The Billionaire’s Bride: Our Vows Do Not Matter

Sunlight streamed into the vast garage, casting long shadows over the gleaming collection of sports cars. Cathleen’s fingers tightened around the knob of her walking stick as she edged forward, a calculated motion that bore the weight of her newfound independence. The hunger for fresh air and the bustle of the city beyond these walls gnawed at her insides. She hadn’t savored the aroma of a restaurant or the murmur of a crowd in what felt like an eternity.

Xavier’s fleet sparkled under the fluorescent lights, each car a testament to his cold precision and love for speed-a stark contrast to the slow, deliberate pace Cathleen now embraced. Her gaze drifted toward the corner, where dust and neglect cloaked the sharp lines of a G-wagon. It stood like a relic, untouched and unappreciated.

She let out a deep sigh. Xavier’s hiding spots were like a maze that she had no energy to navigate at the moment. His secrets, always just beyond her grasp, taunted her with their quiet teasing.

Turning proved a challenge, with the walking stick catching on a crack in the concrete. But before frustration could bloom, Caleb materialized, his presence like a warm breeze. Keys dangled from his fingers, jingling softly-a sound that cut through the tension hanging in the air.

“Never been used, ever since it was bought,” he said, the keys swinging with an almost mocking cheer.

Cathleen’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, but it softened the hard line of her jaw. She reached out, her fingers brushing against Caleb’s as she took the offered keys. This small act is a victory over the many small defeats etched into the walls of this house. This marriage.

“Today seems as good a day as any to break tradition,” she replied, her voice carrying the sharp edge of defiance that had won her courtroom battles. Those same skills, that same resolve-she’d need them now to navigate the treacherous roads laid out by Xavier Knight.

She took the keys firmly in hand, the cool metal against her skin grounding her. Today, she decided, was a day for reclaiming. Reclaiming the streets, the flavors of the city, and her life. And perhaps, just perhaps, a piece of herself that Xavier had tried to lock away.

The sleek black car shimmered under the afternoon sun, droplets cascading down its freshly washed sides. Caleb, with a nod of quiet approval, watched as Cathleen slipped into the driver’s seat, her movements deliberate, every inch the image of control. She caught his eye through the rearview mirror and offered a curt nod, acknowledging his efforts without wasting breath on unnecessary thanks.

The engine purred to life, a subtle promise of power beneath her fingertips. She steered through the city traffic, a predator among sheep, her mind a fortress of strategy and calculation. The restaurant loomed ahead, a sanctuary for those who appreciated discretion and indulgence in equal measure.

Cathleen chose a corner table, tucked away from the curious gaze of the world. She was an island, surrounded by the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses but untouched by it. Her order was placed with the precision of a well-rehearsed script, and her request for oysters was delivered to the waiter with a sharpness that brooked no argument or delay.

And so they arrived, glistening on the half shell, nestled atop a bed of crushed ice. Each bite, rich and briny, was savored. It was merely a starter, yet it filled her and satisfied some deeper hunger that lay beneath the layers of her composed exterior.NôvelDrama.Org holds © this.

Her glass of bubbly caught the light as she lifted it, the fizzing liquid a silent toast to victories won and battles yet to be faced. But then the moment shattered.

“Cathy.” The voice was familiar, tinged with a softness that seemed out of place in her world of hard edges and cold truths.

William Jackson stood there, his presence unexpected and uninvited, his eyes seeking hers with a desperation that clawed at the air between them. His plea was silent but screamed louder than any words could have-begging for absolution, for understanding, from the daughter he had failed to shield from the cunning games of Dora and Avery.

Tension coiled around Cathleen’s spine, her posture rigid and her expression unreadable. Here was the man who had let her fight alone and who now dared to seek refuge in the fortress she had built from the ruins he had left behind.

“Father,” she acknowledged her voice a blade drawn just enough to remind him of the edge he had forced her to hone.

“May I?” The words hung in the air, thick with a weight of memories that Cathleen longed to bury. William’s hand hovered between them, a silent plea for forgiveness she was not ready to grant. She stiffened, every muscle tensing at the thought of vulnerability and trust. For years, she had built a fortress around her heart, shielding it from further pain. But the recent brush with her own mortality had shaken her resolve, reminding her that holding onto grudges was a luxury she could no longer afford.

With a small, almost imperceptible nod, she gave her silent permission for him to join her. He pulled out the chair across from her, causing it to creak and groan under his weight. Unspoken apologies hung heavy in the air, like a fog that refused to dissipate. His gaze pleaded with hers, desperately seeking forgiveness where there was none to be found.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, the simplicity of the question absurd against the complexity of their shared past.

“Good” slipped out, a word hollowed out of truth. She could have laughed at the absurdity as if he hadn’t known she would be here, as though fate itself had plotted their reunion in this quiet corner of the restaurant.

“Cathy, I’m sorry.” His voice broke through her reverie, a tremor betraying the facade of composure. “For everything. For not being the father you wanted.” His confession hung between them, an anchor plunging into the depths of her disdain.

She scrutinized him, her lawyer’s mind dissecting each syllable and each pause. He continued, “I have no excuse for my actions. But I believe you are in good hands.”

A sharp retort perched on her tongue, ready to launch, but she hesitated. Did he know? Could he have possibly known that she wasn’t going to marry Finn that day, but Finn’s uncle? A man wrapped in an enigma, bound to her by vows, yet a stranger in her bed?

Cathleen’s gaze narrowed, the steel edge of her intellect slicing through the fog of uncertainty. William’s expression remained unreadable, a mask perfected by years of evasion. She weighed the silence and measured the distance of emotional miles that stretched out before them.

This was a game of chess, and Cathleen knew better than to reveal her king too soon.