9: A life with Xavier Santos

LILLIAN

I woke up with a start, my heart pounding in my chest as I blinked away the remnants of sleep from my eyes.

For a fleeting moment, I held unto the hope that event of the previous day and the last one month has just been nothing more than a terrible nightmare — and that I would look around and see that I was back in the comfort of my own bedroom, with my father and brother in the house with me and free to do as I pleased.

But when I looked around and surveyed my surroundings, the harsh light filtering through the monochrome curtains that was certainly not mine hit me and the reality of things came crashing down like a tidal wave.

This was no nightmare.

The previous day and the last one month has all been real.

I was lying in Xavier’s bed, in his lavish penthouse with the eight of my new status bearing down like a heavy shroud.

A fucking burden.

Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that my life would take such a drastic turn down hill. Growing up in luxury and surrounded by wealth and privilege, I had always assumed that my path would always be smooth.

How did it come to this?

How did I go from a carefree existence to being shackled by a man I hated, held captive in this sham of a marriage?

It was all a fucking nightmare. A nightmare I desperately wanted to wake up from, but couldn’t.

I am Xavier Santos’ wife.

This was my reality now— a life bound to a man I despised, trapped in a marriage built on manipulation, threats and deceit.

The memory of last night made me cringe, feeling the heat rising in my cheeks as I remembered how Xavier’s touch reduced me to a whimpering mess, begging for a release.

I hated the way I was literally at his mercy, how his fingers plunged in and out of me with calculated precision and speed, bringing me closer and closer to the edge.

And just as I was about to climax, he stopped abruptly, just to prove a fucking point. I have never felt so embarrassed and vulnerable in my entire life.

The mere thought of it made a shiver run down my spine, sending a tingling sensation right between my legs with a jolt.

I gritted my teeth, rubbing my thighs together in frustration and annoyance. It was so fucking infuriating how he wasn’t even here, yet he still so much effect on me.

Gosh! I groaned, throwing my head back against the pillow.

As if on cue, the door swung open and Xavier walked in.

My blood boiled at the sight of him, my gaze trailing over his annoyingly impeccably dressed self—designer shirt that was rolled up at the sleeves, revealing his tattooed right arm, perfectly tailored pant trousers and polished shoes.

I wanted to scream at him, to remind him yet again how much I loathed him, but the words caught in my throat when his jade blue eyes met mine with cool detachment.

“Good, you are awake. I thought you’d sleep the rest of the day,” he spoke, his expression unreadable but his tone mocking. I glared at him, but he didn’t seem to care.

“Get ready,” he ordered. “We are traveling to Santorini, Greece,”

What! My jaw dropped in disbelief, my mind reeling at the suddenness of his announcement.

“For what!” I demanded, my voice laced with incredulity.

“What do couples do after they get married, Lillian,” he rolled his eyes. “We are going on our honeymoon. You have ten minutes to get ready.” His voice was infuriatingly calm and left no room for argument.

Like hell!

I leaped out of bed, bristled by his nonchalance.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner, Xavier?” I snapped in frustration. “You can’t just spring this up on me so suddenly and expect me to go along with it. Besides, I can’t freshen up and pack in ten minutes, genius!”

“One,” he smirked, holding his index finger up. “I don’t need your permission to make plans.” He retorted coolly, his smirk flaming my anger. “Two, you don’t need to pack anything much, just your essentials—“

I looked at him like he just grew a second head.

“—If there is anything you need, I’ll get it for you at Santorini,” he finished.

“I don’t need you to get anything for me with your money, Xavier,” I bite back, my voice dripping with disdain. “I’m not your charity case.”

“But you are my wife, Lillian,” he stated, reminding of this predicament. “And if I want to spend money on you, I can and I will. Besides, it’s not like you have any money of your own. It all belongs to me now.”

His words cut deep, a harsh reminder of my now dependence on him, causing reality to hit me like a ton of bricks and my heart to sink in my chest.

“What’s the use going on a honeymoon anyway?” Honeymoons are for couples who love each other and we will never love each other,” I spat bitterly.

“It doesn’t matter,” he replied dismissively, his smirk still firmly in place. “You’re my wife and my wife deserves a honeymoon. Now go freshen up, you have five minutes left.”

And with that, he turned on his heel and strode out of the room, leaving some seething.

Fucking asshole!





****



I begrudgingly slipped into the sleek, form-fitting dress that Xavier had laid out for me—a shimmering emerald gown that hugged my curves in all the right places.

Its off-the-shoulder neckline and flowing skirt exuded an air of elegance, though I couldn’t help but feel like I was dressing for a performance rather than a honeymoon.

But I had to admit, it was a pretty dress.

With a sigh, I zipped up my suitcase, packing only the essentials—a change of clothes, toiletries, and a few personal items to tide me over for the trip.

As I made my way downstairs, I found myself face-to-face with a man I didn’t recognize—a tall, imposing figure with a steely gaze and an air of quiet authority.

“Who the fuck are you?” I demanded, my tone dripping with disdain.

The man smiled politely, unfazed by my rudeness.

“I’m Castor Kent, Mr. Santos’s personal assistant and bodyguard,” he replied smoothly.

I scoffed at the notion that Xavier couldn’t be bothered to wait for me himself and instead sent his lackey to fetch me, like a dog.

Asshole.

When Castor offered to take my bag, I brushed past him without a word, making my way to the elevator with determined strides. He followed silently behind me, his presence a constant reminder of my captivity.

We came out from the building to find a sleek black car waiting for us, the driver holding the door open in silent invitation. I climbed in, glancing in Xavier’s direction. He was on the phone with who heaven knows who, and didn’t take as much as a glance in my direction.

I hissed and looked away from him, Turing my gaze out of the window as the car pulled away from the curb and into the freeway.

With each passing mile, the weight of my predicament settled heavier on my shoulders, leaving me feeling more trapped than I have ever felt.

I am never going to get used to this.

I am never going to get used to a life with Xavier Santos.