The Billionaire’s Bride: Our Vows Do Not Matter

Xavier’s silhouette stretched thin and foreboding across the soft carpet of his study as he made his way in, the weight of the night’s revelations weighing heavily on him. Like a predator, he moved towards the decanter, its amber contents glinting in the dim lighting, pouring himself a generous amount of whiskey with graceful ease. The crystal glass chilled his lips, while the heat of the drink burned fiercely down his throat-an intense contrast to the numbness that had settled into his mind.

A mirthless chuckle, rough and guttural, escaped him, sounding more like a growl than a laugh. Life, with its twisted sense of humor, had dealt him a hand that he couldn’t even begin to remember being dealt before. An accusation so foul, from a woman whose face remained a blur, gnawed at his insides like a relentless parasite. He took another sip of his drink, the amber liquid burning down his throat as he fought off the urge to hurl the glass and watch it shatter into a million sharp fragments on the floor. Every nerve in his body was on edge, ready to snap like a taut wire at any moment.

The door swung open with a sudden burst of noise and movement, causing Xavier’s head to snap up in surprise. A sly grin formed on his lips as he recognized the man who just walked in-the imposter who claimed to be Cathleen’s boyfriend, his English accent contradicting his supposed Spanish ancestry.

“You seem to be going through so much, Mr. Knight,” James remarked, the smugness in his tone slashing through the silence.

Xavier’s eyes narrowed, cold and calculating, as he sank into the leather chair, each muscle taut with restrained fury. “My wife’s boyfriend,” he drawled, voice dripping with disdain, “supposedly Spanish, yet speaks like he’s kissed the Queen’s fucking hand.” He spoke sarcastically.

The man before him was an enigma wrapped in a riddle-a piece in Cathleen’s elaborate game, no doubt. Who the fuck are you, Cathleen Knight? The thought echoed in his skull, a mantra of suspicion and begrudging intrigue.

“Quite the predicament you’ve found yourself in, isn’t it?” James taunted, stepping further into the lion’s den, uninvited and unwelcome.

“Life’s little ironies,” Xavier countered, the ice in his voice belying the chaos brewing beneath his composed exterior. His fingers gripped the chair’s arms; the urge to dominate and control the situation was coursing through him like a current. Here was a man who thrived on command, yet now sat ensnared in a web not of his own making.

Xavier’s fingers drummed a staccato rhythm on the leather, his gaze locked onto the man who dared to claim he wasn’t Cathleen’s lover. “I am not your wife’s boyfriend,” James declared, and the air between them charged with a silent challenge.

“James is the name, Mr. Knight,” he continued, offering an unsolicited introduction like a gambit in their unspoken game.

“I don’t need an introduction,” Xavier clipped out, the words slicing through the tension. His disdain for pleasantries was as palpable as the whiskey that burned in his throat.

“Of course you don’t,” James replied, unperturbed. “I know so much about you, but you don’t know anything about me. Now, back to the case, tell me what you know.”

Xavier took another deliberate sip, the liquid fire emboldening his tongue. “What I know is that I woke up next to a woman whose name I don’t fucking know,” he spat, his voice laced with venom and vulnerability-a cocktail he wasn’t used to tasting.

“Scared?” James prodded, searching for cracks in Xavier’s armor.

“Scared? No.” Xavier’s laugh was dark and devoid of humor. “But my wife… she might think I really did this, considering my illustrious history of scandals.”

“It seems you care what the missus thinks,” James observed, his question sharp as a scalpel. “Shouldn’t you be more concerned with clearing your name?”

“Let’s just say I want her trust,” Xavier confessed, his tone gravelly with a truth he hated admitting. “Even though I don’t fucking trust myself, Because, one, I might have really fucked that woman.”

James stood, his silhouette casting long shadows across the study’s expanse. “Her name’s Anastasia Brown, a model-not that well-known. Might be a grab for publicity, or maybe there’s truth to it. You don’t remember a damn thing, which makes this all the more intriguing.” James says.NôvelDrama.Org owns © this.

“Get to the bottom of it, then,” Xavier snarled, the command inherent in his posture, even seated.

“Will do, Mr. Knight,” James assured, his confidence grating against Xavier’s nerves as he turned to leave, steps slow and measured-the calm before the storm that Xavier knew was brewing on the horizon.

Xavier’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the arms of his leather chair, the study closing in around him like a prison. His eyes, cold and unyielding, followed James to the door, each step echoing with accusations.

“Before I go,” James paused, hand on the doorknob, “the hotel where you found yourself in that… compromising position. What was it?”

“The Knight International Hotel.” Xavier’s voice was a low growl, the name of his own establishment tasting like bile on his tongue.

James turned, an incredulous frown carving deep lines into his forehead. “Your hotel? And you’ve got no footage from that night?”

“Every damn second wiped clean,” Xavier spat out, the sting of betrayal sharp beneath his skin. “It reeks of a setup.”

“Someone inside, someone close.” James’ eyes narrowed, speculation turning to suspicion. “Think, Knight. Who’d want to see your downfall?”

“Too many names, not enough time.” Xavier’s laugh was a bitter echo in the vast room. He rose, towering over his desk like a dark sentinel against the polished wood.

“Keep me posted,” James said, the words hanging heavy in the air as he opened the door. Then, pausing, he delivered a parting shot that halted Xavier’s heart. “Oh, Mr. Knight, your wife is okay. Just focus on your case. Great day.”

The door clicked shut, leaving Xavier alone with the ghosts of his transgressions and the threat of an unknown enemy lurking within his walls. The silence was deafening, broken only by his harsh breathing and the clink of ice against the glass as he poured another whiskey, contemplating the chessboard of his life where he was suddenly, perilously, a king under siege. But then that man knew where his Cat was, and he would use it to his advantage. A smirk formed on his lips as he took a sip.