My Accidental Billionaire Husband (Katia and Julian) novel Chapter 388

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Marry Delia

Noah’s POV

I sat behind my desk and stared at the two rejected folders Delia Kensington had left for me the day before. One from Julian Windsor. One from Katia Windsor. Both untouched by the people who mattered. Both returned with the same dismissal that told me exactly how little respect Vesper Group had earned

in those rooms.

Delia Kensington could not get one fucking thing right.

She had walked into WEG with a proposal so poorly structured that Julian Windsor had not even opened the folder. She had walked into Katia’s office and somehow turned a simple investment conversation into a personal screaming match that ended with her being thrown out. She cried. She snapped. She made everything about her wounded pride and her missing last name. Every task I gave her arrived late, incomplete, or soaked in whatever emotional storm she was living through that hour.

If it were up to me, I would have fired her the day she came back from Julian’s office empty-handed. I would have ended the contract the moment she failed the second pitch. But my father had been clear. She was useful. She still knew the names and the faces and the petty hierarchies of the city’s elite. That knowledge had value until the gala was finished. After that I could throw her out myself.

I rubbed my temple and looked at the seating chart she had submitted. Windsor, Julian, and Katia. Main table. Center seats. She had followed the order, at least. Everything else about her was a mess. Emotions spilling into every conversation. Desperation so thick you could smell it when she walked into a room. She looked at every powerful man like he might hand her a new identity if she smiled hard enough. I hated that look. I hated the way she tried to recover her dignity after every public failure. I hated that my father still saw something worth keeping in her.

My phone rang.

I watched it vibrate across the desk. Father. Of course. He always called when he already knew I was

angry.

I let it ring three more times before I answered.

“Father.”

“Someone is in the mode,” he said. His voice carried that calm certainty he used when he had already decided the outcome of a conversation.

“That woman you hired cannot get one thing right,” I said. “She failed both investment approaches. She turned a simple meeting with Katia Windsor into a personal fight. She is all over the place. Emotions. Desperation. She cannot separate her private humiliation from the work. If you had not told me to keep her I would have ended the contract already.”

“Well,” my father said, “things are about to get interesting. Marry her before the gala.”

I laughed. The sound came out sharp.

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“Marry who?”

“Delia Kensington.”

I stopped laughing. “She is not my type. I do not do desperate women. I am certainly not the type to rescue a damsel in distress.”

“I said marry her. It was not a discussion.”

The line went dead.

I stared at the phone for a long moment. Then I set it down carefully so I would not throw it. My father had just ordered me to marry a woman I could barely stand to be in the same room with. A woman whose entire presence felt like a reminder of failure and need. A woman who looked at status the way other people looked at oxygen.

I called Adrian.

“Where is Delia Kensington right now?”

“Fourth floor. Her office. She has been there since early morning working on the final vendor confirmations.”

I hung up and stood. The walk to the elevator gave me time to decide how this would go. Short. Clear. No room for her to attach meaning to it. I would deliver the order the same way I delivered every other instruction. She would obey because she had no other options left. That was the only language she

understood.

Her office door was half open. She sat at the desk with her laptop open and three different folders spread around her. The same frantic energy she always carried. Shoulders tight. Jaw set. Eyes moving too fast across the screen. She looked up when I stepped inside and something hopeful flickered across her face before she locked it down.

I closed the door behind me.

“We are getting married,” I said.

Delia stared at me. For a second she did not move. Then she stood so quickly the chair rolled back and

hit the wall.

“Yes,” she said. The word came out immediately. No hesitation. No question about why or when or what it would mean. Just yes. Like she had been waiting for someone to offer her any kind of structure again.

I laughed. The sound was ugly even to my own ears.

“Look here,” I said. “I do not like you. I am only doing this because my father asked me to. So do not get ideas.”

Her face changed. The hope drained out of it in real time. What remained was the same brittle composure she wore when she thought no one was watching her break.

“I understand,” she said.

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“The ceremony will be quiet and fast. Before the gala. You will sign whatever papers are put in front of you. You will not speak to the press about it. You will not treat this as a love story or a rescue. It is a transaction ordered by my father. Nothing more. After the gala we will decide how long it needs to last. Clear?”

“Clear.”

“Good.”

I turned and walked out before she could say anything else. The elevator doors closed on the image of her standing in the middle of her office looking smaller than she had when I entered. I felt no satisfaction. Only irritation that my father had tied me to this woman even temporarily.

Back in my office I sat down and stared at the city through the glass. Delia Kensington. The same woman who had failed every meaningful task I had given her. The same woman who cried in cars and snapped in meetings and carried her public humiliation like a second skin. My father wanted her attached to the family name before the gala. I did not know why yet. I only knew the order was not optional.

I pulled up the internal file Adrian had built on her. Failed marriage that was never real. Public scenes. The slap at the school. The media cycle she had fed with her own tears. Every entry confirmed what I already felt when she walked into a room. She was chaos wrapped in expensive clothes and old social training. She wanted status so badly she would accept a marriage from a man who told her to her face that he did not like her.

That kind of desperation disgusted me.

I sent a short message to the family lawyer: Quiet civil ceremony. Before the gala. Delia Kensington. Standard protections in my favor. No press.

The reply came within minutes. They would handle the details. I forwarded the information to Adrian with a single line: she is not to discuss this with anyone. Make sure she understands.

Then I opened the gala file again and forced myself to focus on the work that still mattered. Seating. Security. Timing of the CEO introduction. The parts of this launch that could not be left to a woman who could not even deliver a simple investment pitch without turning it into a personal disaster.

Delia Kensington would become my wife on paper because my father ordered it. She would stand beside me at the gala because the optics required it. She would smile for cameras because that was the only useful skill she had left. And the moment the event ended and her usefulness expired, I would cut the connection without hesitation.

I did not like her.

I did not respect her.

I did not want her.

But I would marry her.

And I would make certain she never forgot that the arrangement had nothing to do with her at all.

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