As Xavier looked at the sticky proof of his cum his breath caught, giving him a brief moment of weakness. With a resigned exhale, he slid a cloth across the mess in a way that seemed mechanical. There was no tenderness in the act before it. As he walked back to where he was bathing Cathleen, the silence in their shared bathroom was thick with unspoken words. Her presence was a silent challenge to his detached existence.
"Time to dress up, cat," he said, his voice flat, as if he were dictating a schedule to an indifferent boardroom rather than addressing his wife.
The bathroom tiles were cold and impersonal under Xavier's bare feet as he gathered a towel, its plushness a mockery of comfort in the sterile space. He approached Cathleen with the calculated steps of a man who had mastered control, though the world often mistook it for indifference. She was bound-not by love or desire, but by the cruel twist of fate that left her wheelchair-confined. He scooped her up effortlessly, his arms steel bands masked in tailored sleeves, the raw power beneath never fully at rest.
A flush crept onto Cathleen's cheeks, a rare concession to her predicament. Her sharp tongue, which had carved victories in courtrooms, lay still behind closed lips. It wasn't out of defeat but a calculative measure of the man who carried her to their bed-a bed that had never known the warmth of shared whispers or tangled limbs.
"Xavier," she uttered, her voice laced with an edge that could cut through his armor. "I know this is hard for you, seeing my nakedness..." She paused and continued, "I'm sorry, and thank you."
He laid her down with the same care one might give to handling legal documents-precise, efficient, and devoid of emotion. The distance in his eyes mirrored the chasm that separated their hearts. "It is what it is, Cathleen," he replied, the frost in his tone enough to chill the lingering heat on her skin from his touch.
Stripped of her usual armory of legalese and confidence, Cathleen searched his face for a sign of the man she once thought she knew. But Xavier, the fortress of a man, remained impenetrable, as distant as the stars that blinked mockingly outside their window.
"Rest a little; I'll be back," he commanded, not unkindly but with the authority that had built his empire-one that stood strong even as he shunned the light that would reveal its cracks.
As he turned away, the silence hung heavy, laden with the weight of a marriage built on convenience and strategic moves. In the darkness, Cathleen listened to the retreating footsteps of her husband-the man who was a master at hiding from cameras, emotions, and perhaps even himself.
The rhythmic tap-tap-tap of Xavier's fingers on the cool glass surface filled the room, a stark cadence to his roiling thoughts. Cathleen's words from the morning echoed a haunting melody against the staccato of his typing. "I know this is hard for you, seeing my nakedness. I'm sorry, and thank you." The words were a balm, smoothing over the harsh lines of his usual stern demeanor.
He glanced at the clock-it mocked him, ticking closer to noon. Cathleen, alone in their bedroom, would be waiting, perhaps even expecting something more than silence and distance for lunch. The thought tugged at something within him, a chord of concern that rarely vibrated in his chest.
Xavier's thumb paused, hovering above the iPad's luminescent screen before it descended with precision, purchasing another device meant for her-an olive branch extended in sleek technology. "Caleb," he barked without looking up, his voice slicing through the ambient hum of his study. "There's a delivery coming. Three days. Make sure it finds its way to Mrs. Knight."
Caleb, ever the dutiful assistant with an undercurrent of allegiance to Cathleen, nodded. "Of course, Mr. Knight. It'll be done."
With the order dispatched into the digital ether, Xavier stood, the leather of his chair protesting his departure. His movements were deliberate, a slow march back to their shared bedroom. There, Cathleen sat upright, her silhouette etched against the diffused light filtering through the curtains, a portrait of resolve.
"Hey," she said without turning, her voice sharp yet devoid of its usual courtroom edge.
"Hey," Xavier replied, his tone matching hers as he took a seat beside her. The space between them was charged with unspoken truths and battles yet to be fought. They were two formidable forces, tethered together by vows and a complex weave of revenge and power.
Their eyes met, and in hers, he saw not just the strength of the woman who'd never been a pushover but also the vulnerability of the moment shared every day since she came back home after the accident. He reached out, his touch was tentative against the fabric of her sleeve-a silent acknowledgment of the war they waged within themselves and against the world outside their door.
"Cat." Xavier's voice sliced through the tense silence of the opulent bedroom, each syllable a shard of ice. He paused as if weighing his next words against the gravity that hung between them.
Cathleen turned from the towering window, the cityscape below reduced to mere twinkling lights, insignificant in the face of the moment. Her eyes met his-a challenge-and she waited, arms crossed over her chest, daring him to continue.
"I know you don't love me," he began again, more firmly this time, "and it's mutual; trust me. But I want us to try to make this work as husband and wife." The words felt like a contract negotiation, cold and devoid of any marital warmth.
She scrutinized Xavier Knight, the man who was an enigma wrapped in tailored suits, always so assured and unflappable. Now, however, Cathleen caught the subtle crease of concern that furrowed his brow, a crack in his meticulously crafted armor. It was a flicker of worry in the depths of his usually impassive gaze, a vulnerability that had remained elusive since they'd exchanged their hollow vows.
For a fleeting second, Cathleen pondered the unfamiliar emotion playing across his features. What could possibly unnerve a man who thrived in the cutthroat world of high-stakes business, a man known for his conquests in boardrooms and bedrooms alike?
It was a weakness she had never been privy to-not when they stood at the altar, not in the silent meals shared, nor in the endless sea of fights they had ever since they got married. Yet here it was now, quietly clawing its way out, begging to be acknowledged.
The air between them crackled with the tension of unsaid things-of battles fought silently and truths left unspoken. They stood, two figures bound by a contract rather than affection, waging a war where neither truly knew the other's weapons or weaknesses.
"Try?" Cathleen's voice was sharp, a blade honed by years in the courtroom. "You speak as if there's something to salvage, Xavier. We are associates in matrimony, nothing more." But the uncharacteristic glint of worry in his eyes told her that perhaps, just perhaps, there was more at stake for him than she'd assumed. "Fine," she acquiesced, her tone clipped, betraying no hint of the curiosity that had piqued within her. "We'll play the part."
And with that, Cathleen turned back to the window, leaving Xavier to wrestle with whatever demons had prompted his plea, while she pondered the enigma of a man she called husband yet knew nothing about.