Peel These Shrimp Or Get Out Chapter 1

I liked my wife. I liked that she was a Bishop, I liked that our merger solidified the market share for both our conglomerates, but mostly, I liked that she was clinically, obsessively fastidious.

Camilla had germaphobia. She treated physical contact with the grim necessity of a surgeon scrubbing in. Her boundaries were electric fences.

So, when I watched her peel a jumbo shrimp at the company gala—stripping the shell with bare, manicured fingers—and drop the pink meat onto her male assistant's plate, I didn't make a scene.

I didn't say a word.

I simply went home, stopped by the fish market on the wharf, and bought ten pounds of raw, unpeeled shrimp.

When she arrived at the penthouse, I dumped the icy, grey pile onto the marble dining table.

"Peel them," I said, my voice smooth as aged scotch. "Since you enjoy the labor so much."

A woman without boundaries is like a bad investment: if she can’t be corrected, you liquidate the asset and move on.

After all, I have my own compulsions about cleanliness.

* * *

When I walked into the private dining room at Le Bernardin, a boy I didn't recognize was already sitting there, using his own fork to spear a piece of sea cucumber from Camilla’s plate.

Not a serving spoon. His fork.

I smiled, nodding to the board members, but my eyes locked on the boy who hadn’t bothered to stand up.

The sales director next to him looked nervous. "This is Mr. Montgomery. Our President’s husband."

The boy finally stood, wiping his mouth with a napkin. He had that soft, artfully messy hair that Gen Z seems to favor. "Hello, sir. I’m Rory, the new executive assistant. First time meeting you. Please take care of me."

I looked down, hiding a smirk, and didn't take the bait. I just took the nearest seat.

I went through the motions—the small talk, the corporate pleasantries—but my attention was a laser focused across the table. I watched Camilla eat the sea cucumber Rory had contaminated.

Then, I watched Rory stare helplessly at a large langoustine on the seafood tower. He bit his lip, his eyes wide and pleading as they drifted to Camilla.

Camilla frowned, just slightly. Then, she pulled on a pair of plastic gloves, cracked the shell with efficient grace, and tossed the meat into Rory’s bowl.

I narrowed my eyes, pulled out my phone, and texted Arthur, our house manager.

Buy ten pounds of shrimp. Boil them. Leave them on the dining table.

Just as I hit send, Rory, who had been quiet, suddenly spoke up.

"Mr. Montgomery, I honestly envy you. You have such a good life. You married a powerhouse like Ms. Bishop, and now you just get to stay home and enjoy the fortune. Unlike us corporate cattle, slaving away just to survive."

I looked up. My gaze lingered on his young, symmetrical face. "You’re definitely new," I said, my tone dry. "Your manners are nonexistent."

Rory froze. He clearly hadn't expected the trophy husband to bite back. Immediately, his face crumbled into a look of practiced vulnerability.

"I’m so sorry, sir. I didn't mean to offend you. I’m just unfiltered—I speak from the heart. Please don’t hold it against me."

His eyes dropped explicitly to my Patek Philippe and my custom Armani suit. "It’s just... seeing you so well-dressed, spending so freely... it makes my heart ache for Ms. Bishop. She sacrificed so much to get the company to where it is today."

I couldn't help it. I laughed. I propped my chin on my hand and just looked at him.

The rest of the table, however, looked terrified. The Product Director slammed his glass down. "What the hell are you saying? Do you think Mr. Montgomery is some idle socialite? In this room, we call him Mr. Montgomery out of respect, but out there, he is CEO Montgomery."

Rory blinked, looking genuinely lost. The sales manager next to him whispered harshly, "Mr. Montgomery and Ms. Bishop are a merger of two dynasties. He is the sole heir to the Montgomery Group. Stop talking before you get us all fired. Apologize!"

Rory’s face went pale. He bit his lip, and his large, doe eyes filled with instant, misty tears. He looked at Camilla for rescue.

Camilla met my amused gaze. She shook her head, a sigh escaping her lips. "Apologize to him, Rory. Watch your words in the future. Learn the hierarchy. If you don't know, ask."

Rory turned to me, his voice trembling. "Sir... I’m sorry."

I stood up, not bothering to look at him. "I have another engagement. Enjoy the rest of the meal."

It was 10:00 PM when I finished my own meetings. Camilla was waiting for me in the underground garage, leaning against the hood of her Maybach. She opened the passenger door for me, same as always.

The drive to our estate in the Hamptons was quiet, the air conditioning humming a steady rhythm. When we got home, she went to shower.

When she came out, wrapped in white silk, I dumped Arthur’s ten pounds of shrimp onto the table.

They were cooked perfectly, piled high in crystal bowls, stretching the length of the table. A grotesque buffet of pink.

Camilla looked at the mountain of shellfish, then at me.

I smiled, warm and terrifying.

"Honey. Peel them for me."