The Billionaire’s Bride: Our Vows Do Not Matter

Xavier strode through the door, the weight of the day sloughing off his shoulders at the sight ahead. Cathleen stood at the stove, her movements fluid, and practiced, with little Bella snug against her back in a carrier, her chubby cheeks squished against her mother’s spine. He couldn’t help but smile.

“Hey, my girls,” he murmured, bending to press a kiss first on Cathleen’s temple, then on Bella’s forehead, inhaling the homely scent of cooking and baby shampoo. He watched them for a moment longer before turning away, the warmth of their closeness giving way to the chill of the sitting room.

“I know you don’t want to hear this,” he called over his shoulder, the words carrying an edge as they cut through the domestic scene, “but your father has been discharged from the hospital.”

Cathleen’s stirring stilled, her body tensing up. She exhaled, a weary sound that seemed to carry all the weight of her dread. “I can’t lose him,” she whispered more to herself than to Xavier.

“Old man’s tough,” Xavier replied, trying to inject some reassurance into his voice. But even he knew it sounded hollow.

His gaze traveled across the room, landing on the simmering pots, the steam fogging the windows. The domesticity of it all was shattered by the next blow he had to deliver. “Oh, and not to forget about your stepsister,” he said, almost too casually, “her back is now healed, so she is in custody.”

The clatter of the spoon hitting the pan preceded Cathleen’s sharp intake of breath. Avery-her nemesis in the guise of a sister, who coveted her life, her love, everything. Tears pricked the corners of Cathleen’s eyes, but she dashed them away with a fierce swipe of her hand. She turned to face Xavier; her expression hardened.

“Babe, what do you think makes people envy other people’s lives?” Her question hung in the air, potent and charged.

Xavier scoffed. “Witchcraft.”Content © NôvelDrama.Org.

“Seriously?” Cathleen’s laugh was bitter, tinged with disbelief. “You know Dora and Avery never practiced witchcraft.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Xavier shot back, his voice cold as steel. “Envy births witches. They envied; they acted. Classic fucking witchcraft if you ask me.”

A chuckle escaped Cathleen, though there was no humor in it. Xavier’s bluntness, his unwavering stance-it was infuriating and yet, somehow, endearing. That was their dance, always on the brink, always fiery.

“Your logic is fucked up,” she said, shaking her head with a mix of exasperation and a strange fondness that only he could draw out.

“Maybe.” Xavier shrugged, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “But I’m right.”

In that charged space between them, where tension crackled like static, they found something akin to understanding. It was twisted, tangled in the mess of their lives, but it was theirs. And they’d fight for it, tooth and nail, against anyone who dared to covet what they had forged in fire.

Xavier’s shadow loomed over the simmering stir fry, dark eyes fixed on Cathleen. “It’s like, my little moonbeam is sleeping. Can I help you with her?” His voice cut through the hum of the kitchen.

“Would you?” Cathleen breathed, relief mingling with the steam rising from the pan. She felt Bella’s weight shift from her back as Xavier took their daughter, his movements gentle yet deliberate.

He ascended the stairs, and for a moment, the house fell silent-save for the sizzle of the stir fry. Minutes later, he descended, the thud of his steps echoing against the hardwood floor. Suit jacket discarded, shirt sleeves folding up along taut forearms, Xavier was shedding layers of civility like a second skin.

Cathleen stirred the pan, but the air had shifted; it was thicker now, charged. Xavier prowled behind her, an apex predator in his own home. He spun her around; her gasp lost to his demanding kiss. Primal. Desperate.

Pressed against the counter, she felt him lift her, her world tilting dangerously. A gasp escaped her lips, and then his hands, those ruthless, knowing hands, reached under her dress. The absence of panties beneath made him curse-a raw, guttural sound that vibrated against her skin.

“Fuck, Cat.”

Her grin was her reply, fingers lacing into his hair to draw him back into the ferocity of their kiss.

The clatter of metal hitting tile. Trousers pooled at his ankles. Her legs parted, her invitation clear as day. With a single thrust, he was inside her, enveloping, claiming. Slow at first, torturous, Xavier watched her come undone beneath him, her moans punctuating the rhythm he set.

“Fuck!” he cursed again as his pace quickened, relentless. Her legs wrapped around him, heels digging into his waist, urging him deeper, harder. Their eyes locked, twin storms raging in silence.

“Fuck, Cat, you are fucking tempting me,” he growled, his voice edged with a dangerous promise.

His control snapped; his thrusts grew erratic and frenzied. And then, with a grunt that resonated through her bones, he released, emptying himself within her in one final act of possession.

Their breaths mingled, heavy and ragged. He kissed her, a soft contradiction to the fervor they’d just shared. He went into the guest bathroom. Cleaned up himself and came back to find Cathleen standing motionless, hands defiantly on her hips, glaring at the blackened stir fry. His approach was a predator’s prowl, closing the space with intent in every step. Without warning, she found herself hoisted onto the kitchen counter once again, his smile a devilish curve against the domestic carnage.

Xavier’s laughter sliced through the charred silence of the kitchen. “Well, we might as well eat out,” he declared with nonchalance, shrugging off the smoky evidence of Cathleen’s culinary mishap.

“Stay right there, don’t move,” Xavier commanded, his eyes gleaming with mischief. Cathleen’s lips curled into a smile, a silent nod sealing her compliance.

He vanished momentarily, returning with an air of secrecy, his hands concealed behind him. “Close your eyes,” he ordered, voice dipped in dominance.

Obedience was her gift to him, and her eyelids fell shut. Anticipation hung heavy in the room. She heard the faint rustle of fabric or paper-something being placed near her. Her heart hammered against her ribs.

“Open them and look to your right side,” he directed, his tone brooking no argument.

Cathleen’s eyes snapped open, and a gasp clawed its way out of her throat. “Xavier!” The exclamation was a mix of shock and awe, her gaze riveted on the collection laid out before her.

“How did you…” Words failed her, emotions choked by the sheer magnitude of his gesture. “Oh my God!”

“Every piece your grandmother crafted,” Xavier said, his voice laced with triumph. “Right here.”

“You got everything, Xavier; these are worth billions of dollars.” The lawyer in Cathleen assessed the value, but the granddaughter saw the memories, the legacy.

“And you are worth so much more, my little Cat,” he reminded her, the pet name carrying a weight of possessiveness.

“Eye Of The Ocean brand,” he continued, his words painting a future she’d only dared to dream. “You can open it now, right?”

Cathleen could only nod, a tidal wave of gratitude and disbelief threatening to sweep her away. “Oh my God, yes!”

Their world, a chaotic blend of lust and ambition, closed around them-intimate and infinite in that kitchen. Xavier and Cathleen existed in a sphere where power plays and passion danced a dangerous tango, each step a promise.

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