My Accidental Billionaire Husband (Katia and Julian) novel Chapter 37

Did you spend time with tny husband?

Katia’s POV

My phone had been buzzing for three solid minutes, vibrating against the mahogany surface of my desk like a persistent, gold- plated insect. I immediately knew it was one of my family members, and I also know that they didn’t call unless they had a curated audience to perform for or a problem that required someone else’s hands to get dirty. Since Delia had just landed the wedding of the century” and hitched her wagon to the Windsor star, I assumed she was calling to gloat about the size of her rock or the thread count of her new sheets.

I finally picked up on the tenth ring, not even bothering with a greeting or the pretense of warmth. “I’m busy, Delia. Unless the house is on fire or you’re calling to tell me you’ve moved to another hemisphere, make it quick.

“Hey, sis,” her voice came through, sounding suspiciously soft, layered with a forced fragility that she usually reserved for the press. “Can we meet? Just for a bit?‘I’m in the neighborhood.”

“No. I have a company to run, a server migration to oversee, and a son to raise. I don’t have time for the Kensington drama circuit today, or any day this week.” I reached for my mouse, ready to terminate the call. I wanted peace, I wanted code, and I wanted to forget the way Julian Windsor looked at my hands in a dark jazz club. I didn’t want whatever performance Delia was currently rehearsing.

“Look, I get it,” she said, her tone taking on a humility that made my skin crawl. It was the sound of a woman who knew she was losing a grip on a secret. “Even if you weren’t busy, I’d understand why you’d say no. I asked you not to attend my wedding, and… I’m sorry. I was stressed, and the family was being difficult. I just really need to see you, Katia. Please.”

I paused, the cursor hovering over the ‘end call‘ button. Delia Kensington, no, Delia Windsor now, didn’t apologize. Not for free. An apology from Delia was usually a down payment on a much larger favor. I was done being the “bigger person“; that role had only ever gotten me a one–way ticket out of my own home six years ago while she stood by and watched our parents throw me out. But curiosity, or perhaps a lingering, masochistic desire to see her trip over her own web of lies, won out. “Fine. My office. Thirty minutes. Don’t be late, or the security guard will have instructions to escort you back to the curb.” Thirty minutes later, the unmistakable roar of a high–performance engine echoed in the street below my loft. I looked out the window to see a pristine, chauffeur–driven Rolls–Royce idling at the curb, its silver hood gleaming under the Brooklyn sun. It was the kind of car that didn’t just transport you; it made a loud, obnoxious statement about who you thought you were. It was a rolling fortress of ego.

Delia swept into my office a few minutes later, looking like she’d stepped directly off a Parisian runway. She didn’t even say hello. She didn’t ask how I was. She just walked to the window, gestured vaguely toward the street with a smug, self–satisfied smirk, and waited for me to bow.

“You like my ride? It’s part of the Windsor fleet. Assigned specifically to me by Julian’s office. It’s got custom interiors, of course.

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I didn’t even look up from my tablet, my stylus moving across the screen. “Is that why you’re here, Delia? To show me you have

a chauffeur? Because I’ve seen a car before, and I’m fairly certain the Rolls–Royce brand existed long before you married into it.

If you’re done looking for validation from the sister you threw away, why don’t you cut to the chase? I’m on a clock.”

Her smirk faltered, replaced by a flicker of the old, spoiled irritation she couldn’t quite hide. She sat down across from me, smoothing out the fabric of a designer skirt that probably cost more than my first server rack. “I told you on the phone. I wanted to apologize for the wedding. It was… a high–stress time. The Windsors are very traditional, and having a–well, having you there with the history we have… it was complicated. I shouldn’t have told you to stay away.”

“Forgiven,” I said flatly, giving her a sharp, meaningless smile that didn’t reach my eyes. “Anything else? Because I have a 2:00 PM meeting with people who actually contribute to my bottom line.”

Delia blinked, clearly caught off guard. She had expected me to grovel or at least offer her a glass of expensive sparkling water so we could pretend to be friends. She looked around my office, her eyes searching for a crack in my armor, a sign that I was jealous of her new life. “Are we cool, Katia? I mean, we’re sisters. We’re family. We should be able to talk.”

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Het uut a short, dry laugh that echoed off the high ceilings. “Pardon me if I don’t have time for fake family love, Delia. It’s a bit late for that, don’t you think? I don’t really want you or our parents anywhere near me or my son. You made your choice six years ago when you let them kick me out, and you made it again at your wedding. Stay on your side of the glass fence in your Windsor mansion, and I’ll stay here in the world I built without you.”

“Suit yourself,” she snapped, her true colors finally bleeding through the polite, “newlywed” farade. Her voice lost its sweetness, turning brittle and cold.

I leaned forward, placing my hands flat on the glass table between us. My bare fingers were splayed out against the reflective surface, every detail magnified by the glass. “You are my sister, Delia. That’s a biological fact I can’t change. But if you want to treat me like a stranger, be my guest. Just don’t expect me to play the role of the long–lost relative when you get bored of your new toys or when the Windsor name starts to feel too heavy for you to carry.”

Delia’s eyes didn’t move from my hands. Her gaze was locked on my nails–the specific, pale pink, high–gloss manicure I’d had done at that boutique salon in France. I watched the gears turning in her head, the panicked calculation of a woman who had spent her morning looking at a photo on her husband’s I*******m and was now looking at the physical evidence right in front of her. She looked like she’d seen a ghost.

“You were in France, right?” she asked, her voice suddenly sharp, a tremor of desperation underneath the accusation.

“Yep,” I replied with a casual shrug, leaning back into my chair. “With Sam and Aiden. Why? Did you need travel tips? I found the jazz scene in the Riviera quite… enlightening.”

Delia leaned in, her eyes narrowing until they were mere slits of blue ice. “Did you spend any time with my husband while you were there, Katia? Tell me the truth.”

I leaned back further, a slow, mocking smile spreading across my face. I let the silence hang in the air, thick and suffocating, enjoying the way she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Why would I spend time with your husband, Delia? He was supposed to be on a honeymoon with you. Or did the Windsor Prince leave his beautiful bride behind to do business in the Riviera while you stayed home and practiced your ‘Mrs.‘ signature?”

Delia went deathly quiet. I had hit the nerve, and I had hit it hard. The realization that she had been left behind while her husband was out with me was clearly a pill she couldn’t swallow, but then again, she had no proof it was me. Also, she couldn’t call me a liar without exposing her own fraud to the world; if she admitted she knew it was my hand, she’d have to admit she wasn’t the woman in the photo she’d been bragging about.

“He was working,” she muttered, standing up abruptly and snatching her designer bag off the floor. “And I was… busy with family obligations at the estate. I just thought I’d check because of the coincidence.”

“Check all you want,” I said, standing up and walking toward the door to usher her out. “But next time you want to play ‘happy families,‘ do it with someone who hasn’t seen the back of your head for half a decade. Give my best to the chauffeur, Delia. I hope the ride back is as comfortable as you imagined.”

I watched her stomp out toward the elevator, her heels clicking aggressively against the floorboards. She was terrified. She knew that photo wasn’t her, and now she knew exactly whose hand it was or maybe suspected. But more importantly, she knew I held the power to shatter her perfect, manufactured life with a single phone call.

I opened my mouth to scream the truth, to tell her that Julian was a cold, unreachable statue, that he had abandoned me for Katia, and that my entire marriage felt like a high–end fraud. But then, Julian’s warning hissed in the back of my mind. No one is to know. If the world found out I wasn’t the “real” Mrs. Windsor in his heart, the prestige would vanish. I had to be careful. I had to protect the lie while fighting the war. Besides, I wasn’t sure it was Katia’s hand in that picture, but it just couldn’t be a coincidence; she was in France, and he took off to France without caring about what I thought as a newlywed.

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