The Billionaire’s Reluctant Bride

Andrea sat by the dining table, her fingers clasped tightly around the porcelain teacup that had long gone cold. The wall clock ticked louder than usual, each second drilling into her chest like a cruel reminder of time wasted waiting. It had been three years since she became Andrea Leonardo’s wife—three years since she had walked down that dazzling aisle, dressed in white, her heart pounding with love and fear. Three years since she had vowed not only to stand beside him as his wife but also to mend the bleeding wounds of his heart. Yet here she was. Alone again. She had prepared his favorite dishes—at least, the ones he used to love when they were children. Butter rolls, creamy mushroom soup, and grilled steak seasoned just the way he liked. Back then, his eyes would light up as if the world were laid at his feet when she handed him something handmade. But even that memory had been poisoned. Andrea sat at one end, her back straight despite the weight in her chest. The flickering chandelier above bathed the room in golden light, but it only made the empty chair across from her feel sharper, colder, like a wound she could not heal. She had been waiting for hours. Her fingers curled around her phone, the same phone she used not to call her husband—for she didn’t even have his number—but his assistant. When the man’s clipped voice came through, repeating the same excuse she’d heard so many nights before, Andrea’s lips barely moved. “Mr. Leonardo won’t be coming home for dinner tonight. He’s already eaten.” The line disconnected. Andrea set the phone down gently, as if it were made of glass. The ache in her chest was not new, but tonight it burned a little deeper. She pushed away the dishes she had prepared for him, every one chosen with care. Food meant nothing without him. She rose quietly from her seat and climbed the marble staircase, each step echoing in the vast silence of the mansion. It was beautiful, yes, but beauty meant nothing when every corner felt like exile. At the top of the stairs, she paused before two doors. One belonged to him, always locked to her; the other was hers, smaller, tucked away like an afterthought. The arrangement had been clear since their wedding night. They were husband and wife in name, but strangers in truth. Her chest tightened as the memory washed over her—that night. Andrea had been a vision in ivory, her heart pounding wildly as she stepped into the bridal chamber. The scent of roses filled the air, petals scattered across silk sheets. She had carried with her trembling hope, the desperate wish that maybe, despite everything, they could start anew. But when Leo entered, tall and broad-shouldered in his sharp suit, the air grew frigid. His dark eyes swept over her, not with warmth, but with disdain. She had whispered, “Leo…” her voice fragile, full of years of unspoken love. He had smirked, cruel and mocking. “Don’t flatter yourself, Andrea. Did you think this marriage meant anything to me?” Her heart cracked, but she forced herself to stay standing, to face him. “I only married you because I was forced to,” he continued, his tone like a blade. “Don’t expect anything from me. Not love. Not affection. Not even my touch. I don’t touch dirt.” The words seared her like fire. Andrea had gasped, stumbling back, but his face remained unreadable, hardened by years of hatred he refused to let go. He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving her alone in the room that smelled of roses and broken dreams. That night, Andrea had cried silently into the pillows, her tears soaking the lace veil she hadn’t yet removed. She hadn’t dared to scream, hadn’t dared to beg. Instead, she had sworn to herself: If his heart is ice, I will be the one to melt it. One day, I’ll show him the truth. From that moment on, their lives had been divided by doors—his, locked; hers, lonely. Andrea’s throat ached as the memory faded. She slipped into her room, closing the door gently behind her. The walls here were lined with books she edited for the publishing house her parents had pushed her into. To the world, it was a respectable job, a neat role for the wife of a wealthy man. To her parents, it was nothing more than a way to parade her as useful. They had never asked her what she wanted. They had never cared that she loved IT, that she had worked part-time jobs in secret to learn coding, the one thing that made her feel alive. To them, she had always been a liability, a burden best married off. Her younger brother had been the only one to protest. She still remembered the fury in his eyes the night the marriage was announced. “Andrea, don’t do this!” he had shouted, his fists clenched, his voice breaking. “You don’t love him. He doesn’t love you. You’ll ruin your life!” She had tried to calm him, her gentle hands on his shoulders, her lips forming words she didn’t even believe herself. “It’s for the best. It’s what Mother and Father want.” “They don’t care about you!” he had cried. “They never have! Please, don’t throw yourself away for them!” But she had stayed silent, her eyes downcast. The next morning, he had packed his bags and left for abroad, too angry and too heartbroken to watch her marry Leo. Before he left, he had hugged her fiercely, whispering in her ear: “Whenever you feel stuck or in difficulty, just call me. I’ll come. I promise.” The memory of his voice lingered, soft and fierce, in the quiet of her lonely room. Andrea lay on her bed now, staring at the ceiling. The tears came despite her efforts to hold them back. She pressed her hands to her face, muffling the sobs. She thought of Beatris, her dearest friend, the girl she had quietly supported through school, paying her tuition without ever letting her know. Beatris had been the only one she could trust, the only one who saw Andrea not as a burden but as a person. And she thought of Leo—always Leo. The boy who had once tugged her braids, who had once promised to protect her, who had once smiled at her as though she were his whole world. The man who now looked at her as though she were filth. Her chest ached, but her vow echoed stronger than ever. She loved him. She had always loved him. And no matter how much he hated her, no matter how cruel his words, she would endure. Because love was all she had left. Andrea closed her eyes, her mind drifting between past and present, between the boy she remembered and the man who now ignored her. In the silence of her separate room, she clutched her pillow as though it were the only anchor in the storm. Tomorrow would be another day of cold stares and distant meals. Tomorrow, she would wake before him, prepare his breakfast, and try again. Because that was her life now. A life of waiting. A life of vows unfulfilled. A life of love that refused to die. The morning sun slipped through the curtains, painting soft stripes across Andrea’s face. She had slept little—her eyes were swollen, her body heavy—but she rose before dawn as always. Habit had carved itself into her bones: wake early, prepare everything, wait for a man who might not even acknowledge her presence. She tied her hair back neatly, dressed in a pale blouse and skirt, and moved to the kitchen. The housekeeper offered to help, but Andrea insisted on doing it herself. She needed these small acts, these rituals of care, even if they went unnoticed. Today she made a lavish breakfast: golden omelets stuffed with herbs, fresh fruit arranged carefully, and a soup to ease a hangover. She had seen his face splashed across the headlines too many times to guess otherwise. And she was right. As the coffee brewed, Andrea glanced at the newspaper lying on the counter. Her heart lurched. The front page carried a photo of Leo, dazzling in a black suit, a tall model clinging to his arm as they exited a luxury club. Flashbulbs lit his sharp jaw, his careless smirk. Billionaire Leonardo spotted again with top model. Trouble at home? Andrea’s fingers tightened on the edge of the counter. Her throat ached, but she forced herself to look away. This wasn’t new. The world loved to speculate about his affairs, and Leo never denied them. To deny them would mean admitting she existed, admitting she was his wife—and that, he refused to do. Still, the image burned in her chest. It wasn’t jealousy alone. It was humiliation, helplessness. She couldn’t even ask him where he had been. She couldn’t even call his phone. Remember your place, she reminded herself bitterly. She carried the dishes to the dining table and set them carefully. The clink of porcelain echoed too loudly in the silence. Footsteps came from the stairs. Andrea’s heart skipped, as it always did. Leo descended slowly, one hand shoved into his pocket, the other brushing his hair back. He looked magnificent even in his casual loungewear, tall and broad-shouldered, his features chiseled as if designed to make her ache. His eyes were unreadable, his expression cold. Andrea straightened instinctively, smoothing her skirt. “Good morning,” she said softly, her voice almost fragile. Leo didn’t answer. He walked past her without a glance, taking his seat at the head of the table. The quiet scrape of his chair against the floor sounded louder than her heartbeat. Andrea sat across from him, though she knew better than to speak first. She watched as he picked up his fork, his movements sharp, precise. Finally, she gathered courage. “I… I made hangover soup for you. It will help if you drank last night.” No reaction. He ate in silence, the clatter of cutlery filling the room. Her chest tightened. She lowered her gaze, gathering her hands in her lap. But then she remembered the newspaper. The photograph. The mocking headline. Her lips parted before she could stop herself. “About the article… the news—” Leo’s fork dropped onto the plate with a sharp clatter. His head snapped up, his eyes glinting like steel. “Mind your own business, Andrea.” His voice was low, venomous. “And remember your place.” The words sliced through her, leaving her breathless. Her lips trembled. For a moment, she thought she might cry, but she swallowed it back. He would not see her tears. He had already taken enough from her. “Yes,” she whispered. Leo leaned back in his chair, his gaze lingering on her for the briefest second—dark, unreadable—before he turned away, dismissing her entirely. The silence pressed down like a weight. Andrea’s fingers curled into her skirt, her knuckles white. She thought of the girl she once was, handing him handmade gifts only to watch Celestine claim them as her own. She thought of her brother’s voice, begging her not to marry, promising to come if she ever called. She thought of the vow she made on their wedding night, when he had looked her in the eye and called her dirt. And she thought of the boy he used to be, the boy who smiled at her with the innocence of youth, who once made her believe in forever. Her chest ached with longing, but her voice inside was steady. I will not give up. She rose quietly from her chair, collecting the empty dishes. He hadn’t touched the soup she had poured with so much care. That, too, wasn’t new. But she carried them back to the kitchen with steady hands. Because she knew—somewhere, beneath the anger, the hatred, the lies Celestine had fed him—Leo was still there. She would find him again. No matter how cold he was. No matter how cruel his words. No matter how long it took. She would melt him. One day, he would see her—not as dirt, not as a murderer, not as a liability—but as Andrea. The girl who had always, always loved him.