Chapter 31

[ 1,034 words ]

Julian’s POV

I turned back to the screen. 6 million followers. She was in France, living a life I hadn’t authorized, with a child who shouldn’t have been part of the equation.

I pulled a small, locked drawer in my desk open. Inside was the marriage certificate for “Jules” and “Kat” from six years ago—the only thing I had left of the woman I actually wanted to find. The woman who haunted my sleep while I lived in a house full of paper wives and broken contracts.

“Nonsense,” I thought, closing the drawer. Katia is just a Kensington. And Kensingtons are always looking for a way to cheat.

But as I looked back at the Mediterranean blue on the screen, I knew I wouldn’t sleep until I had the truth. I picked up the phone and dialed my head of security.

“Marcus. I want her exact coordinates in France. Every villa, every airfield. And Marcus p>

“Yes, sir p>

“I want a name for the father. I want to know exactly who provided the DNA for that child. Dig into her life six years ago—every party, every hotel she stepped into 6 years ago. I want to know who the ’stranger’ was p>

I don’t chase people. I have teams of professionals to do the chasing while I remain the stationary sun around which the Windsor Empire orbits. Yet, less than twenty-four hours after the “wedding of the year,” I was stepping off my private jet in Nice.

The data Marcus provided was enough. Katia hadn’t been hiding; she simply wasn’t making herself easy to find. I tracked her to a small, discreet restaurant tucked away in a cobblestone alley in Antibes. It was the kind of place that didn’t take reservations unless they knew your lineage.

When I saw her, the air in my lungs felt tight. She was alone at a corner table, a glass of red wine in her hand, looking out at the sunset over the water. She looked like a woman who didn’t have a care in the world—certainly not a woman whose sister had just married into the most powerful family in the country.

“Ms. Kensington. It’s fancy seeing you here,” I said, my voice smooth as if our meeting were a mere coincidence and not the result of a cross-continental manhunt.

Katia looked up, her brows arching in genuine surprise. “Oh my. Julian?” She set her glass down, her eyes scanning me with a mixture of amusement and confusion. “What are you doing here? Wasn’t it supposed to be your wedding yesterday p>

I didn’t answer. I simply pulled out the chair opposite her, my gaze locked on hers.

“And it’s supposed to be your honeymoon today,” she continued, looking around the restaurant as if expecting to see a trail of white dress and a frantic Delia behind me. “Where is Delia p>

I felt a flicker of boredom at the mention of the name. Delia was a ghost in my house; I hadn’t come to France to talk about the woman I’d left in the East Wing.

“Are you not supposed to be asking me how I am? And if I’m okay?” I asked, leaning forward. My voice was low. I wanted her to stop looking for my wife and start looking at me.

She blinked, then let out a soft laugh. “Oh, sorry. How are you, Mr. Windsor? I just came here to grab some dinner p>

“Please, call me Julian.” I say and then continue, “Well, I came here to do the same,” I said, gesturing to the seat. “I can sit, right p>

She signaled for me to stay, her eyes never leaving mine. “So, how was your wedding p>

The wedding again. The internal machine that governed my patience began to glitch. “The wedding again?” I repeated, my tone dropping an octave. I decided to change the game. I looked at her, letting the coldness melt into the charm I usually reserved for high-stakes negotiations. “Why don’t you ask me about me? Or better yet… why didn’t you come p>

Katia leaned back, unfazed by my intensity. “Well, Aiden and I had plans. And Mr. Windsor, if you haven’t noticed, my family and I aren’t exactly close p>

“That, I noticed long ago,” I replied. I thought of the engagement party and the way the Kensingtons had looked like they’d seen a ghost when Gail spoke of Harvard. “They don’t want the world to know, but when Gail mentioned she went to Harvard with you, they were all surprised. It suggested they didn’t know much about you at all p>

“They don’t,” she said simply.

The food arrived, an exquisite arrangement of Mediterranean flavors that neither of us seemed particularly interested in eating. My mind was racing. I looked at her hand resting on the table, the elegant fingers and the lack of a ring.

For the first time in my life, I felt the urge to document a moment that wasn’t a business victory. I took out my phone. I didn’t ask for permission. I snapped a picture of the table, making sure Katia’s hand was visible in the frame, the soft light of the restaurant catching the curve of her skin.

I opened Instagram. My main account, the one followed by every major CEO and world leader, hadn’t seen a personal post in years. I hit ’Post’ and tagged the location: France.

“I didn’t take you to be a photo type, Mr. Windsor,” Katia said, watching me with a tilted head.

“Well, at least I’m not posting my face, right?” I tucked the phone away, feeling a strange sense of satisfaction knowing the media would be in a frenzy within minutes. I turned the conversation back to the shadows. “Why do I have a feeling that they hate you? Your family, I mean p>

Katia’s expression didn’t crumble. If anything, it became more crystalline. “Well, I was supposed to marry you, and I got pregnant and ruined everything for them. That’s what they say. But they never really cared. They threw me out the moment they found out, didn’t care if I died, and never reached out to know if I was okay. But I don’t blame them. I ruined their plans p>

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