The Billionaire’s Bride: Our Vows Do Not Matter

The weight of silence hung heavily in the air, a thick blanket smothering the study where old Mr. Knight sat, his hands clasped together as if in prayer. Each breath he drew was a battle against the tightening vice of grief. His eyes, usually sharp and assessing, now brimmed with an unspeakable sorrow as he contemplated the empty future without his granddaughter’s laughter echoing through the halls.

A knock shattered the quietude like a hammer to glass, and the door creaked open. Xavier loomed over the threshold, his presence darkening the room. The old man observed him-a tower of control now crumbling, a man who commanded empires yet stood defeated by loss.

“I hope you know what you are doing.” Old Mr. Knight’s voice sliced through the tension, each word a pointed blade aimed straight at his son’s heart.

Xavier stiffened, his steely facade showing cracks. “What are you talking about, Father?” Confusion warred with the torment etched on his features.

“You can fool me, Xavier; this is a life we’re talking about.” The accusation hung between them, a noose tightening with every syllable. “She was born, and you made a decision to bury her right away-no family help, no one to comfort you. You didn’t even call me for help, and you expect me to believe she is gone?”

“Father, my daughter is gone, and I don’t wish to talk about it.” Xavier’s voice broke-a rare crack in the cold armor he wore so well. He turned to leave, but the old man’s grip was iron on his arm, unyielding and firm.

“Show me where you buried her.” The demand was a command, one that allowed for no argument, no retreat.

Xavier froze, his body a statue of anguish. “Why are you so persistent? I need my space, Father,” he rasped out, desperation threading through his words. “I am still trying to process everything that is happening. At first, I thought Cathleen was the one who tried to kill herself and the baby, but then she told me the juice she drank that day tasted funny, and I saw her taking the juice from one of the maids.”

The admission hung heavy in the room, a silent accusation against the walls lined with books and secrets. Xavier began to pace, each step a mark of his inner turmoil as he struggled with the tangle of betrayal and loss, love and hatred. His father watched as the wise old owl perched within the storm, waiting for the moment to swoop down and unravel the twisted threads of truth.

Xavier’s jaw clenched, each muscle taut with the weight of his father’s demand. “That was not my question, Xavier.” The old man’s voice sliced through the room, sharp and unrelenting. “If my granddaughter is no more, I want to see her grave, and you are taking me to the grave right now.” There was steel in those words-the kind that had once commanded boardrooms and bent rivals to his will.

Reluctantly, Xavier sank into the leather chair, its creak a mocking reminder of the comfort he couldn’t find. The study felt like a cage, the walls closing in, lined with tomes that whispered judgments. His eyes, once so adept at reading market trends and opponents’ bluffs, now darted away from his father’s piercing gaze.

“I spoke with Martins, and something is not adding up,” the old man continued, his voice steady, but there was something else-a hint of an edge, of something unsaid lingering between them like the scent of spilled whiskey.

The pacing began again. Back and forth, Xavier moved like a predator trapped in his own skin, the rhythm of his steps erratic as if syncopated by the chaos of his thoughts. He was known to dominate negotiations, to bend circumstances and people to his will, yet here he was, undone by the stubborn certainty of his father and the ghost of his child.

“Martins doesn’t know shit,” Xavier spat out, the words lashing the air between them. He stopped his pacing and faced the old man, his posture defiant yet betrayed by the raw pain in his eyes. “This is my hell, and you don’t get to orchestrate how I grieve.”

But the old man was unyielding, his wisdom a fortress against Xavier’s tempest. “You’ll take me to her, Xavier. Now. This family doesn’t bury secrets along with the dead.” The command was absolute, a gauntlet thrown down that Xavier knew he could not ignore.

In the silence that followed, the only sound was the ticking of the grandfather clock, a relentless metronome counting down the moments until the inevitable surrender.This text is property of Nô/velD/rama.Org.

Xavier’s jaw clenched, a muscle ticking in his cheek as he faced the patriarch of the Knight family. “I will take you to her grave once I find out what happened to my wife that day,” he stated, his voice low and seething with barely restrained fury.

Old Mr. Knight leveled his gaze at Xavier, his eyes scrutinizing beneath bushy gray brows. “Listen, son, you are my son, and I know when you are lying,” he retorted sharply, his voice edged with steel. “You will lose Cathleen forever if you continue with this.” He moved with a calculated slowness, easing into the worn leather chair that had borne witness to countless heated discussions. With practiced ease, he picked up a glass of scotch, the amber liquid catching the dim light of the study. He sipped it, relishing the burn as he leaned back, the chair creaking under his weight.

“Bring the woman here; I want to monitor them,” he commanded, his words laced with an iron authority that brooked no argument. The old man’s insistence burrowed into Xavier’s mind, igniting a spark of indignation. Yet, conflicting emotions raged within him-his father’s manipulative tactics, his own tumultuous feelings for Cathleen, and the gnawing uncertainty of her fate.

Xavier stared blankly at the man who raised him, whose wisdom often bordered on invasive control. His lips parted, but words failed him, leaving him trapped in the chasm between obedience and rebellion.

“I’ll get the best doctor,” Xavier finally conceded, nodularity setting into his spine as he turned on his heel and exited the study. Each step away from the old man was a reprieve, yet also a submission to the demands placed upon him.

Left alone with his scheming thoughts, Old Mr. Knight brought the crystal tumbler to his lips once more, savoring the warmth of the smooth scotch as it trailed down his throat. A sly, self-satisfied smile curled the corners of his thin-lipped mouth. The game was set; the pieces were in motion. With each calculated move, he reveled in the subtle play of power, relishing the delicate balance between influence and autonomy. “I knew something wasn’t right, that boy can never fool me.” There old man smiled.