My Accidental Billionaire Husband (Katia and Julian) novel Chapter 51

The Performance

Julian’s POV

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The scent of Katia was still clinging to the fibers of my shirt, a haunting mixture of jasmine and defiance that made the air in my car feel too small. My skin was still humping from the sensation of her body against mine of that desk. I had intended to go straight to the West Wing, lock the door, and by myself in the telemetry data of a ghost, but the moment I stepped through the front doors of the estate, the atmosphere shifted.

I smelled the heavy, floral perfume of my mother–in–law before I saw her.

Fuck!

I rounded the corner into the kitchen, my mind already rehearsing the cold dismissal I usually reserved for Delia, when I saw them. My father–in–law, David Kensington, was leaning against the marble island, a glass of scotch in his hand, while his wife, Martha, stood beside Delia.

I didn’t miss the way Delia’s shoulders were hunched, or the way she looked like she had been mid–complaint.

In an instant, the predator in me retreated, and the actor took the stage. I was Julian Windsor. I didn’t just run an empire, I maintained a facade that was worth more than the empire itself.

“There she is,” I said, my voice dropping an octave into a warm, melodic baritone that I hadn’t used in weeks.

I walked straight to Delia. I didn’t give her a chance to move, to speak, or to show the cracks in our arrangement. I slid my hand around her waist, pulling her flush against my side, and leaned down to press a lingering kiss against her cheek. I felt her stiffen in shock, a micro–expression I masked by pulling her into a protective, intimate hug.

“How was your day, honey?” I murmured in her ear, my tone dripping with a tenderness that was entirely poisonous.

I felt Delia’s nose wrinkle slightly as she pressed against my shoulder. She was inhaling. I knew what she was doing. She was smelling the air around me, looking for the trace of another woman, a scent that wasn’t the sandalwood she was used to. Her eyes widened, flicking toward mine, her lips parting to ask the question that would ruin the evening.

I tightened my grip on her waist, my thumb digging into her side- a silent, bruising command to stay quiet.

“Julian,” David beamed, oblivious to the silent warfare. “We weren’t sure if you’d be home in time for dinner. Delia mentioned you’ve been buried in the WEG–I* integration.”

“It’s a demanding project, David,” I said, finally releasing Delia but keeping my arm draped over her shoulders; my fingers toyed with a strand of her hair in a display of possessive affection. “But I could never stay away when I knew my beautiful wife was waiting. Right, darling?”

Delia’s face was a mask of confusion and burgeoning hope, a pathetic combination. “Right,” she managed, her voice trembling. “I… I missed you today.”

“I missed you too,” I lied, the words tasting like ash. I miss shit!

We moved to the dining room. For the next hour, I was the perfect husband. I pulled out her chair. I laughed at David’s stale business anecdotes. I reached across the table to squeeze Delia’s hand, playing the part of the devoted man so her mother Martha looked convinced

But inside, I was counting the seconds. Every time my hand touched Delia’s, my brain compared it to the electricity of Katia’s skin. Every time I looked at Delia’s manufactured smile, I saw Katia’s snarl as I lifted her onto my desk.

I could see the gears turning in Martha’s head. She was looking at the way I was “doting” on her daughter, likely calculating the she thought the “quiet realization” odds of a Windsor heir being conceived tonight. I saw the triumphant glint in Delia’s eyes from earlier was a mistake. She thought she had finally broken the ice.

She was wrong. I was just thickening it.

The Pertan

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As the clock struck 8:00 PM, the trap became clear. David started talking about staying over, and Martha mentioned how ‘lovely‘ it would be for us to have a quiet night in our wing. They were closing the exits, trying to force me into a room where I would have to be a husband behindelosed doors.

I felt the familiar surge of cold irritation. I was a man who dictated the terms of every contract. I would not be cornered in my own home.

I pushed my chair back.

“This has been wonderful,” I said, checking my watch with frown of regret. “But I’m afraid duty calls. I have a late–night emergency implementation meeting with the overseas security consultants.”

The table went silent. The “husband” mask didn’t slip, but the “CEO” took over.

“Tonight?” Martha asked, her smile faltering. “But Julian, it’s late. Surely it can wait until morning.”

“In this industry, Martha, a four–hour delay is a billion–dollar vulnerability,” I said, standing up and leaning down to kiss Delia’s forehead. It was the kiss of a ghost. “Don’t wait up for me, honey. It’s going to be a long night.”

“Julian, wait-” David started, his voice rising in an attempt to pull me back into the conversation, to perhaps demand more respect for his daughter.

I didn’t wait. I didn’t owe the Kensingtons anything more than the performance I’d just given them.

“Excuse me,” I said, my voice returning to its granite–hard edge.

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