My Accidental Billionaire Husband (Katia and Julian) novel Chapter 345

The Couch

The Couch

~Katia~

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I woke to the sound of the bedroom door opening and Aiden’s small footsteps padding across the carpet.

I sat up, still half asleep, just in time to see him stop in the middle of the room, looking between the bed where had been sleeping and the couch by the window where Julian lay stretched out under a spare blanket one arm hanging off the edge, and the shirt he put on after his little jerking–off show still wrinkled from sleep.

Aiden’s face went from confusion to something more serious.

“Dad?” he said.

Julian stirred, blinking against the morning light, and pushed himself up onto one elbow.

“Morning, bud,” he said, his voice rough with sleep.

“Why are you sleeping on the couch,” Aiden asked, “when there is a big bed right there?”

Julian glanced toward me, then back at Aiden, and I watched him reach for an answer the way a man reached for rope that was not actually within grasp.

“I had a lot of work to do,” Julian said. “So I ended up sleeping on the couch.”

Aiden’s eyes narrowed slightly, the same skeptical expression he wore when he suspected an adult was not tellin him the whole truth, an expression I recognized because I had seen it on my own face in mirrors more times than I could count.

“I don’t see your laptop,” Aiden said. “And if you were reading, I would definitely see a book. But I don’t see one here. So why are you on the couch?”

Julian opened his mouth, then closed it again.

He looked at me.

I did not help him.

“Are you two getting a divorce?” Aiden asked.

The question landed in the room like something physical, and before either of us could answer, his chin started to tremble, his eyes filling fast, the kind of crying that came from a child who had been quietly worrying about something for longer than either of us realized and had finally found the courage to say it out loud.

I was out of bed before I had fully decided to move, crossing the room and pulling him into my arms, guiding him back toward the bed and settling him between the pillows where I had been sleeping

“No, my love,” I said, holding him close, feeling the way his small body shook against mine. “Mommy and Daddy are not getting a divorce.”

“Then why is Dad sleeping on the couch?” Aiden asked, his voice thick, muffled against my shoulder.

I looked over at Julian, who was sitting on the edge of the couch now, watching us both with an expression that had none of its usual composure, just the plain, unguarded worry of a father watching his son cry over something he had caused, even indirectly.

“Do you want Daddy to sleep on the bed?” I asked, pulling back just enough to look at Aiden’s face.

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The Couch

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He nodded, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Daddy,” I said, looking over at Julian. “Why don’t you come over to the bed?”

Julian went still for a moment, like he was waiting for the words to be taken back, like he half expected this to be some kind of test he had not been given the answer key to. Then he stood, crossed the room, and climbed onto the other side of the bed, settling in beside Aiden with the careful, uncertain movement of a man who was not entirely sure he was allowed to be there.

Aiden shifted immediately, wedging himself between us, one small hand reaching out to grab a fistful of my sleeve and the other reaching toward Julian, who took it without hesitation.

“Are you sure you are not getting a divorce?” He said again, quieter this time, his voice steadying now that he was tucked safely between the two of us.

“We are sure,” I said.

“Promise,” Aiden said.

Julian met my eyes over the top of our son’s head.

“I promise,” Julian said.

Aiden let out a long breath, the kind of breath a child released when something they had been carrying quietly for days had finally been set down, and within a few minutes his breathing evened out again, his grip on both of us loosening as sleep pulled him back under.

I lay there in the quiet, Aiden’s small weight warm between us, and looked at Julian across the top of our son’s head.

Neither of us said anything.

We did not need to.

For the length of that morning, in that bed, with our son sleeping soundly between us, none of the things that were still unresolved between us mattered as much as the fact that Aiden had finally stopped crying.

I stayed awake longer than I meant to, listening to the soft, even sound of Aiden’s breathing between us, and I found myself thinking about how simple the question had felt coming out of his mouth, ‘Are you two getting a divorce?‘ Four words that carried more weight than either of us had realized he was capable of holding onto.

We had thought we were protecting him. Julian keeping his distance in the guest room, both of us being careful about how we spoke to each other in front of him, neither of us wanting to force him into taking sides or picking up on tension he was too young to understand. I understood now that all of our carefulness had done the opposite of what we intended. Children did not need explanations. They needed evidence, the physical proot of two people sleeping in the same room, sitting at the same table, existing in the same space without a wall of unspoken

tension between them.

Julian shifted slightly on the other side of the bed, careful not to wake Aiden, and caught my eye.

“I did not think about how it would look to him,” he said quietly “The couch. I thought I was being respectful of what you asked for.”

“You were,” I said. “I am not upset with you about the couch.”

“Then what are you up set about,” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

The Couch

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I looked down at Aiden’s face, peaceful now, his small hand still curled around a fistful of my sleeve even in sleep.

“I am not upset,” I said. “I am just tired of watching him carry things that are not his to carry.”

Julian was quiet for a moment.

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