My Accidental Billionaire Husband (Katia and Julian) novel Chapter 259

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The Broken British Pride

~Jude

The mirror in the private suite of Mount Sinai Hospital was lying to me.

It had to be. There was simply no other logical explanation. The reflection staring back at the did not betons to hide Welle the dashing, immaculate, thrice-crowned darling of the British motorsport press. It belonged to a genetically compromised tump

My left eye was swollen into a dark, plum-colored slit. My nose, which had previously possessed a rather splendid, aristocratic bridge, was currently packed with several yards of medical gauze and taped down ake a poorly wrapped parcel. My jaw was wired so tightly that even thinking about the word “biscuit” sent a sharp, agonizing throb directly into my temples.

“Uncivilized,” I muttered, the word coming out as a pathetic, wet whistle through my teeth

I winced, instantly regretting the vocal effort. The nurse had offered me a PCA pump containing a rather generous amount of liquid morphine, but the drugs did absolutely nothing to soothe the wounded dignity currently festering in my chest.

I had never been beaten before.

In my thirty-five years on this earth, I had always been the one delivering the consequences. If & driver stepped out of line, 1 ruined their career. If a board member questioned my allocation of telemetry assets, I bought out their mortgage and turnert their family home into a staff car park. I was a Wolfe. We did not get our clocks cleaned in secondary-market American penthouses by wild, shirt-ripping beasts who didn’t even have the decency to announce their arrival.

And the suit.

My chest let out a ragged, whistling sigh of genuine mourning. It had been a bespoke, three-piece navy wool-and-silk biend hand-tailored on Savile Row. The trousers were completely ruined, stained with a combination of spilled puddle water from Katia’s kitchen floor and my own highly premium blood. The jacket had been ripped down the seam as if it were nothing but tissue paper.

A beast. An absolute, unhinged, territorial monster.

I leaned my head back against the stiff hospital pillows, my mind frantically trying to calculate the absolute shambles of the morning. Why on earth did Julian Windsor have a key to my wife’s private elevator bay? Who was he to her?

The physics of the encounter simply didn’t add up. The owner of the multi-billion-dollar Windsor Empire Group does not physically storm a residential building, vaporize a solid mahogany double door with his bare shoulders, and proceed to commit first-degree manslaughter over a business dispute. It was entirely un-American. One does not simply beat another billionaire to a pulp because of a disagreement over telemetry licenses.

Unless.

My remaining good eye narrowed in the sterile light of the room.

The marks on her neck. The deep, purple fingerprints on her waist that I had exposed when I ripped back her silk robe. They hadn’t been left by some cheap, desperate street man. They had been left by a giant. A giant with scarred hands and a complete lack of moral boundaries.

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