The Billionaire’s Bride: Our Vows Do Not Matter

Water cascaded over Xavier’s chiseled frame, the steam obscuring the bathroom in a hot mist. He shut off the shower with a decisive turn, droplets trailing down his skin as he wrapped a towel around his waist and padded across the cool tile floor. The early morning silence was punctuated only by the subtle sounds of his movements.

He approached the bed where Cathleen lay, her chest rising and falling with the deep breaths of sleep. Xavier bent over, his shadow enveloping her form. “Cat,” his voice was low but firm, resonating through the quiet room. “I notice it is hard for you to bathe since the baby is quite big. Let me bathe you before I leave for the office.”

Cathleen’s eyes fluttered open, and her frown creased the sleep from her face. The offer hung in the air, an unspoken command that tempted resistance. Yet, the memory of yesterday’s struggle in the shower tugged at her pride. “Okay,” she relented, her voice barely above a whisper.

With careful hands, Xavier lifted her, supporting her body as if she were precious porcelain. In the bathroom, the warm water embraced them both. He was gentle yet thorough; his touch on her skin was both necessary and intimate. Once dry, he helped her into a new set of clothes, his fingers deftly maneuvering the fabric around her swollen belly.

“I will be back for lunch; we need to go somewhere,” he said, pressing a kiss onto her forehead-a rare gesture of tenderness from a man who swore never to love her.

The moment fractured. “Oh, and Cat,” he added, a steel edge creeping back into his voice, “I spoke to James. You are not going to work till you deliver.”

A surge of fury ignited within Cathleen. “What? Who told you-you can make decisions for me? It’s my life, and I need to work!” Her voice rose, shrill and defiant. The walls of their opulent bedroom seemed to close in, bearing witness to the battle of wills between the cold, ruthless Xavier and his sharp-tongued wife.

“Cat,” he warned, the single word carrying an undercurrent of dominance, a reminder of his power, even as he withheld the truth of how little he knew about the career that fueled her fire.

“Xavier!” she spat his name like a curse, her eyes blazing. The tension hung between them, palpable and charged, with each waiting for the other to yield or break.

Xavier’s shadow loomed over Cathleen, his voice a low rumble in the tension-thick air. “You are pregnant, and this baby can come at any given time. Is that what you want, Cat, to deliver the baby at your workplace?”

The words hung heavy between them, as unyielding as the man who spoke them. Cathleen’s lips parted, ready to unleash another torrent of defiance, but the truth in his statement quelled the storm within her. With a scowl etched into her features, she yielded without conceding, pulling the bedsheet up to her chin and turning away to sleep, her silence a temporary retreat.Content protected by Nôv/el(D)rama.Org.

Xavier observed the subtle shift in her-a surrender cloaked in obstinance-and allowed himself a small, victorious smile. It was a rare sight; his smile, seldom bestowed, was all the more potent for it.

He turned on his heel, striding out of their bedroom sanctuary, leaving behind the battlefield of wills, and heading downstairs. As he entered the dining room, the rich aroma of fresh coffee and sizzling bacon filled his senses. Dora sat at the table, a picture of grace and refinement, surrounded by an opulent array of breakfast delicacies. The table was adorned with crystal glasses, sparkling silverware, and flowers that seemed to burst with color.

“Good morning, son-in-law,” Dora greeted, her voice dripping with false warmth, as if she were unaware of the electric undercurrent of disdain between them.

Xavier’s nod was curt, his expression unreadable, a mask of indifference hiding the contempt churning within him. The scent of fresh coffee and sizzling bacon did little to sway him; he had no appetite for lies or the food tainted by them.

“Look,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion, “not to say what you cook is trash or something, but I prefer that when food is cooked, my wife would be comfortable eating. However, my wife doesn’t seem to trust you, and I think it’s best you stop cooking.” The finality in his tone brooked no argument, his words cutting through any semblance of civility.

Dora’s mouth opened, perhaps to object or plead her case, but Xavier turned away, dismissing her without a second glance. “Caleb, to the office,” he barked, eager to be rid of this place, its domestic facade grating against his nerves.

“Of course, sir,” came Caleb’s prompt reply, his loyalty in stark contrast to the duplicity of the others.

As they exited, the door closing with a resolute click, the stillness settled in once more-each person trapped in a web of power plays and silent battles, the Knight household ever on the verge of war.

The leather seat gripped Xavier’s tailored suit as the car hummed down the boulevard, sleek and indifferent to the morning chaos. His mind, usually a fortress of strategy and control, wandered back to Cathleen-her swollen belly, her obstinacy. A frown etched his face, mirroring the concern he seldom allowed others to see.

“Caleb,” Xavier’s voice cut through the silence like a cold blade, “get a driver for Cathleen. I don’t need her driving herself again; the baby is too big for her.”

“Will do, sir,” Caleb replied, his tone betraying none of the surprise he felt at Xavier’s rare display of care.

The car glided into the VIP parking lot-a space reserved for the titans of industry-and there she was, a specter from a past best forgotten. Olivia Williams. Her presence alone was enough to sour the mood further.

“Sir, what is Miss Williams doing here?” Caleb’s lips curled in distaste, voicing the question in both their minds.

“Show her the gates,” Xavier commanded his voice a low growl, leaving no room for debate. He stepped out, the chill morning air doing nothing to cool the heat of his irritation. “I don’t want her here.”

Olivia’s eyes fixed on him, desperate and seeking. But he was done with her games-done with all of them. He strode toward the private elevator, a sanctuary from the world’s unending demands.

“Xavier, I’m 9 months pregnant!” The words pierced the air, desperately clawing for his attention.

Xavier’s stride faltered, his body freezing as if encased in ice. Silence descended, heavy and suffocating, as the implications of her declaration hung between them, an unforged chain waiting to shackle him once more.