The Billionaire Who Timed My Love And Gave Hers For Free Chapter 01

The Billionaire Who Timed My Love And Gave Hers For Free Chapter 01

Three years into our marriage, Julian Whitmore changed my contact name.

Not “Wife.” Not “Mara.”

Just a time slot. 7:00 p.m. to 7:30 p.m.

Thirty minutes a day. That was what he budgeted for his personal life.

One minute early, nothing.

One minute late, nothing.

Once, I spiked a 102-degree fever and ended up hooked to an IV at the hospital. I called him seven times.

At seven sharp, he called back.

“You’ve got twenty-nine minutes. Talk.”

My voice came out wrecked. “Can you come get me?”

I heard the click of his mouse as he checked his calendar.

“Twenty-nine minutes won’t cover the drive both ways.”

“Just get an Uber.”

I told myself he was just busy. That it wasn’t personal.

So I never wasted a single one of those thirty minutes.

I’d script what I needed to say ahead of time. I kept my complaints tight, efficient.

Then one night, thunder jolted me awake at one a.m.

The bed beside me was empty.

Julian was on the living room couch, going over a proposal with his project manager, Sloane Caldwell.

Her voice floated through the screen, soft and apologetic.

“Mr. Whitmore, it’s one in the morning. I feel terrible for keeping you up.”

He laughed, low and easy.

“Have I ever watched the clock with you?”

I stood behind the door, and it hit me. Three hours ago, my stomach had been hurting so badly I could barely stand. I’d knocked on his study door.

He’d said, “You’ve used up your time for today.”

I went back to the bedroom and turned off my daily alarm. The one I’d set for 6:59 p.m.

The next evening, seven o’clock came and went. For the first time, I sent him nothing.

…

At 7:03, Julian opened the study door.

“No report today?”

I was sitting at the dining table. It was our third wedding anniversary.

I’d booked a restaurant a month ago. He canceled it that afternoon. One line of text: [Meeting ran late.]

I told myself staying in was fine. He hated the drive anyway.

So I made chicken soup, roasted some vegetables, and picked up a little cake.

He checked his phone. 7:03.

Then, like a reminder notification that had come to life, he said,

“You’ve got twenty-seven minutes.”

I looked at him, and every word I’d rehearsed jammed in my throat.

Just last night, when I was doubled over and knocked on his door, he told me my time was up?

That I woke at one a.m. and found him on the couch, voice soft, walking Sloane through her proposal?

The silence stretched. Julian’s jaw tightened.

Control was everything to Julian.

Projects, meetings, marriage. Everything ran on a schedule.

“Mara, don’t go quiet on me to guilt me into extra time.”

I set down my fork.

“What if I just stop? What if I never take up your time again?”

That got his attention. He actually looked at me.

He looked at me like I was a calendar alert that had glitched.

“Then I’d say you’re finally learning.”

My finger brushed against the hot rim of the soup bowl. I jerked back, splashing broth on my hand, skin stinging.

Julian noticed.

He held out a napkin.

“Run it under water. Don’t drip it on the table.”

I didn’t take it.

His phone lit up.

Sloane. Video call.

He picked up without hesitating.

On screen, her eyes were red-rimmed, papers fanned out across her desk.

“Mr. Whitmore, I’m so sorry. I got the client brief wrong again. God, what is wrong with me?”

The coldness in his face thawed. Just like that.

“Drop me a pin. I’m on my way.”

“My half hour isn’t up yet,” I said quietly.

His hand stopped halfway to his coat.

“Sloane is a work emergency.”

I stared at the coat in his hand. My throat locked.

“What about me?”

He turned around, and somehow that made it worse—because his voice was almost gentle.

“You’re my wife.”

“A wife shouldn’t have to compete with a job.”

I almost laughed.

So “wife” didn’t mean I came first.

It meant I was supposed to come last and be grateful.

Julian was halfway to the door when he doubled back and grabbed the cake off the table.

My hand shot out and pressed down on the box.

“That’s ours.”

He looked at my hand on the box. His voice stayed soft, the kind of soft that doesn’t ask permission.

“She hasn’t eaten all day. Her blood sugar’s crashing.”

“Mara, it’s a cake. You can get another one. The project can’t wait.”

He was at the door when I broke.

“Julian. It’s our anniversary.”

His hand was on the knob. He glanced back.

“Why do you think I made time at seven?”

I froze.

He didn’t even realize what he’d just said.

“Mara, I didn’t forget.”

“I gave you the time.”

The door clicked shut. I laughed.

An anniversary wasn’t something he spent with me.

It was proof he hadn’t shorted me.