The Billionaire’s Bride: Our Vows Do Not Matter

The scent of Cathleen’s aroused panties hit him again as the water ran down Xavier’s body. He shook himself free of the feeling that was about to take over his entire being. The scent of Cathleen’s arousal was a trigger-unexpected and powerful-a scent that should have been a side effect but instead was the trigger for a primal reaction in him. It was the height of madness, he thought, and he had no idea why.

He couldn’t make sense of the sudden rush-the visceral need spurred on by a mere whiff of her presence-but it had completely knocked him out. If Cathleen were ever to find this moment of weakness, her sharp tongue would lash out with words like knives, slicing through his excuses with the same precision she wielded in the courtroom.

The water from the shower beat against his skin, hot and punishing, as if it could wash away the guilt that was now mixing with the soap and the sweat. He turned off the tap. The silence was heavy and oppressive. He grabbed a towel and rubbed the drops of water from his skin with more force than was necessary, enjoying the rough texture of it against his flesh. It was perhaps an act of penance or an attempt to wake up from what felt like a descent into madness.

Wrapped up in the terry cloth, he stepped out into the cooler air of the bedroom. There she was, Cathleen. Her form was a gentle rise and fall under the blanket, and the soft whisper of her breath was a counterpoint to the chaos he felt inside. Even as she slept, she exuded strength. Her face was relaxed, yet somehow still formidable. She had never appeared weak in the face of her opponent, no matter what, and she had never wavered under pressure. How different they were, he thought, the feel of her lingerie still haunting the tips of his fingers.

Quietly, he made his way to the sanctuary of the walk-in closet. His muscles tensed as if expecting a confrontation. But there was only silence. The silent space was filled with rows of hanging clothes-her power suits, his comfortable sweaters-and shelves lined with shoes that told stories and panties that could still make him hard.Copyright Nôv/el/Dra/ma.Org.

He slipped into a pair of cotton sweatpants. The soft material was a stark contrast to the starched collars and silk ties that represented her public life. Here, in the dim light of the wardrobe, he was stripped to the bone, reduced to the raw, unguarded version of himself that Cathleen rarely got to see.

When he came back into the bedroom, he stood there for a moment and watched her as she slept. Love was something that Xavier had never felt for his wife; perhaps pity, a dichotomy as old as time, was playing itself out in his mind. Could one of them exist without the shadow of the other? In their marriage, which was woven with threads of passion and ambition, the answer seemed to be complex.

It was with a heavy heart that he made his way to the edge of the bed they shared. The proximity of her peaceful form was both a comfort and a reminder of the distance that had crept between them. The motives of cruelty and ill-treatment, so alien to their love and yet so insidious in their thoughts, made him wonder just how much of himself he would be able to betray before it all came crashing down.

Xavier’s heavy eyelids fought the pull of sleep. They defied the exhaustion that clung to his bones. He dragged his gaze across the room, the shadows of which clung to the walls like ghosts of the weariness of the day. There, in the dim light of their bedroom, he saw Cathleen, her chest rising and falling with the deep on their shared bed, an uninterrupted rhythm of sleep. Her face, which was usually animated with sharpness, was softened by the repose.

Xavier took his mobile phone from the nightstand, its cold surface in stark contrast to the warmth of her bed, carefully holding it so as not to disturb her. His thumb found the familiar number without a moment’s hesitation, a command ready on his lips before the line had even been connected.

“Send an orthopedic surgeon; she must be a woman.” Xavier’s voice was low. It was cut with precision from the silence. “And send two helpers-one to do the cooking and the other to take care of my wife.” The words were not a request; they were stones set in place, unyielding and absolute.

Before the voice agreed, the pause at the other end of the line stretched-thin ice over deep water. “Understood, Mr. Knight.”

The next words out of Xavier’s mouth held the clipped edge of finality. “When I wake up in the morning, I want to see them all working.” Without waiting for an acknowledgment, he ended the call, the click of the disconnect cutting through the silence.

He put the phone back on the nightstand with a soft thud. It was an echo of the determination that always seemed to underpin his actions. As his head hit the pillow and his body surrendered to the beckoning darkness of sleep, his mind lingered on tomorrow, on the reinforcements that would come. Not just for Cathleen’s sake, but for his own need to control the chaos that threatened to seep into the edges of their meticulously constructed lives.

Outside, the night whispered of things to be hidden and things to be feared, but inside, Xavier Knight closed his eyes, armored against both the fortress of his will and the sanctuary of his home.

As Xavier and Cathleen were sleeping, the surgeon and the two helpers landed and were taken to the vacation home. As though they knew how Xavier was, none of them went to sleep that night; they just packed their bags and started working. When Caleb noticed that everything was in order, he returned to New York.