The Billionaire’s Bride: Our Vows Do Not Matter

The chill in the room seemed to seep into Cathleen’s bones, yet her skin flared where Xavier’s hands lay beneath hers. The accidental touch sparked a current that neither of them could ignore, an electrifying silence stretching out as their eyes locked. She was a fortress of composure; even sitting in her wheelchair, she towered over him with her will.

Cathleen’s voice cut through the tension, precise and clear. “I’ll take your offer.”

Xavier held her gaze, his own eyes like shards of ice, searching for cracks in her armor. But Cathleen was unbreakable, her resolve etched onto her face, not a flicker of doubt shadowing her determined expression.

“Alright,” he began, a slow drawl that carried the weight of command, “and Cat, I am your husband. Even if we hate each other, I’d prefer you call me first when you need help or are in some sort of trouble other than my dad, as that makes me look like a husband by name.”

His words were a cold blade pressed against the thin veneer of their relationship, a reminder of the roles they played-a dance with steps dictated by necessity rather than affection. Yet there was an undercurrent of something more, a possessive edge that hinted at a complex tapestry woven with threads of bitterness and reluctant care.

Cathleen’s nod was minimal but deliberate, accepting the terms of this uneasy alliance. Her eyes never left him, a silent challenge that spoke of battles fought and won, a testament to the fire within her that no circumstance could dampen.

The moment hung between them, fraught with unspoken truths and the heavy cloak of past wounds-a dance of power where love and betrayal moved in step-and the ghost of violence whispered in the background, waiting to claim its due.

Xavier’s firm grip on the wheelchair handles conveyed a sense of control as he navigated through the spacious dining room, the scent of roasted meat mingling with tension in the air. Helpers, silent and efficient as shadows, withdrew as Cathleen’s wheels came to rest beside the polished mahogany table.

“Here we are,” Xavier murmured, his voice a low rumble as he pushed back a chair to accommodate her place at the table. With deliberate movements, he seated himself next to her, the scrape of his chair against the floor barely audible. He reached for a silver fork, speared a slice of tender chicken breast, and turned towards Cathleen with a lover’s concern etched into his rugged features.

“Babe, I can feed myself, you know.” The sharpness in Cathleen’s tone belied her delicate situation, her eyes flashing a challenge.

“Is it a crime to be deeply in love with my wife?” Xavier’s retort was silky smooth, a thinly veiled assertion of devotion that skirted the edges of possessiveness.

Across the table, Finn’s cough sputtered into life, a poorly masked attempt to hide his discomfort. His gaze darted between the couple, the remnants of betrayal souring each bite.

The tumultuous energy that heralded Olivia Williams’ entrance could have rivaled a tempest. Bursting into the dining room, her heels clicked an urgent rhythm against the stone floor, her breathless announcement hanging heavily in the air. “Oh, Cathy, I heard about your accident, and I came running because I knew you’d need my services.”

Her disdain was thinly disguised as the sight of Xavier’s intimate gesture-a fork halfway to Cathleen’s mouth-drew a frown across her immaculate features. “Why didn’t you call me to take care of you?” Olivia went on to ask.

Cathleen’s annoyance simmered just beneath the surface, her calculating mind dismissing Olivia’s insincerity with surgical precision. “Keep the pretense to yourself, Olivia. Everyone at this table knows we’re not friends.”

The words struck Olivia like a physical blow, draining the color from her face. She stood, frozen as if Cathleen’s rebuke had coated her in filth. Her wish for escape was palpable-a desperate longing for the earth to open and offer her refuge from the piercing judgment of those gathered around the table.

Xavier’s glare cut through the tense silence of the room, fixing on Finn with an icy precision that left no doubt about his suspicion. He knew right away that the person who called Olivia was Finn. “Miss Williams, who called you here?” he demanded, his voice a low rumble of brewing thunder.

Olivia’s heart pounded against her chest, an erratic drumbeat urging her to flee. Xavier’s tone, devoid of warmth, sent shivers down her spine. She fumbled for words, her lips parting only to stutter, “Um-um.”

“Um-um, what?” The sharpness in Xavier’s bark made her flinch. Olivia’s gaze darted towards Finn, pleading silently for an ally, but he remained absorbed in the act of eating, deliberately oblivious to her distress.

“Miss Williams, this is a family house, and only family is allowed here. If you have nothing else to say or to do here, please leave.” Xavier’s command sliced through the air, punctuated by the clink of silverware against porcelain.

Finn, sensing the futility of his plan, finally abandoned his pretense of indifference. “I called her here,” he confessed without looking up from his meal. “I actually have a few things I would like to discuss with her.”

A single arched brow was Xavier’s only immediate reaction. He reached out, almost tenderly, to brush a stray lock from Cathleen’s hair, signaling her to continue eating. The action belied the undercurrent of control that held the room hostage.

At that moment, Olivia felt diminutive and insignificant-like a little ant caught in the gaze of giants. The weight of Xavier’s authority bore down upon her, the unspoken violence of his dominion is as palpable as the tension that quivered in the air.

Olivia’s heels clicked against the polished marble, a staccato prelude to the clandestine conversation she was about to initiate. Finn’s shadow loomed beside her, his presence as heavy and unwelcome as the humid air pressing down on their shoulders.

“Aaa, yes, the photoshoot; please join me,” Olivia murmured, casting a glance over her shoulder to ensure they were beyond prying eyes and ears. The outside sunlight shone in comparison to the fire kindling in her gaze.

“Listen,” she began, her voice dropping to a hiss, “why does it seem like they are sleeping together?” Her question hung between them, a drawn blade poised to strike.

Finn’s jaw clenched, and his patience frayed like the hem of worn denim. “Married people have sex, Olivia,” he shot back, each word laced with annoyance. “You failed as a woman.” His accusation sliced through the air, sharp and unyielding.

The sting of his words felt like a slap to Olivia’s pride. She had woven a web to trap her prey, yet here she stood, ensnared in her own designs. The irony wasn’t lost on her; it fueled a silent rage that simmered beneath her porcelain facade.

She could not and would not accept defeat. Cathleen-clever, calculating Cathleen-had won this round, securing her place beside Xavier. But Olivia Williams didn’t rise to the top of the modeling world by accepting second place.

Finn glowered at her, his eyes mirroring the turmoil that raged within him. The betrayal of Avery had been his undoing, a single moment of weakness that fractured his life. And now, despite his efforts, his uncle and Cathleen seem to be happy.