The Billionaire’s Bride: Our Vows Do Not Matter

Caleb strode into the flower shop, urgency etched on his face as he scanned the vibrant throng of blossoms that crowded the small space. The scent of fresh-cut stems mingled with the earthy hint of damp soil-a stark contrast to the emotional storm clouding his thoughts. He exhaled, trying to steady his racing heart.Material © of NôvelDrama.Org.

“Please, I need your help,” he said, locking eyes with the florist, who was trimming the thorns off roses with a practiced hand, her movements precise and almost violent in their efficiency.

The florist looked up, her smile a sharp slash across her otherwise plain features. She set her shears down with a decisive click against the counter. “Of course. How can I help?” she asked, her tone light but her eyes probing, sensing the undercurrents of turmoil that Caleb carried with him like a second skin.

Caleb returned the smile, though it was a strained affair, tugging at the corners of his mouth with all the warmth of winter’s chill. He could feel the weight of Xavier’s trust on his shoulders-the silent plea for loyalty that had been unspoken between them. Caleb was here to act, to sever ties with a cold precision that mirrored the florist’s handling of her flowers.

“Thank you,” he murmured, knowing that the next steps would change everything. His resolve was like a blade, and with it, he would cut free the tangled mess of deceit that had ensnared them all.

Caleb’s hand hovered over the array of flowers, each blooms a silent witness to confessions and farewells. The florist’s frown deepened as he began to speak, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly.

“You see, I’m married,” he started, a pang of guilt momentarily arresting his words. His fingers twitched, betraying him before they dove into the sanctuary of his pocket, hiding the bare skin where a ring should have been. “And I haven’t been faithful to my wife.”

The woman’s thin lips were pursed tightly, her frown deepening into a look of disapproval. She remained silent, but her body language spoke volumes with her arms crossed and her head slightly tilted to the side. It was clear that she was not pleased with what he had said, yet she chose to let him continue without interruption.

“Don’t judge,” Caleb added quickly as if the words could shield him from her silent condemnation. “It was more like an arranged marriage, and I didn’t like my wife.” His voice was a thread, fraying with each confession.

A slow, circular nod was her only response, her mouth forming an ‘o’ of surprise-or was it intrigue?-as she processed his plight.

“I have a girlfriend,” Caleb continued, steeling himself against the judgment he felt piercing through him, “but I want to end things with her because I want to give my wife and me a chance irrespective of how we got married.” He met the florist’s gaze, searching for a hint of sympathy or support.

In response, her lips curled into a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes-a smile with an edge that cut through the pretense. “So I want to buy flowers to break up with her and write a note for her. Would you help me?” His request hung in the air, like a plea wrapped in thorns.

The lady’s smile widened wickedly, a silent cheer for the unseen wife who had been wronged. She had never cared for women who entangled themselves with married men; their complicity in betrayal was a stain that no bouquet could cleanse.

“Maybe we should try yellow roses,” she suggested, her tone deceptively sweet as she reached for the blooms that spoke of friendship and farewell.

Caleb watched, transfixed, as her fingers deftly selected each rose, arranging them with care that belied the violent nature of their purpose. She penned a message with swift, sure strokes and slid it amongst the petals-a paper dagger meant to sever ties.

“All done,” she announced, her voice devoid of the warmth that had once flavored it.

Caleb paid with cash that felt like blood money, the crisp bills passing from his hands to hers-a transaction of sorrow. As he left the shop, the door chimed a melancholic goodbye, the sound echoing after him, a reminder of the pain he carried away in his arms.

Caleb drove to Olivia’s apartment; he knocked, and the door swung open. Olivia’s face lit up at the sight of Caleb clutching the yellow roses. Her manicured fingers snatched them away, her voice dripping with triumph. “I knew my Xavy wouldn’t stay away from me. We have come a long way to let someone like Cathleen ruin our relationship.” She buried her nose in the blooms, inhaling deeply.

Caleb’s throat tightened as he observed her ignorance, the note hidden among the petals remaining unread. He cleared his throat sharply. “Miss Williams,” he began, formal and cold, “Mr. Knight insists that you abide by what is written on the note, or else you will suffer the consequences.”

Olivia’s smile faltered, her brows knitting together as she rifled through the flowers for the hidden message. The color drained from her cheeks as her eyes traced the words. The roses slipped from her trembling hands, cascading to the floor in a soft thud of fallen hopes. She rounded on Caleb with fury blazing in her eyes. “You hate me; Xavier will never say something like this to me. He enjoyed my pussy!”

Caleb’s lips twitched with the urge to laugh at the absurdity, but he held it back, maintaining his composure with an effort. With a gaze as chill as Xavier’s own, he delivered the final blow. “He seems to be enjoying his wife’s now.” His words hung between them, sharp and definitive, before he turned on his heel and left.

Left alone in her shock, Olivia’s knees gave way, and she sank to the floor amidst the scattered flowers. Her breath came in jagged sobs as she picked up the note again, the letters blurring through her tears. She slammed the roses against the polished hardwood, their petals bruising, mirroring her own battered heart. “How does he expect me to pay for this penthouse? He rented it for me, and now I will have to come out.” Her laughter echoed, hollow and painful.

Her fingers fumbled with her phone, desperation clawing at her throat as she dialed Xavier’s number. “Xavier?” The word was a plea, a hope against reality.

The voice that answered was cool and detached. “Oh, Miss Williams, I guess you are calling because you got my message?”

“Why?” The question was a whisper, like a crack in her facade.

“Why?” Xavier’s amusement was clear, a cruel chuckle cutting through the line. “Miss Williams, it never ends well when you decide to keep fucking a married man. Good luck with finding your own husband.” The call ended, leaving a silence that roared in Olivia’s ears.

She sat there, numb, as her schemes crumbled around her. All the meticulous planning, the drugged drinks meant for Cathleen, the men paid to ensnare and humiliate-all for naught. It was meant to be Cathleen with Finn while Xavier watched; he was supposed to leave Cathleen and marry her. Just how did Xavier leave the VIP area to search for that bitch? Olivia thought.

“Now all my plans are ruined!” Olivia yelled, picking up the roses on the floor in hopes that they would somehow form a bouquet. “Just how good was that pussy for him to leave me?” she wondered, bile rising in her throat at the thought of defeat, the sting of abandonment lacing her every breath.