Chapter 35

[ 1,148 words ]

Delia’s POV

The dining room of the Windsor estate was large enough to host a gala, yet it felt like a tomb. I had spent the last three hours ensuring the table was perfect. The silver was polished to a mirror finish, the candles were flickering with a soft, romantic glow, and the scent of the roasted duck, Julian’s favorite, or so the staff told me, filled the air.

I was wearing a dress that cost more than most people’s cars, my hair swept into a perfect, effortless chignon. I looked exactly like a Windsor wife should. I looked like a woman who had won.

Then I heard the heavy thud of the front door, followed by the measured, rhythmic footsteps of a man who didn’t care who was waiting for him.

Julian walked into the dining room, his presence immediately sucking the warmth out of the air. He looked tired, but it wasn’t the exhaustion of a groom returning to his bride; it was the weariness of a king returning from a conquest. He didn’t look at me. He didn’t look at the table. He simply unbuttoned his suit jacket, draped it over the back of a chair, and sat down at the head of the table.

“Sit,” he commanded, his voice as sharp as a blade.

I sat, my heart hammering against my ribs. I tried to maintain the smile I had practiced in the mirror, but it felt brittle. “I made dinner, Julian. I thought, since we haven’t really had a chance to p>

“What did I say about playing wife to me?” He interrupted. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes fixed on the ceiling as if the very sight of me bored him to his core.

The silence that followed was suffocating. I gripped my linen napkin under the table, my knuckles turning white. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

“Am I talking to myself?” he asked, his gaze finally dropping to mine. There was no fire in his eyes, only a cold detachment.

“I just wanted to do something nice,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “We just got married, Julian. 3 days ago was our wedding. I thought we could at least share a meal p>

Julian let out a short, dark chuckle that made my skin crawl. “Married p>

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, invading my space without a single touch. “Are you sure we are married, Delia? If we walked into the bureau tomorrow and pulled the records, do you truly believe they would find me married to you? Or do you think they would find me married to someone else p>

I felt the blood drain from my face. I knew about the “ghost.” I knew there was a reason he had insisted on a private ceremony with no public record. I knew I was a placeholder, a strategic move to satisfy his grandmother, but hearing him say it, hearing him suggest that I didn’t even exist in the eyes of the law, felt like a physical blow.

“You don’t have to be an ass, Julian,” I snapped, the frustration finally boiling over. I stood up, my chair scraping harshly against the marble floor. “I am your wife. I was here, in this house, waiting for you, while you were out there in France fucking your whore p>

The words had barely left my mouth when Julian moved. He didn’t rush; he simply stood up with a predatory grace that made me stumble back. He pointed a long, steady finger at me, his face a mask of terrifying stillness.

“Never,” he said, his voice a low, vibrating growl. “And I mean, never, ever in your life raise your voice at me again p>

I opened my mouth to protest, but the look in his eyes silenced me. It wasn’t just anger; it was total, utter contempt.

“I told you exactly what you were getting yourself into when you signed that contract,” he said, stepping around the table until he was inches from me. “You are not my type, Delia. You never were. Did you truly think that by putting on a white dress and standing at an altar, I would somehow change my mind? Did you think I would suddenly find the urge to fuck you or whisk you away on a honeymoon p>

“You can at least be civil,” I sobbed, the tears finally breaking through. “I’m a human being, Julian. Not just a line item in your ledger p>

He looked at me then, really looked at me, and for a second I thought I saw a flicker of something—until he spoke.

“When the press inevitably sees you with whatever side piece you choose to amuse yourself with to pass the time in this house, I will cover for you,” he said, his tone turning businesslike and cold. “And yesterday, I was in France with my side piece. So, instead of barking like a dog in heat and crying over a dinner I’m not going to eat, go do your nails p>

I blinked, confused. “My… nails p>

“To match the nails on the picture,” he said, referring to the Instagram post that had been burning a hole in my heart all day. “Make them identical. Because when our families ask who I took that picture with in Antibes, you are going to smile, you are going to look them in the eye, and you are going to say it was you p>

He leaned in closer, his voice a chilling whisper near my ear. “You wanted the title of Mrs. Windsor, Delia. This is the price. You are my alibi. You are the shadow that hides the woman I actually want. Now, get out of my sight p>

He turned on his heel, grabbing his jacket and walking out of the room without a backward glance. He left me standing there, surrounded by the scent of a gourmet meal that was rapidly growing cold, in a house that was too big, with a man who wasn’t mine.

I looked down at the table. The candles were still flickering, mocking me with their warmth. I reached out and swept a crystal wine glass off the table, watching it shatter into a thousand jagged pieces against the floor.

He wanted me to be his alibi. He wanted me to lie for him so he could keep chasing the woman he married.

“You think she’s yours, Julian,” I whispered to the empty room, my voice shaking with a new kind of rage. “But she’s the one who ruined everything. And if I can’t have you, I’ll make sure neither of you gets what you want p>

I looked at my nails, perfectly manicured, pale pink. Tomorrow, I would paint them the exact shade of what was on the picture he posted on Instagram. I would be the perfect lying wife. But I wouldn’t be a silent one forever.

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