My Accidental Billionaire Husband (Katia and Julian) novel Chapter 17

Ocean Blue eyes

Julian’s POV

The evening air was heavy with the scent of impending rain as I slipped into the driver’s seat of my Bentley Continental GT and pulled out of the underground parking lot of my penthouse. The engine purred as I steered onto the road, but no amount of luxury or speed could settle the discomfort that had started gnawing at me since yesterday’s meeting with Katia Kensington. That name had been bouncing around in my skull like a fucking echo, and no amount of distraction, not even the fucking model I left tangled in my sheets earlier this morning, had managed to mute it.

She wasn’t what I expected. Hell, she wasn’t what anyone would expect. She looked fragile, elegant, sassy, and everything a man would want in a woman.

She is fucking dangerous.

And there was something about her that had me unsettled in a way I hadn’t been in years. I’d walked into that boardroom expecting to see a timid little CEO puppet whose name was just a placeholder on a company letterhead. What I got was a storm in black stilettos and a stare that made me feel like I was the one being sized up, fuck!

So, here I was. Heading to the one place I avoided like the fucking plague unless summoned: my family’s mansion.

Not because I hated it, but because I hated the memories it stirred. The expectations. The poking, the prodding, the never- ending curiosity about my life and who I was fucking this week. Since Vegas, I just fuck. I dodged commitment the way I would dodge cars in a racing game; I just fucked, that’s all.

I drove through the gates, the wrought iron arch bearing the Windsor crest casting shadows across my windshield as I pulled into the circular driveway. The guards recognized the car and nodded me through.

The mansion stood like a cathedral of old money, ivy–covered stong, gothic windows, and a kind of silent judgment that made the air heavier with each step you took toward the door. I walked in without knocking, loosening my tie as the scent of Earl Grey and roses hit me.

Grandma’s blend.

I found her where she always was at this hour, in the sitting room, a cashmere throw over her legs, sipping her green tea while her favorite British murder mystery series played on the flat screen.

“You came home,” she said without looking up. “You never come home until you are summoned. Spit it out.”

I shrugged off my suit jacket and dropped it onto the arm of the chair. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

I smirked and dropped into the seat beside her.

She took a sip of her tea, then glanced at me sideways. “What did you think of Katia?”

Of course she knew.

“She has a mind of her own,” I said carefully.

Grandma turned off the television and faced me fully. There it was, that look. That all–knowing, strip–you–bare gaze that only matriarchs like her had perfected over decades of running empires and outliving men who thought they could control them.

“I chose her for you,” she said. “But I truly don’t know what happened. Then I heard she’s married.”

“She wasn’t wearing a ring when she came yesterday,” I muttered.

She nodded. “She’s the only good one in that family. I’m not sure about Delia. Never met her. But I teel it in my bones, Julian. Delia will be the opposite of Katia.”

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“So, why Katia? Our families aren’t close. You don’t even know where they live.”

Grandma smiled then, but it was wistful, like she was remembering something that still mattered.

“It’s quite a heartwarming story, she began, settling deeper into her chair. “Ten or eleven years ago, I was in Brooklyn for business. I traveled alone that time. Didn’t want the entourage, just needed air. And then, somewhere along that stretch of chaos and noise, I had a panic attack.”

I blinked. Grandma, stoic, invincible, terrifying. Having a panic attack?

“I pulled the car off the road and found a park nearby. I was gasping, trying to find my inhaler, but I couldn’t. My chest was tightening, and everything was spinning. I thought… maybe that was it. Maybe my time had come.”

I leaned forward, now fully invested.

“And then,” she continued, “a girl in a yellow dress walked by. I remember her. Vibrant, wild hair, eyes too big for her face, and this lightness about her. I think I passed out after seeing her. When I came to, she was still there, kneeling beside me with an inhaler in her hand. She didn’t ask if I was okay. She just said, ‘My name is Katia. I’m not going to ask how you feel because that would embarrass you. But promise me one thing. One day, you’ll give me to your son as a wife.“”

I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing. “No fucking way. She said that?”

“Word for word.”

I leaned back, shaking my head. “So, she saved you?”

“Yes. Then she took me to the hospital and called you. Remember?”

I didn’t ask who the father was. Not aloud, but the thought settled there like a splinter. Katia Kensington, married and with a

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