The Billionaire’s Bride: Our Vows Do Not Matter

Water drummed against Xavier’s skin, the heat searing away the remnants of sleep. His thoughts churned as he thought of Cathleen’s cooking. She was creative and good at it. The thought of her butternut soup made him hasten his movements in the shower. With swift efficiency, he dried off, dressed in tailored attire, and descended the staircase with purpose.

As he reached the bottom, his gaze cut through the morning light toward Olivia. Draped across an armchair, she was a disheveled vision of lace-yesterday’s lingerie clinging to her like a second skin. His frown was immediate, a silent condemnation. She might as well have hoisted a flag, declaring war on Cathleen’s dignity-an affront he couldn’t ignore despite the void where love should reside.

Without a word, he took his place at the head of the dining table, the chair scraping the floor with a harsh sound that echoed his mood. The helpers entered a ballet of practiced motions delivering breakfast-a feast that underlined the absence of any contribution from Olivia.

“Did you help to make the food?” His voice was flat, expectant of disappointment.

“Of course not. Xavier, I am still tired from yesterday’s lovemaking.” Her words floated brazenly into the room, settling like a layer of frost.

The helpers exchanged wide-eyed glances, their cheeks flushing as they retreated from the intimate revelation. Their gasps were audible whispers against the backdrop of clinking cutlery.

“Tired?” Xavier’s tone sharpened, and a blade unsheathed. He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “What is it that you did because all you did was lie like a dead chicken while I did all the work?”

He watched her flinch, her mask of seduction cracking under the weight of his scorn.Published by Nôv'elD/rama.Org.

“Miss Williams,” he continued, the contempt rolling off his tongue, “it seems like you are good at nothing except opening your legs. Do you also open your legs to get gigs from work?”

Her facade crumbled, vulnerability flashing in her eyes before she cast them downward. A single tear trailed down her cheek, a silent testament to the cruelty that had just unfolded.

Olivia’s hand trembled subtly, and the fork wavered as if caught in a storm she brewed within herself. Xavier’s words, like daggers thrown with precision, found their mark in her already wounded pride. She watched him, his jaw working methodically through his breakfast-an everyday act turned into a display of dominance.

“Pathetic,” she thought, the word bitter on her tongue even as it remained unspoken.

“Eat,” he had commanded, and despite the simmering rage that threatened to boil over, Olivia obliged. She speared a piece of fruit, its vibrant color mocking the dull ache in her chest. She chewed slowly and deliberately, each motion an act of defiance she wished she could vocalize.

Xavier, oblivious or indifferent to the storm raging across from him, glanced upward. His gaze swept the expanse of the staircase, the expectancy in his eyes dissolving into annoyance at the absence of his wife. “Did you by any chance see my wife today, Miss Williams?” He didn’t bother to hide the suspicion lacing his voice, an insinuation that stung more than the title he used-a reminder of her place, always the outsider.

The fork halted, laden with her next bite, mid-air, a silent rebel against his casual cruelty. Olivia’s eyes narrowed, the metallic taste of anger mingling with the remnants of breakfast on her tongue.

“Is this man trying to remind me he’s married?” The thought clawed at her, a beast desperate for escape. She envisioned the tines of the fork as weapons, sharp and gleaming-just like the edge of Cathleen’s reputed tongue. Oh, how she yearned to wield such verbal blades, to cut through the facade and expose the raw, ugly truth beneath.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she wanted to retort, but the challenge died in her throat, suffocated by the reality of her position. Instead, Olivia lowered the fork, its descent to the plate an echo of her own resignation. Her gaze lingered on Xavier’s face, reading the lines of a man who knew only how to wound with words and withhold affection.

“Your wife,” she began, each syllable ice wrapped in velvet, “is likely out there, fucking God knows who.” Olivia’s voice was a whisper of silk, hiding the steel underneath. She let the words hang between them, a gauntlet thrown down with care, knowing full well the battleground she treads upon.

And in the silence that followed, heavy with things unsaid and emotions unspent,.

“Miss Williams, do you by any chance think I will marry you?” The words slipped from Xavier’s lips, coated in the same nonchalance as his smile, even as he savored the grape between his teeth.

Olivia’s gaze flickered, a challenge flaring briefly before she masked it with a feigned demure nod. He watched her swallow the rebuke that threatened to spill over; after all, they both danced to the same twisted tune of convenience and carnality.

“Who my wife fucks shouldn’t concern you; likewise, who I fuck.” Xavier’s voice had a sharp edge, slicing through the veneer of civility that draped the morning air. He pushed back from the table, the scrape of chair legs against the hard tiled floor sounding a clear finale to their breakfast charade.

“Miss Williams, when I come down with my wife, make sure you aren’t dressed like a slut,” he ordered, the cold command mingling with the warmth of sunlight streaming through the windows. The sentence hung heavy, a threat cloaked in silk. “If my wife saw you like that, today might just be the last day you set foot in this house.”

He towered over her now, his shadow swallowing her figure whole on the plush dining room carpet. “This is mine and Cathleen’s house. Respect that, irrespective of whether you’re sleeping with her husband, yea?”

Her compliance came as a faint nod, fragile as the silence that had fallen between them.

Xavier turned away, the weight of his own duplicity settling on his shoulders. With long strides that betrayed the turmoil beneath his stoic surface, he crossed the threshold into the sanctum of his marriage-Cathleen’s room.

The door swung open with an ease that belied the chaos to come. His heart slammed against his ribcage, a brutal drumbeat at the sight before him. Cathleen-his fierce, unyielding Cathleen-lay motionless, a broken doll discarded on the floor.

“Caleb!” The name tore from his throat, a command wrapped in dread. “Call the doctor!”

His knees hit the ground beside her, his hands hovering, afraid to shatter the illusion of peace that death seemed to have draped over her. Xavier Knight, who scorned love and reveled in control, found himself grappling with a terror that clawed at his insides-a fear that love might have been there all along, unrecognized, unclaimed, and now, possibly, lost forever.