My Accidental Billionaire Husband (Katia and Julian) novel Chapter 25

The Altar of Duty

Julian’s POV

The dawn over the Windsor Estate didn’t break; it bled. A pale, sickly grey light filtered through the heavy condensation on my bedroom windows, illuminating the sprawling gardens that had been manicured into submission for today’s spectacle. I had been awake since three in the morning, staring at the ceiling, tracing the intricate plaster moldings as if they held some secret escape hatch. There were none! In the quiet hours of the night, the weight of the Windsor name felt less like a crown and more like a shroud.

I stood in the center of my dressing room, a space larger than most people’s apartments, and felt the walls closing in. Every object in this room was a testament to a legacy I hadn’t asked for but was sworn to protect. The floor–to–ceiling mirrors reflected a man I struggled to recognize. Sunlight finally fought its way through the heavy velvet curtains, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air, but the warmth remained outside the glass.

I was being dressed by a valet who moved with the invisible, haunting efficiency of a ghost. Every touch was painfully annoying, a ritual of preparation for a man being sent to his own fucking execution. The crisp, white cotton of the shirt felt like a second skin–starch–stiff, cold, and utterly unforgiving against my ribs. As he fastened the gold studs down my chest, each click felt like a nail being driven into a coffin. I wasn’t being dressed for a wedding; I was being armored for a battle I had already lost before the first shot was fired.

“The tie, sir? The silver silk or the traditional Windsor black?” the valet asked, his voice barely a ripple in the suffocating silence.

“I’ll do it,” I muttered. My voice sounded like gravel, raspy and hollow.

I stepped toward the mirror, leaning my palms against the cold marble of the vanity. I looked at the man in the glass. The jawline was sharp enough to cut, the brow furrowed in a permanent shadow of the eyes–the eyes were the problem. Usually, they were flinty, the eyes of a man who saw the world in spreadsheets and power plays. Today, they looked like stagnant water. I began the familiar motions of tying a Windsor knot. My fingers, which could strip a high–performance engine in a dark garage or sign away a billion–dollar merger without a single tremor, were ice–cold.

Today was the day I would legally bind myself to Delia Kensington. Maybe illegally, not so legal.

The thought should have brought some sense of completion, a finality to the restless, feral searching that had plagued me for six years. I was fulfilling the debt. I was marrying the daughter of the family that according to my grandmother–deserved the Windsor blessing. But standing here, in the stillness of my ancestral home, it felt like a grotesque parody of duty. I thought of my grandmother’s story–the girl in the yellow dress who saved her. I thought of the Kensington name and the strategic, cold- blooded necessity of this union to keep the family bloodline “pure” and the business interests aligned.

But beneath the layer of duty lay the jagged truth that I was already a husband in every way that mattered to my soul.

I gestured for the valet to leave. He bowed, a shadow retreating into the hallway, and the heavy oak door clicked shut with a sound that echoed like a gunshot. Alone in the oppressive opulence, I walked toward the corner of the room where a small, biometric safe was hidden behind a hand–carved panel of mahogany. My thumbprint scanned with a red glow, the door whirred, and it swung open with a soft, expensive hiss of pressurized air.

I didn’t reach for the Patek Philippe watches or the keys to the Bentley. I reached for the worn, cream–colored envelope at the

The paper was slightly yellowed at the edges now, the texture unique and familiar beneath my fingertips. I pulled out the Vegas marriage certificate. The ink from the chapel’s cheap, dusty printer was still bold, an eternal mockery of my current situation. Jules. Kat. I traced the name “Kat” with the pad of my thumb. That messy, defiant signature. It was the only evidence left on this earth that I wasn’t just a corporate machine. For six years, I had guarded this paper like a holy relic. It represented the only night in my entire life where I hadn’t been an heir, hadn’t been a target, and hadn’t been a brand. I had just been a man, lost in the heat of a woman who smelled like jasmine and felt like home.

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