The Billionaire’s Bride: Our Vows Do Not Matter

The first light of dawn had barely kissed the horizon before Xavier’s consciousness began to claw itself back from sleeping. His eyelids were heavy as he watched the steady rise and fall of Cathleen’s chest. Her breathing was deep and steady in the stillness of the morning. With a calculated reluctance, as if he were shedding the weight of his own thoughts, Xavier let go of the bed sheet and swung his legs out onto the fluffy rug.

The kitchen was silent, an empty stage waiting for the daily performance to begin. With a practiced movement, he reached for an apron, the fabric feeling rough against his hands-hands that were more used to closing deals than holding culinary tools. Yet here he was, on the verge of navigating the unknown territory of Cathleen’s taste buds.

Xavier stopped, the silence of the room pushing in around him. He wasn’t sure what it was that Cathleen liked. But he did know what kind of woman she was-strong, unyielding, and precise. In much the same way as she was, these meals would have to be made with purpose.

He chose the butternut soup. It was a dish she often made on those rare occasions when she was in charge of the kitchen. Its simplicity masked the complex flavors that melded beneath the surface, much like the façade that Cathleen put on in front of his girlfriend, Olivia.

Alongside the soup, he arranged an English breakfast-another of her regular staples. The sizzling of eggs and bacon broke the silence. Each crackle echoed his own inner turmoil. It was a meal that spoke of a certain robustness that ran parallel to her stubbornness.

As he laid out the plates, his movements were deliberate, reflecting the precision with which he conducted his business-away from prying eyes, away from the cameras he so despised. It was in this quiet domesticity that Xavier found a semblance of the control that he craved so much.

Finally, he remembered that Cathleen hardly ever drank coffee; her aversion to it was almost as strong as her sharp wit. Instead, he brewed green tea, the subtle scent of which wafted through the air-a nod to her preference for the unobtrusive yet effective.

This morning’s ritual was a far cry from the usual dealings of Xavier – a man known for his cold exterior and his ruthless demeanor in both business and pleasure. But here, in the soft light of dawn, with the scent of breakfast enveloping him, there was an unspoken promise hanging between the walls of their home.

A silent confrontation, a testament to the complexities of love and betrayal that weave through the tapestry of their marriage, the very act of preparing this meal was a silent confrontation. As Xavier set the breakfast, each piece a declaration, he couldn’t help but wonder if today’s sacrifice would be well received. Or if it would be yet another thread in their crumbling bond.Content provided by NôvelDrama.Org.

The last of the bowls clinked softly as he set it down on the tray. The kitchen sparkled from his meticulous cleaning, every surface wiped down with precision – a stark contrast to the anxiety that was at the forefront of his mind. With a measured intake of breath, he lifted the tray laden with the food he had prepared – not long in the kitchen – and made his way back through the quiet house.

The door to the bedroom creaked open, a faint protest in the stillness of the room. He set the pillow-tray down on the nightstand, the click of the porcelain against the wood breaking the silence. The room was heavy with unspoken words. The air was thick with the scent of Cathleen’s perfume – a scent that now felt like an accusation.

He turned away, stripping off his clothes with machine-like swiftness before stepping into the cold embrace of the shower. The water cascaded over him, but it couldn’t wash away the image that burned into his mind: Cathleen, her skin a mother-of-pearl in the dim light, lying back in the bathtub the night before. Her breasts had risen and fallen with each controlled breath, and he remembered how the sight had stirred something savage in him.

But Cathleen was more than just an object of desire. She was a formidable woman; her mind was as sharp as the edge of a blade. She wielded her words as if they were weapons and left no room for rebuttal. Even now he could almost hear her voice cutting through the sound of the shower, articulating her victories, her never-lost battles with his girlfriend Olivia, and her dominance in a world that tried to outdo her.

He pressed the palms of his hands against the cool tiles and let the water beat down on his back – a self-imposed penance. In the deluge, he wrestled with the contradictions of love and betrayal, the violence of passion, and the betrayal of trust. Cathleen, strong and unwavering, haunted his dreams and waking thoughts – her calculated moves, her unyielding determination, a constant challenge to his own intentions.

As the water ran down the drain, carrying with it the debris of another day, he knew that a confrontation with Cathleen was a confrontation with a mirror of his own inner turmoil – a mirror of the battles they fought together and apart. Why won’t she get out of my head? he thought to himself.

Cathleen’s slumber was shattered as the rich scents of sizzling bacon and creamy butternut soup wafted through the air, invading her senses with an insistent tug. Eyelids fluttering, she fought the urge to sink back into the depths of her dreams, but the aroma was a relentless opponent. With every breath, the tantalizing scents wrapped around her, beckoning her to wakefulness. Her stomach responded with an emphatic rumble, expressing its own impatient hunger.

She turned her head, her eyes cutting through the dim morning light, to find a tray on the nightstand – a silent offering. The sight of steaming green tea amidst the breakfast fare was the undeniable sign that it was intended for her; Xavier wouldn’t touch the stuff. The ghost of a smile flickered across Cathleen’s lips. Her usually sharp tongue was momentarily soothed by the gesture.

The tray felt substantial in her hands as she brought it closer to her, the ceramic bowls clinking softly in a domestic melody. She eyed the food with the scrutiny of a seasoned strategist. Her calculating mind briefly assessed the layout before giving way to more primal demands. With methodical precision, Cathleen dismantled the fortress of toast, dissected the fragrant soup, and conquered the strips of bacon that lay there crisped to perfection.

Xavier’s culinary stronghold fell piece by piece, her palate staging a silent revolt against her usual controlled demeanor. Each bite was an indulgence – a rare moment when she allowed herself to be disarmed. And as the last morsel succumbed to her assault, Cathleen sat back against the pillows, momentarily satiated – not just by the meal, but by the unexpected truce it represented.