All Chapters of My Accidental Billionaire Husband : Chapter 191 - Chapter 200

310 Chapters

You Are Useless

~Katia~I made it down the stairs without holding the railing.It cost me considerably more effort than it should have, but I managed it, and I was going to count that as a win given the circumstances. The dress Julian had given me was good. The sandals were the right size. I did not know how he had known the right size, and I was not going to think about it right now.I was going to walk through this house and get to the front door and go home.That was the plan.I reached the bottom of the stairs and saw Delia.I closed my eyes for half a second. Just half a second. Then I opened them and kept walking."Was it good?" Delia said. "Did you enjoy fucking with my husband, sis?"I kept walking.Her hand closed around my wrist.I stopped.I looked down at her hand on my wrist. Then I looked at her."If you touch me again with that flirty hand of yours," I said, "I will make you wish you were never born."She flinched. She did not let go immediately, but she flinched, and I felt it."So yo

He finally fucked her

~Delia~I didn’t call him. I didn’t need to. Victor Hale was always awake at this hour, and he was always hungry for whatever scraps of Windsor information I could bring him. But today, I wasn't bringing information—I was bringing a problem that was eating me alive from the inside out.His penthouse in the sky was a monument to glass, steel, and a cold, clinical kind of luxury. When the elevator doors opened directly into his living room, he was standing at the floor-to-ceiling window, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He wasn't wearing a shirt, just black silk trousers, his back a map of hard muscle and old scars.He didn't turn around. He didn't have to. He knew my scent."You smell like desperation and expensive perfume, Delia," he said, his voice a smooth, dark honey. "Did Julian finally kick you out of the big house?""He told me to go back to my father," I hissed, crossing the room. "He called me useless."Victor turned then. His eyes were wired, glowing with that predatory s

The Scheme

~Delia~Victor was patient.That was the problem. He moved slowly and with the focus of a man who had been building something for years and was not going to rush the final piece. I had left his penthouse with the promise that he was working on it and the hollow feeling of a woman who had given everything she had and was waiting to find out if it was enough.I did not do well with waiting.I drove to my mother's.Mama was in the sitting room when I arrived. She had been home since the dinner last night, and she looked up when I walked in with the expression of a woman who had been doing the same calculations I had been doing and had not yet arrived at an answer she liked."Sit down," she said.I sat."Last night," Mama said carefully. "Julian took Katia upstairs.""Yes," I said."And he came back down." She paused. "In different clothes.""Grey sweatpants," I said. "Yes.""I noticed," Mama said. She had. I had seen her notice the slight tightening around her eyes when Julian had walked

I Sleep Where You Sleep

~Julian~I could not concentrate.I had been staring at the same contract clause for forty minutes. The words were there. The meaning was there. My brain had simply decided it had more pressing material to process and was not going to engage with merger documentation until it had finished.Katia in my bed.The weight of her. The way she had fitted against me was like she had always been meant to be there. The way she had taken my cock without once asking me to stop and without once pretending it was less than it was. I had held women before — had shared beds before — but there was a difference between sharing a bed and lying next to someone who belonged there.She belonged there. She was mine.I had told her as much. I had told her she would be in my bed every night from now on, and she had looked at me with that expression — the one that was trying to be composed and was not quite managing it — and said it would never happen again.She was wrong.I had made a decision. Decisions, onc

No Place to Run

~Katia~The shift in the mattress was the first thing that brought me out of sleep. It wasn't a gradual waking; it was the sudden, sharp alarm of a presence in a room that was supposed to be completely locked down. I pulled back instantly, my heart hammering against my ribs, but before I could even scramble off the sheet, a heavy, solid arm wrapped around my waist.He pulled me back against his chest, his skin hot and completely bare against my back."I told you," Julian’s voice rasped in the quiet of my bedroom, his breath brushing the nape of my neck. "I sleep where you sleep, Kitten."I stilled. My breath hitched in my throat, my mind racing as I tried to process the sheer impossibility of him being here. I was in my Brooklyn penthouse. The security was state-of-the-art. The doorman below was supposed to screen every single person. Yet, Julian Windsor was naked in my bed, holding me like he had simply walked through a door that belonged to him.I slowly turned in his hold. I faced

The Date

~Katia~I smelled it before I was fully awake.Coffee. Something warm and savory underneath it. The particular smell of a kitchen being used by someone who knew what they were doing.I opened my eyes.Julian's side of the bed was empty. The sheets were still warm. I lay there for a moment listening to the sounds coming from my kitchen—the particular domesticity of it, the quiet efficiency of someone moving around a space they had decided was theirs.I got up.He was at my stove. Still in the clothes he had slept in—or rather had not slept in, given that sleep had not been the primary activity—he was cooking with the same focused, unhurried attention he brought to everything. Eggs. Something in the pan that smelled extraordinary. Toast already done and waiting.I stood in the doorway and looked at him.Julian Windsor. In my kitchen. Making breakfast.I did not know he could cook.I had known him for over a year. I had been in boardrooms with him and deserts with him and server rooms at

The Photograph She Wasn't Supposed to See

~Delia~I was scrolling through Instagram when I saw it.Julian's account. He posted rarely—maybe once a month, sometimes less, always something curated and controlled and giving nothing away. A view from an office window. A car. The Windsor estate gardens in a particular light. The kind of posts that said I exist publicly but on my own terms.This one was different.It was taken from inside what looked like a cockpit. The angle was from the right seat looking left—the instrument panel in the foreground, the sky beyond the windshield, and in the left seat a woman. Her face was not visible. The photo had been taken carefully, or perhaps carelessly, in a way that caught her profile but not enough to identify her. Dark hair. The confident posture of someone completely at home in the seat.The caption was two words.New hobby.I stared at the photograph.I knew that posture. I knew the way a woman sat when she owned a space. I had been watching women own spaces my entire life, and I knew

Let's See How You Come Out of This One

~Delia~I spent forty minutes trying to find the hangar.Not because I had a plan. I want to be honest with myself about that — I did not have a plan. I had a cracked phone screen and an Instagram photograph and the fury of a woman who had been sitting still for too long and had finally decided that sitting still was no longer an option.I started with the obvious. Julian's company profile listed WEG's registered properties but not personal assets. I tried the aviation authority database — private hangars were registered and theoretically traceable. I found four listings under Windsor Family Holdings, but the addresses were registered to a shell entity three layers deep, and the physical locations were not listed publicly.I tried social media. Aviation enthusiasts sometimes photographed private airstrips. I found nothing that connected Julian Windsor to a specific location within driving distance.I tried calling someone at WEG — a junior executive I had met at a function, someone wh

Playing With Fire

~Katia~It had been a week.Seven mornings of waking up next to him. Seven nights of him appearing in my bed—at the penthouse mostly, once at his mansion the night of the family dinner, and once in a hotel in the city when we had worked late and he had simply booked a suite and told me I was not going home. Seven mornings of coffee already made when I opened my eyes and Julian sitting at whatever table was available, reading something on his phone with the stillness of someone completely comfortable in a space.It was good.That was the honest thing I kept coming back to and kept not wanting to say out loud even to myself. It was good to wake up next to someone. It was good to have the weight of another person in the bed and the sounds of someone moving around a kitchen and the coffee that appeared before I asked for it.It was good.And it was wrong.Because the man was not mine.He was my sister's husband—arrangement or not, paperwork or not. I had spent a week in his bed, knowing t

The Dinner He Wasn't Invited To Ruin

~Julian~I knew what this was the moment I walked through the door.Martha Kensington had arranged the seating like a military operation. I clocked it in four seconds – the table, the chairs, and the name cards that were trying very hard to look casual but were not casual at all. Katia was seated in the middle of the left side. And next to her, in the chair that should have been mine based on any reasonable reading of the room, was a man I had never seen before.Tall. Well dressed. The kind of jaw that suggested he was aware of it. He was already at the table when we arrived, which meant Martha had briefed him, and he had arrived early to establish himself, which meant this had been planned with considerably more care than a family dinner warranted.I sat across from them.I smiled at Martha.Martha smiled back.We understood each other completely.His name was Christopher.I found this out because he stood when Katia sat down—stood, actually stood, the full gentleman's performance—an

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