The Billionaire’s Bride: Our Vows Do Not Matter

Cathleen traced the condensation on her water glass; the cold droplets were a contrast to the warmth that the first week had promised. A month at Xavier’s vacation house-a gleaming fortress of solitude-and the walls between them only thickened. The staff bustled in the kitchen, their efficiency a silent reminder of Xavier’s decision to put space where there might have been conversation, companionship, or something more.

“Your lunch, Mrs. Knight,” the chef announced, placing a meticulously arranged salad before her.

She offered a tight-lipped smile, her gratitude genuine, if not for the food, then for the presence of another human being. “Thank you.”

The chair opposite her remained empty, as it had for the past three weeks. Xavier’s absence loomed larger than his brooding figure ever could. Cathleen speared a cherry tomato, its skin giving way with a soft pop-like the fragile bubble of hope she had nurtured upon arriving here.

Xavier skirted the dining hall’s entrance, a shadow passing by the frosted glass that kept him shrouded in mystery. She heard the murmur of his voice, low and dismissive, as he issued some commands to one of the helpers. His world was one of orders and control-the antithesis of the partnership Cathleen had once envisioned.

“Will Mr. Knight be joining me?” Cathleen’s voice cut through the room’s stillness, more out of formality than expectation.

“Mr. Knight has business to attend to,” the butler replied, embodying the practiced detachment of his employer.

“Of course,” she said, her words sharpening with an edge that matched her reputation in the courtroom. “Business always comes first.”

She couldn’t fathom why she had harbored any hope at all. Xavier was as unreachable as the distant clouds that hung heavy outside the grand windows-a looming tempest that promised no rain, no relief. With each solitary meal, it became clearer: he was a man who had built a fortress not just around his property but around his heart.

Sighing, Cathleen pushed the salad aside. Her appetite had vanished, a casualty of the cold war waged within these walls. Once, she might have fought for a reaction-any acknowledgment from the man she was bound to by law but not by love.

Now? Now she simply waited for the next calculated move in their domestic chess game. She would not lose-not to Xavier, not to anyone. But winning was a hollow victory when the prize was a marriage devoid of warmth and light.

“Enjoy your meal, Mrs. Knight,” the butler said, closing the door behind him.

“Enjoy your solitude, Mr. Knight,” she whispered to the empty chair, her confrontation hanging unanswered in the chilled air.

Cathleen’s fingers danced across the sleek surface of the iPad, a gift from Xavier that felt more like a bribe than a token of affection. She picked at her food, the fork clinking against the plate with an almost accusatory tone. Love, she mused, was something others indulged in-those who didn’t find themselves shackled to a man like Xavier Knight.

The silence of the house pressed upon her, a suffocating blanket woven from threads of isolation. It gnawed at her resolve, this solitude, but Cathleen was not one to succumb to such emotional pangs. She was resolute, a fortress of determination in a silk dress.

She had to know where Xavier had taken her, something that never crossed her mind. But now, with the distance the man has kept between them, she has to know her location to map the contours of her gilded cage. Her eyes narrowed as she scrolled through maps and coordinates, the glow of the screen casting an eerie light on her determined face. A tap here, a swipe there, and the world outside this house came into focus. With a few deft keystrokes, she finally found where she was and smiled, then sent a message to her assistant: “Tomorrow morning. Pick me up.”

Satisfied, she pushed back from the table, the unfinished meal a testament to her discomfort. Eating without Xavier felt less like sustenance and more like an act of defiance. Her walking stick, a recent companion in her convalescence, tapped rhythmically against the floor as she stood. She leaned on it lightly, her leg muscles tensing with the effort to maintain balance.

She moved through the room, each step a delicate ballet of strength and vulnerability. The stick was a crutch she could do without, yet it served as a constant reminder-a symbol of her resilience and the violence she had endured. It was a reminder that, while she might stumble, Cathleen would never fall.

“Mr. Knight could have his luxuries,” she whispered to herself, the words slicing through the quiet like a blade. Xavier might view her as one of his many conquests, but she was no man’s prize. She was Cathleen, a celebrity lawyer, undefeated in the courtroom, and she would not be subdued by the twisted love of a man who swore only to hate.

Xavier’s running shoes pounded the pavement, the rhythm a metronome to his thoughts-each step an attempt to outpace the turmoil brewing within him. His breaths were sharp; the mist of early morning clung to his skin, an unwelcome caress that reminded him of her touch, her voice, her naked body, and how it felt to touch her.

Back at the house, Cathleen moved with silent efficiency, her movements betraying none of the emotion she might have felt. Each item of clothing was folded with meticulous care, and every photograph and trinket was placed into boxes as if she were curating an exhibit rather than dismantling a life. The lawyer in her approached this task like a closing argument, leaving no evidence of her presence behind-only cold, hard facts.Content © copyrighted by NôvelDrama.Org.

The door clicked shut behind her just as Xavier, slick with sweat and resolve, rounded the corner to their street. The silence that greeted him was a stark contrast to the usual morning bustle. He frowned, his senses prickling with an unease that had nothing to do with his distaste for the domestic or the glare of public scrutiny he so expertly dodged.

“Morning Cathleen,” he called out, sarcasm lacing the term of endearment he never meant. No response. He checked the kitchen-pristine, untouched-and a tightness clenched his chest that wasn’t from the run.

“Damn it, Cathleen.” His voice echoed through the hallway, bouncing off walls stripped of warmth.

He took the stairs two at a time, propelled by a mix of dread and anger, straight to the room that had once been theirs. His hand hesitated on the doorknob, memories of shared nights flickering before he shoved them away.

The bedroom loomed empty. Even the air seemed to hold its breath, thick with the scent of her perfume and something else-finality.

On the bed lay a solitary piece of paper, the white of it too clean against the rumpled sheets they no longer shared. He snatched it up, the words scrawled in her precise handwriting searing into his eyes: ‘Thanks for everything’.

“Thanks for nothing,” he spat out, the paper crumpling in his fist. It was a mockery of gratitude, an insult to whatever twisted bond they had shared. Every instinct screamed betrayal, yet he couldn’t shake the sense of loss that gnawed at him, as raw and real as any wound.

“Calculative to the last,” he murmured, despising the part of him that admired her for it.

In the quiet aftermath, surrounded by the ghost of her calculated escape, Xavier Knight stood alone, grappling with the realization that hate was perhaps not the antithesis of love but its cursed companion. And as the daylight grew stronger, casting harsh lines around the room now devoid of her presence, he understood a bitter truth: in losing her, he’d lost a part of himself he hadn’t known was hers to take. So he thought.