My Accidental Billionaire Husband (Katia and Julian) novel Chapter 7

Cookies and Confessions

Julian’s POV

The drive back home was nothing short of torture. Every stoplight, every slow turn down the winding roads leading to the Windsor estate, felt like it was dragging me closer to a funeral I didn’t want to attend. Not an actual one, no. This was the death of the only thing in my life that had ever felt spontaneous and real.

The Las Vegas wife.

I gripped the steering wheel tighter as the thought surfaced again. The marriage certificate in my office drawer, one I’d kept sealed in a folder marked “Private“-only had two names on it: Jules and Kat.

No surname. No address. No contact information. Just “Kat.”

The fuck is Kat?

That’s all she gave me, and oh, she didn’t give it to me; I only found out about that name while looking at the marriage certificate. That’s all I had after six years of searching. A name scribbled in hurried ink, a memory buried beneath the haze of one too many shots and a chopper ride that ended with blood on the seats and her skin on mine. It was reckless and fucking senseless. Yet, it was the only thing that had ever made sense.

But new it was time to let it go. At least, that’s what I kept telling myself as the wrought–iron gates to the estate opened automatically at my approach. The Windsor mansion stood like a monument to tradition–clean lines, grey stone, perfect symmetry. Regal. Cold. Just like the legacy I’d been born into.

I parked beside the garden and sat there for a moment, staring at the dashboard, my jaw clenching and unclenching. Then I exhaled, stepped out, and walked toward the kitchen entrance, where the smell of sugar and warm butter wafted into the driveway like bait.

Grandma was baking.

The kitchen was bathed in soft yellow light, the kind that made everything feel a little warmer than it was. My grandmother stood at the center island, her sleeves rolled up, hands dusted in flour, stirring a bowl like she was crafting something far more important than cookies. She glanced up and smiled the moment she saw me.

“There you are,” she said, as if I’d just come home from school and not spent the last decade managing every Windsor acquisition from New York to Tokyo.

She pulled me into a hug, and I let her. She smelled like lavender and honey like patience and peace. The only person in the world who could make me feel twelve again just by wrapping her arms around me.

“Thought you weren’t coming,” she said as she pulled back, eyes narrowing slightly. “Maybe you had plans with your model friend?”

There it was. That subtle nudge of disapproval wrapped in sweetness.

I didn’t answer. She knew damn well I never talked about my love life. Especially not with her.

Across the counter, Gail, my little sister gave me a sympathetic glance but said nothing. She knew better.

Grandma smiled again and resumed mixing her dough. “Windsor,” she said without looking at me, “you know that model girl has to go.”

I stiffened.

“You’re having me followed?” I asked, more out of reflex than genuine curiosity.

She shook her head. “Of course not.”

Liar. The woman probably had more surveillance than the CIA. She didn’t just want to know what I was doing; she wanted to

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know why. She wanted to know who I was becoming when I wasn’t under her roof.

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