Desired by the Billionaire Playboy

Emily's pov

"Perfect," I smiled to myself after lighting the scented candle and backing away to admire my work. A romantic steak dinner with wine and rose flower petals scattered on a fresh floral tablecloth. Tonight was my fifth wedding anniversary to Brad Winchester, the love of my life. He already gave me a heads up that we wouldn't be able to go to a restaurant this time, he lost a big project recently, and his agency took a hit.

I didn't want to be selfish. For the first two years of our marriage, he forgot our anniversary. For the third, he bought me gas station flowers and convenience store chocolates. Then last year, he took me to a two-star restaurant. The food honestly tasted like rat piss, but I smiled through it all. He was just going through a tough time, and as his wife, I was supposed to support him, so tonight I made this surprise dinner that I'd been planning for weeks.

Now that I was done, I took off my apron and wiped my hands clean of any residue of cooking before rushing to our bedroom. I threw the door open, and what I saw made my smile shrink instantly.

He was already fully dressed in a suit and was just struggling with his tie.

I held the door for support.

"Honey?" I called out loud enough for him to hear, but he barely acknowledged it. Maybe I wasn't loud enough.

"Honey?!" I said, increasing my voice and even stepping closer. He sighed heavily like a weight had been thrust on his shoulders.

"What now, Emily? Can't you see I'm busy?"

I gulped.

"Are you heading out?" I asked, hoping that he'd say no. After the first two years of forgotten anniversaries, I made sure that I plastered reminders everywhere on the fridge, in his folders and his lunchbox for work. I would even call his Secretary and tell her not to place anything on that day that would lead to him working overtime.

There was no stone left unturned to make sure he remembered what today was, yet he looked at me irritatedly and groaned out, "There's an emergency at the office, I'm heading out.”

As he was about to walk past me, I held him back by his arm.

"Can't somebody else handle it?" I asked, my voice cracking. I didn't demand his attention on any other day of the year. He was always working late nights, and when he came back home, he would already be exhausted and pass out in a second. All I asked was for one day out of more than a thousand for my husband to come back home at night and just choose me.

He shrugged off my hand like I was infectious.

"Does everything have to always be about you, Emily?"

The air fell silent.

His callous remark hit me like a slap on the face, and I nearly staggered backwards. He hardly noticed and kept marching