THE BILLIONAIRE'S FORGOTTEN WIFE

CHAPTER 8 — TWO SETS OF VOWS

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On their first anniversary, Cassian forgets, but his lawyers do not.

Liana wakes to silence an empty room that holds echoes of laughter she once believed would fill these walls tonight. The bed beside her is untouched, its silk sheets unmoved by any weight. She sits up slowly, the anniversary of her wedding glinting in her mind like a jewel she never asked for. No bouquet of flowers waits on the nightstand, no breakfast tray glides in on silver wheels. Instead, her phone buzzes with a single message from an unknown courier service: “Delivery at 10 a.m.”

She rises, pads across the dark wood floor in slippers, and flicks on the bedside lamp. Its warm glow spills over her, her robe, loosely tied, and the ring that weighs lightly on her finger. She touches the diamond, remembering the day it settled on her hand. He barely looked at her then, and now he has barely remembered the date.

At 9:59 a.m., there is a knock, three precise raps that shatter the stillness. She opens the door to find a young man in a crisp suit holding a leather portfolio embossed with the Holt crest. He lifts his head, meets her eyes for a moment, then clears his throat.

“Mrs. Holt,” he says. “Delivery for your signature.”

She takes the portfolio, nods, and closes the door. Back in her room, she sets it on the vanity and unclasps the brass lock. Inside are several pages of heavy parchment, each headed with the words “Anniversary Amendment” in bold script. She draws a breath and begins to read.

Clause 1 revises their joint assets, specifying new percentages: 60/40 in Cassian’s favour. Clause 2 adjusts her stipend and defines permissible expenditures. Clause 3 addresses philanthropic matching funds—another layer of contracts disguised as romantic gesture. Clause 4 sets forth confidentiality penalties with fines severe enough to impoverish her family.

She leans back against the vanity chair, pen in hand. A single tear slips down her cheek. She thinks of vows, words spoken under crystal chandeliers, promises whispered through a veil. None of those affections appear here. Only legal mandates.

At 10:10 a.m., her phone buzzes again: “Breakfast moved to 1 p.m. Your attire is black.”

She closes the portfolio without signing. She texts the courier: I will not sign. Please retrieve. No reply.

For hours she drifts through the house, dressing and undressing in black silks and pearls that feel heavier than she is. She combs her hair until it settles just so. She practices her posture in every mirror, a quiet pillar in a mansion built on control.

At 12:45, she finds Cassian in the library, surrounded by legal counsel. They stand as she enters. He sets his pen aside.

“Happy anniversary,” he says without warmth.

She nods. “Happy anniversary.”

The lawyers remain silent. Cassian gestures to the empty seat beside him. A lamp throws warm light across pocketed legal briefs and scattered notepads.

He raises a glass, it's a single crystal flute filled with champagne. “To a successful year,” he says.

She lifts her glass, her hand steady. “To a successful year.” She curves her lips in a smile. The lawyers take notes at the back of the room. They know the real bet.

He sips. His gaze meets hers. For a moment, she sees nothing, no tenderness, no regret. Only calculation. She wants to ask what he truly wanted from this union. The words stick in her throat.

He stands. “I need to finish discussions on the new venture.” He nods at the lawyers. They gather their folders. Cassian doesn’t offer her his arm. He leaves the library with measured steps, legal pads tucked under his arm.

She remains in the silent room, the unfinished contract on the desk beside her.

Liana remains in the library long after Cassian and his lawyers have slipped away. The overhead lights glow softly on the spines of centuries-old books, but she sees none of them. Her gaze fixes on the leather portfolio she refuses to seal with her signature. The blank page of a contract can contain any promise or penalty. In this case, it holds both.

She rises and walks to the window. Outside, the gardens lie in winter slumber. Frost clings to hedges, petals lie scattered like forgotten vows. She closes her eyes against the chill in her chest and whispers, “What did I sign away?” No answer drifts back.

At two, she returns to her suite. The door clicks shut behind her, sealing her off from any warmth this house might offer. She moves to her writing desk and flips open a fresh notebook. She uncaps a pen and begins to write:

> I remember standing at the altar.

> I remember the weight of that pen.

> I remember wanting more than words.

Her pen trembles as she writes. She pauses after each line, considering whether this is the start of a confession or an obituary for who she used to be. Finally, she closes the notebook and tucks it into her robe pocket.

Dinner at seven brings new demands. A formal dining room waits, tables arranged in precise symmetry. Silver platters gleam under crystal sconces. She enters alone, guided by a maid who retreats at the door. At the head of the long table, Cassian stands, glass in hand. He pours two pours of wine, not a drop wasted. He doesn’t invite her to sit. He only indicates the chair to his right.

She slides in beside him, careful not to brush his sleeve. The servers place dishes before her—heirloom tomatoes, oysters on the half shell, and a salad sprinkled with edible flowers. She nibbles, letting flavors drift across her tongue but not fully taking them in. Her mind returns to the contract awaiting her signature.

Cassian makes a brief toast. “To our partnership.” His glass lifts. The jingle of crystal echoes off the walls. She lifts hers, but the words stick in her throat. She forces, “To our partnership,” and clinks the glass against his. The sound rings hollow.

She wants to ask him again: What did you want from me? Stability? Optics? Order? But the words tremble and vanish. She sits through rich conversation about market forecasts and philanthropic goals. She nods when expected, laughs when prompted. Each gesture is choreographed, as if she has no heart of her own.

After dinner, she wanders down a corridor toward the study. The door stands slightly ajar. Warm light spills into the hall. She steps closer and hears Cassian’s voice, low and urgent.

“She’s too valuable,” he says. “We keep her safe. We control the narrative. Family stock price will follow.”

Liana’s breath catches. She presses herself against the wall, listening. “Yes, sir.” A man’s voice, an unfamiliar advisor.

She steps back, heart hammering, and retreats before she can be seen. Her hands shake with a mixture of fear and understanding. Whatever whisper she heard confirms her suspicion: she is part of a plan.

In her suite, she locks the door and leans against it. The floor beneath her feels cold as ice. She slides down until she sits on her heels. She retrieves the contract from her robe pocket. The paper seems heavier in her hands now. She opens it to the signature line at the end.

Her pen hovers. Her mind races through every clause. Joint assets. Stipends. Confidentiality. Profit sharing. Each word feels like another piece of her freedom stripped away.

She thinks of her vow: to stand beside him through adversity. She thinks of what she actually signed: to stand silent under his strategy. She thinks of love. She thinks of power. They mean different things here.

She sets the contract aside and picks up her phone. She opens the drawer, retrieves the draft she wrote this morning. She scrolls through her own words, examining the pain beneath the ink.

> What did I sign away?

She adds one more line:

> I will find my voice again.

She hits save. The draft remains unpublished, unread by anyone but her. It is her small rebellion.

She wraps a shawl around her shoulders and moves to the window. The night is still, the gardens are asleep. She breathes deeply. A shift begins inside her—a sense of resolve forming where fear once lived.

Midnight arrives without ceremony. She hears Cassian’s study door click shut. She hears his footsteps fade down the hall. She imagines him sealing deals that shape their future. And she imagines herself rewriting her own.

She turns away from the window and retrieves the portfolio from the desk. She opens it and pulls out a single sheet of paper: the unsent amendment. She crumples it carefully, not in anger, but in determination. She passes toward the fireplace, drops the paper onto the grate, and lights it with a match from her robe pocket. The flames catch the edges and curl them into bright orange embers.

She watches the words burn. Stability. Optics. Order. She watches them dissolve in flame, leaving ash at her feet.

When the fire dies, only charred edges remain. She sweeps them into her palm and scatters the ashes to the hearth. She looks in the mirror above the mantle. Her eyes are bright with purpose.

She leaves the study door ajar and steps back into the corridor, ready to claim every creak, every step, every promise of this house.

As she returns to her suite, her phone buzzes. A single message from an unknown sender: “Good. Now let’s begin.”