved around, over and over again were initials or hearts of people who met under the Willow.

A popular artist even wrote a song about the tree, he had called it, "Under the Willow" and it had sold to platinum.

Being under the tree and weeping could only mean one thing according to people, I was about to meet the love of my life. If the legends were to be believed.

But I don’t believe them, if anything, I find it a mere coincidence that the man and woman had met each other. Clearly it was random, not fated or any of that hyped bullshit. I mean, of course they met, it was only a matter of time, what else would have happened if not meeting each other when they were just separated by the bark of the tree?

Huffing at how swayable and base, like the slender threads of the willow in the breeze, people’s minds were. I rose and walked to the Tacos cart, a few paces away.

Ordering two tacos and a bottle of cola I came back to the bench and ate breakfast. The tacos were delicious, hot

and spicy. Just what I wanted.

I tossed the can of coke without giving a damn about the reverence people reserved for this particular part of the park. It was never littered. Passers-by glared at me, many of them ordering me to pick up the can and throw it into the appropriate disposal. They all met a ’fuck you’.

Soon the lovers of the famous Willow Park came at me, hostile for littering the supposed sacred grounds. Not in the mood for their drama and lecture on how many people have found love at the very ground I just littered, I quickly dashed out of there, but not before leaving them with enough dose of ’fuck you’s.

Making a mental calculation, I realized I was a few miles away from the Wellington Fashion Headquarters, where I was supposed to meet Richard. I sort out my phone from my purse and opened his message again, it read,

"I want to see you at exactly 12 pm tomorrow, don’t be late and you better have made a decision"

It kinda sounded desperate, if not why was the famous CEO of the Wellington Fashion Empire ordering the audience of a mere clerk interviewee? And worst, he sent it that late, as if he couldn’t wait for morning. Maybe he realized that he needed me to get that front page cover from Bogue.

That realization added to the fact that I was kinda running late, it was already 11:50 and getting there by foot from where I was, could take a solid, 30 minutes. I walked with a new found purpose, deciphering what Richard needed from me.

Forty minutes later, sweaty and almost about to pass out, I leaned on the desk of one of Wellington’s receptionists. Erica wasn’t on duty, thank God. After gulping down a bottle of water and catching my breath, I stated my purpose and made my way to the elevator.

Vera sat at her desk as I stepped out of the elevator, she wore a black drawy gown that hugged to her body, accessing her curves. Her jet black hair was tied in a loose ponytail and her red lips twisted in a snare as she saw me.

"You," she said, stabbing a pen in my direction. "What are you doing here?"

Of course, the prick didn’t tell her of our appointment. Insouciant to her twisted look of disgust, I told her that I was there for an appointment with her boss.

As she knocked and inquired from her boss, I peered at my appearance in the reflective glass. I had done well to mask my blotched eyelids and cheeks with the concealer, but I couldn’t shake off the self consciousness that came with my choice of dressing.

Reminding myself that it didn’t matter, I was here to turn down a job offer, who cares if I look like a slut. And besides, since when did the thoughts of that rich ass prick, matter?

"Just let her in" I heard him order, a note of anger in his voice.

"Yes Sir" Vera replied, obeisant as she retreated from the door.

Motioning me in, I felt sorry for her as I walked past her to the richly decorated office.

The man of the hour, Richard, lounged at his leather chair, his eyes fixed on me. He donned a dark violet suit, no doubt of Wellington brand, as it fitted him to perfection. Showing off his broad shoulders, and muscular build.

He still looked every bit the rich prick I met a day ago. His dark hair was slicked to perfection, gleaming in the afternoon sunbeams from the glass behind him. He sat with his chair turned almost sideways, his right hand adorned by a Rolex, resting on the squeaky clean glass table. While the other rested invisibly on his thigh. His dark brows perfectly arched as he took in my attire.

My ’Not your Bitch’ cropped top, the black high waist jeans. My purse and my black and white Nike Blazers.

On my way here, I had thought of the job he was going to offer me and came to another conclusion that it was inconsequential in regards to the recent developments in my life. A job as a clerk in Wellington, won’t stop my marriage or be enough to convince Alicia that I

could pull my own weight.

But now that I was seconds away from saying ’no’ I found myself wondering if it will actually make a difference. Is turning it down the right thing to do? Perhaps taking it will be a win, a small feat in my overwhelming life of defeats. If not for anything, then for the looks on their faces when I announce to them that I’m working at Wellington’s.

I was still puzzling out a decision when I saw Richard staring at my face, intently I must add, afraid he might see past the concealer, I asked with a raised eyebrow,

"Are you going to stare at me all day or are you going to tell me why you made it sound urgent with your text last night?"

He smiled. Fucking smiled like I said something funny or maybe I’m a clown. Then his brow furrowed as if he was thinking about something, notably the

text he sent last night.

Such mistakes whether he really needed me was atypical to his likes. He never should have sent that text, somehow he had made it sound like he needed me and he knew it. But of course, he would never accept it,

"Oh that," he shrugged, waving it off, "I was kinda bung fu when I sent you that text, I didn’t mean to sou..."

"Bung fu?" I interrupted, the word sounded made up which I wouldn’t put past him if his reputation was in the line.

That got him angry, I saw. His fingers clenched to a fist and his muscles already bulging from his suit seemed tauter. Then suddenly he relaxed, confirming my suspicions, he needed me, perhaps desperately since he wasn’t going to allow his actions or emotions jeopardize it.

He may not have known it, but I knew. I knew Richard Wellington, the never-in-lack billionaire, needed my help.