The billionaire’s Lavender Wife

Chapter Five — Kevin

Kevin knew something was wrong before I said a word.

That was the thing about my brother, he'd spent fifteen years in hospital beds with nothing to do but watch people, and somewhere along the way he'd developed an accuracy for reading faces that was frankly inconvenient when the face in question was mine.

He was sitting up in bed when I arrived on Tuesday, headphones around his neck, book face down on his knee. He looked at me when I came through the curtain and his expression did something, a small, careful settling, like a person deciding what kind of conversation this was going to be.

“You're late,” he said.

“I'm exactly on time.”

“You're usually early,so you're late.” He reached for the bag I was carrying. “Is that food?”

“Fruit and biscuits. The ones you like.”

“The chocolate ones?”

“Obviously the chocolate ones, Kevin, I'm not a monster.”

He took the bag with the efficiency of someone who had been surviving on hospital food long enough to treat outside provisions as a tactical operation. I sat in my usual chair, third from the window, angled so I could see both him and the curtain and let myself just be there for a moment. In this ward with the steady beeping of his monitor and the specific smell of antiseptic that I had somehow, somewhere along the way, started associating with safety.

Because Kevin was here. And when Kevin was here, I could see him and I knew he was okay.

“So,” he said, through a biscuit.

“So,” I said.

“Arthur Blackwood.”

I pressed my lips together. “You've seen the news.”

“Rose, I've been in the hospital for six days. The news is literally the only entertainment I have.”

“They have a television…”

“And a phone,” he said. “And wifi. And, apparently, a trending topic with my sister's face on it.”

I looked at my hands.

“It's a business arrangement,” I said. “A contract for one year, his name next to mine for appearances, he pays for your treatment, and then we go our separate ways and that's that.”

Kevin was quiet for a moment.

“A contract,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Business.”

“Yes.”

“Right.” Another biscuit. “So you've definitely not noticed that he's, like, objectively the most…”

“Kevin.”

“I'm just saying,”

“Business arrangement,” I said firmly. “That's all it is and that's all it can be.”

He looked at me with the expression I'd been on the receiving end of since he was old enough to have expressions, the one that said he could see exactly what I was thinking and had decided to be patient about the fact that I was lying to myself.

He didn't push it.

Instead he told me about his week, the nurses, a documentary he'd watched three times because there was nothing else on, a book someone had left in the communal area that was surprisingly good. I listened and felt my shoulders drop and thought,this was what I'd done it for. This specific thing,my brother with chocolate on his fingers telling me about a documentary, alive and present and himself.

Then he said “Rose.”He used a different tone this time and I looked at him.

His face had changed. The teasing was gone. What was there instead was something quieter and more deliberate, the expression he wore when he'd decided that something needed to be said even if I didn't want to hear it.

“I'm glad,” he said. “That there's going to be someone who looks after you. When I'm…”

“Stop.” The word came out sharper than I intended.

Kevin held my gaze,he didn't stop. That was the thing about Kevin, he was gentle about almost everything, but he was never gentle about this. About the truth of his situation. About the thing we both knew and never named.

“When I'm not here,” he finished,quietly, like he was saying something ordinary.

My jaw tightened so hard it hurt.I reached over and took his hand, the one not holding the biscuit and I held it the way I'd been holding his hand his whole life. Like if I held on tight enough, the universe would get the message.

“You're not going anywhere,” I said.

My voice was steady and I was very proud of it.

I looked at the window because I was not going to cry in front of him. I had not cried in front of Kevin since he was five years old and I'd been fifteen and we'd been in a hospital waiting room in a country that wasn't ours and I'd made a decision that he would never see me break. He carried enough, he doesn’t need to carry me too.

I wiped my face quickly with the back of my free hand.

I did not look at him.But what I didn’t see was Kevin, still holding my hand, watching my profile with the small private smile of a boy who had just confirmed something he'd been hoping for longer than he'd let on.

“Tell me about the house,” he said after finishing his biscuit.

I exhaled long and slow. “It's big.”

“How big?”

“Kevin,i got lost going from my room to the kitchen.”

He grinned, full and wide and the tightness in my chest loosened exactly one degree.

“Tell me everything,” he said.

So I told him about the drive through London,the gates opening by themselves, the stone and the gardens and the ceilings that made you feel simultaneously very small and very aware that you were somewhere that had been built to last.

I hadn't meant to tell him about the vase but it slipped out, the pale blue ceramic, the uneven glaze, the lip that wasn't perfectly level.

Kevin went quiet.

“He put it there,” Kevin said. It wasn't a question.

“I don't know who…”

“Rose.” He gave me the look. “A man who owns that house could have anything on that console table. He has that there because someone chose it. And if Luke can tell you where it came from…” He raised an eyebrow.

I said nothing.Kevin's grin returned,slower this time.

“Business arrangement,” he said.

“Absolutely,” I said.

He laughed.And I looked at the window so he wouldn't see me smile.

I was on my way out of the hospital, coat on, bag on my shoulder, head already calculating the journey home, when I felt it.

Not heard but felt.The specific shift of a corridor's atmosphere when someone significant enters it.

I turned around.Arthur Blackwood was walking toward me from the direction of the lifts. Still in his work clothes, jacket on, tie precise, the controlled composure of a man who had come directly from somewhere important and had not stopped to recalibrate.

He was carrying a bag.He stopped when he saw me. Something moved across his face, quickly, controlled, before he settled back into neutral.

“Miss Carter,” he said.

“Mr. Blackwood,” I said. “What are you…”

“I had something to drop off,” he said.

He held up the bag. I looked at it,then at him.

“For Kevin,” he said simply.

I stared at him.Arthur Blackwood, CEO, billionaire, the man whose name is currently trending in four countries attached to mine, had come to the hospital, voluntarily to bring something for my fifteen-year-old brother.

“You didn't have to..” I started.

“I know,” he said.

He met my eyes,held them for a moment that lasted slightly longer than it needed to.Then he moved past me toward the ward.

I stood in the corridor and watched him go and thought of when Luke said he came himself for things. Luke said he didn't have to, but he came himself.

I thought about the vase, about what Kevin had said.I turned and walked toward the exit.I couldn’t let myself think about it too hard.

My phone buzzed as I pushed through the hospital door. It was the unknown number again.My stomach dropped before I even unlocked the screen.But it wasn't a threatening message this time.

It was a photograph taken from a distance, blurry at the edges, like someone had zoomed in from across the street. The hospital entrance. Me and Arthur, standing in the corridor, his bag in his hand, my face turned up toward his.

And below the photograph, there were four words. ‘He chose you on purpose.’ I stopped walking.

People moved around me on the pavement. London doing its London thing, indifferent, continuous, unbothered by the woman standing still in the middle of it with a photograph on her phone and a cold spreading through her chest that had nothing to do with the November air.

‘He chose you on purpose.’ Not ‘He announced a marriage to deal with a crisis.’ Or ‘your name was convenient.’ But on purpose.

I looked at the photograph. At Arthur's face in the blurry image, the angle of his jaw, the way he was looking at me.

I put my phone in my pocket and walked home.But the message walked with me the whole way.

And the question it had planted, small and sharp and insistent, was not the kind that went away just because you wanted it to.

“Why?”