My Accidental Billionaire Husband (Katia and Julian) novel Chapter 255

The Sovereign Claim

Julian

The highway back to the Windsolamily mansion was a bar of gray and touring mo

My krukles were white against the steering wheel, the dry, stiff blood on my galios sum to thanh treh wante cracking and pinching with every turn 1 didn’t for 1 didn’t care My mind was tagged the bote od stre the phantom scent of her skin and the heat of our desperate collien sull hwary in many thence had where fripping out before the city lights could fade into the pale, indifferet dem

The security gates of the Windsor family mansion opened, the mantra iron bars parties i parked the car in the private garage, not bothering to take my co, at meets mile the one tone alleys were smelling of old wood, beeswax, and the deep, centuries old silence that only wealth could sexy.

I walked straight down the west corridor, my boots making no sound export to track perkant, add the text of Aiden’s bedroom.

I pushed the door open. The room was dim, the curtains drawn fight against the morning by Angle is cut a amber glow across the floor. In the center of the massive canopy bed, a small, quiet she codes nder the sea ser

Aiden

My chest tightened with a sudden, suffocating pressure. I walked to the edge of the mattress slowly and sat down on the willk sheets. Aiden didn’t stir. His breathing was soft and incredibly light, his small face relaxed in the deep peaceful sleep of a child who believed the world was a safe place.

I looked at him. I looked at the sharp, elegant curve of his little jaw, the slight, stubborn set of his mouth, and the way hus dark hair fell over his forehead. He was soon going to be seven years old.

I got up, my chest aching with a raw, hollow grief that made my throat tight. I walked out of the room, my strides long, heading deep into the east wing the old, abandoned section of the mansion where my childhood bedroom had been left unched for fifteen years.

I pushed the heavy oak door open. The air inside was cool and dusty, smelling of old paper and linen, I walked straight to the mahogany chest of drawers by the window. There, sitting among a collection of old school trophies and leather–bound hous was a small, silver framed photograph.

It was a picture of me. I was seven years old, standing on the lawns of the Windsor estate, wearing a small, structured righưng Jacket, looking, directly at the camera, serious and unblinking

I grabbed the silver frame, my fingers tracing the cold metal, and walked back to Aiden’s rooms

Ichimbed onto the bed, sliding under the heavy duvet beside my son I laid the silver trame that the pelo de Audes

head

I looked from the photograph to the sleeping boy

The shock of it hit me like a physical blow, knocking the air night out of my hangs. The resemblant, 1 way absolute Aiden was a carbon copy of the boy in the photograph. The same stature of the eyes, the sale sharp, wubbers must, the exact same spacing of the jawline. He was my flesh. He was my blood. He was the Windus het hors to that secret sight in a Las Vegas that Kalia still believed was nothing that a ghost story

A single, bot tear slipped from my eye, trating a wet path down my cheek

I quickly wiped it away with the back of my hand, my jaw clenching so hard my teeth ached. The grief was a physical weight in my stomach, hot and savage Thad not seen him grow Thadn’t been there when he took his first steps, or when he spoke hus first words, or when he learned to walk I had spent years of his life rusing a global empare completely bind to the fact that may son my own, real son was being raised by a single mother in Brooklyn while her family called her a trail

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The Lage in my chest turned to pure, unyielding concrete

I reached out, my large, scarred hand gently stroking Aiden’s soft hair, my fingers lingering against his temple. I looked at the photograph, then at him, and I made a silent, murderous vow to the quiet room.

I will do anything.

I would tear this city apart, I would burn WEG to the ground, and I would execute every single enemy who dared to look in his direction. Aiden was never leaving the Windsor family mansion ever again. He was mine. He belonged in this house, under my name, under my protection, and there was no force on this earth strong enough to take him from me. 1

At exactly seven AM, the encrypted black phone on the bedside table buzzed, which made me reach out and grab it before the sound could wake the boy.

“Windsor,” I muttered, my voice a quiet, dangerous rasp.

“Mr. Windsor,” the lead guard at the main gate house said, his voice tense: “We have an unauthorized convoy at the entrance. A single silver Porsche being escorted by four black SUVS. The lead passenger is claiming to have business at the estate. He has a lot of security, sir.”

I sat up, my eyes narrowing in the dark. A business partner? A client from the Grand Prix who had bypassed the standard security protocols? Or some high–profile corporate investor trying to make a dramatic entrance after the race?

“Let them in,” I commanded calmly. “Escort them to the main gravel driveway. I’ll meet them downstairs.”

“Yes, sir.”

I slid out of the bed, carefully tucking the duvet back over Aiden’s shoulders. I picked up the silver photograph, placed it in my dresser drawer, and walked out of the room. I didn’t change my clothes. I was still in the dark trousers and black shirt from yesterday, my sleeves rolled up to my elbows, my hair slightly messy, my face the frozen, unreadable mask of a predator who had spent the night claiming his territory.

I walked down the grand stone staircase, my shoes clicking slowly against the steps. Through the high glass windows of the lobby, I could see the morning light breaking over the lawns, casting long, cold shadows across the gravel.

The heavy oak front doors were held open by my security team. I walked out, stepping onto the gravel driveway just as the convoy rounded the circular path.

The silver Porsche pulled to a stop in the center of the drive, the four massive, blacked–out SUVS positioning themselves behind it like an invading army. The doors of the SUVS flew open, and eight men indark suits and earpieces stepped out, thes eves scanning the Windsor security detail with the professional, aggressive focus of high–level military bodyguards

Then, the door of the silver Porsche opened.

Jude fucking Wolfe stepped out.

He wore a dark, impeccable suit that cost more than a small car, his sharp, clean shoulders radiating the cold, military bearing of a man who owned every piece of ground his feet touched. His dark hair was perfectly styled, his face calm, unhurried, aind completely comfortable in the face of my private security.

The sight of him made the blood in my veins turn to pure, boiling acid. The possessive, territorial rage that I had spent the nigh suppressing flared in any chest like gasoline, my hands clenching into fists inside my pockets. This was the man who had stood at a podium in London and claimed my wife. This was the beast who had stepped into my den

Jude walked across the gravel, his steps slow and measured, stopping five feet from where I stood at the base of the stone steps.

“Mr. Windsor,” Jude called, his low, British accent carrying the weight of a man who did not need volume to command absolute

silence.

He extended his right hand.

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I didn’t move. My hands remained deep inside my pockets, my jaw set, my eyes locked onto his with a lethal, unblinking focus that would have made a lesser man drop his eyes instantly. I didn’t take his frand, and I didn’t offer a single word of welcome

Jude saw the refusal. He didn’t look bothered. A slow, highly amused smile touched the corners of his lips, and he calmly withdrew his hand, sliding it back into his own trousers pocket.

“Well,” Jude said, looking up at the massive stone facade of the Windsor mansion, his smile widening Into a cold, victorious line. “I was told my son stays here. I am here to take him home.”

The words hit my ears like a physical blow.

My son.

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