The Billionaire's Secret Bump-Chapter 33: I wont marry you..

"Just because I didn’t say anything about this whole arrangement doesn’t mean I agree to it."

Katherine moved near Martin stared at him right in his eyes.With tears almost flowing she asked ..

"Martin, you’re asking me out of your house? Are you being serious?"

He looked up at her—really looked.

Her eyes were wide, wounded, but he knew that expression. He’d seen it in boardrooms, in negotiations, in every carefully staged moment between their families. It was the look she wore when she wanted sympathy without earning it.

"I’m being very serious," he said.

She laughed—short, disbelieving.

"I am your wife-to-be. Treat me nicely."

Martin’s laugh was colder.

"You are not my wife-to-be. You are my father’s merger. Valentine’s signature on a contract. My mother’s hope for grandchildren who carry the right bloodline. You are a plan. Not a promise. And I never signed it."

Katherine’s smile faltered, but she recovered quickly—tilted her head, let the robe slip a fraction off one shoulder.

"Why do you not like me?"

She took another step down.

"You said you would marry me. Since we were young. You promised."

Martin’s eyes narrowed.

"I was twenty-three. I was drunk on my father’s scotch and my mother’s tears. I said a lot of things to stop the fighting. I didn’t mean them."

Katherine’s voice cracked—genuine this time, or at least a very good imitation.

"What has changed?"

He stared at her for a long beat.

Everything.

Fiona’s face in the conference room the first day she walked in—hazel eyes wide with shock, lips parting like she’d seen a ghost. Fiona’s body arching against him in the elevator, breath hitching when his fingers found her clit through the fabric. Fiona’s voice breaking when he called her a worker. Fiona walking away from him in the boutique today, shoulders straight, refusing to let him buy her forgiveness with a dress.

Everything had changed.

But he couldn’t say her name. Not here. Not to Katherine.

"I grew up," he said instead. "I stopped letting other people write my life for me.

"I’ve waited years," she whispered. "I’ve turned down other men. I’ve played the perfect fiancée. I’ve smiled for the cameras. I’ve let your father parade me around like a prize. And now you’re telling me it was all for nothing?"

Martin’s voice stayed even.

"It was never for you. It was for him."

Katherine took the last few steps down, wine glass trembling in her hand.

"I love you," she said. "I’ve always loved you."

Martin looked at her—really looked.

And felt nothing.

No guilt. No anger. Just... absence.

"You love the idea of me," he said quietly. "You love the name. The money. The power. You love the story. You don’t love me."

Katherine’s tears spilled over.

"That’s not true."

"It is," he said. "And deep down you know it."

She set the wine glass on the console table with a sharp clink.

"So that’s it? You throw me away?"

"I’m not throwing you away," Martin said. "I’m setting you free. Find someone who actually wants this. Find someone who will give you the life you think you deserve. It’s not me."

Katherine stared at him—chest rising and falling fast.

"You’re making a mistake."

Martin shook his head.

"The mistake was letting this go on for so long."

She stepped closer—close enough he could smell her perfume, the same one she’d worn since they were teenagers.

"Does this have anything to do with her?" she asked suddenly. "The girl in the lobby yesterday? The one who looked at you like you broke her heart?"

Martin went still.

Katherine’s eyes narrowed.

"It does, doesn’t it? That’s why you’ve been different. That’s why you’ve been avoiding me. That’s why you’re doing this now."

Martin’s voice stayed even.

"Go home, Katherine."

She laughed—high, brittle.

"You’re throwing away a lifetime alliance for a girl who probably doesn’t even care about you.

Martin’s eyes darkened.

"Leave."

Katherine stared at him—tears streaking mascara, chest heaving.

"You’ll regret this."

"I already regret letting it go this far."

She stood there another moment—shaking, furious, humiliated.

Then she turned.

Grabbed her coat from the chair.

Walked to the door.

Paused.

Looked back.

"You’re going to lose everything," she said quietly. "Your father won’t forgive you. The board won’t forgive you. And she? She’ll never forgive you either."

Martin didn’t answer.

She opened the door.

Stepped out into the rain.

The door closed behind her with a soft, final click.

Martin stood alone in the foyer.

He walked to the bar.

Poured two fingers of scotch.

Drank it in one swallow.

Then he pulled out his phone.

Dialed Victor.

"She’s home?" he asked when the line connected.

"Yes, boss. Got here about thirty minutes ago. No incidents after the mall."

Martin exhaled.

"Good."

A pause.

"Anything else?"

Martin stared at the empty glass.

"Make sure no one bothers her tomorrow. No meetings. No calls. Nothing. She needs space."

Victor’s voice was careful.

"You want me to tell Maya?" 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝙚𝙬𝓮𝙗𝒏𝙤𝒗𝙚𝙡.𝒄𝒐𝓶

"No," Martin said. "I’ll handle it."

He hung up.

Set the phone down.

Walked to the window.

Rain streaked the glass.

He thought about Fiona—alone in her apartment, cheek probably still red from Clara’s slap, probably replaying his stupid words on a loop.

*Bosses look after their workers.*

He closed his eyes.

"Fuck," he whispered.

He’d fix this.

He had to.

He didn’t want to stand on that stage next to Katherine Thorne.

He wanted Fiona beside him.

And he wanted her to know she wasn’t just a worker.

She was everything.

Fiona stepped off the elevator on the 38th floor at 8:42 a.m., heart already lodged somewhere between her throat and her collarbone. She had spent the entire bus ride rehearsing her face in the reflection of the window neutral smile, calm eyes, nothing to see here. The faint pink shadow from Clara’s slap had faded enough that concealer hid it completely. Her stomach was still flat under the loose charcoal blouse and open blazer. No one would notice anything. No one would ask.

She just had to get through today.

The floor was already humming when she walked in—phones ringing softly, keyboards clacking, the low murmur of morning greetings. She kept her head slightly lowered, bag clutched to her side like armor, and aimed straight for her desk.

She didn’t make it three steps.

"Fiona!" Riley’s voice rang out from the coffee station like a gunshot of joy. "Oh my god, you’re alive!"

Fiona looked up.

Riley was already barreling toward her, two to-go cups in hand, grin wide enough to split her face. Behind her, Maya turned from her monitor, relief washing over her expression. Sara popped up from her chair like a prairie dog, waving enthusiastically. Even quiet Lena gave a small, genuine smile from her corner desk.

Fiona forced her lips into something resembling a smile.

"Hey, guys."

Riley reached her first, thrusting one of the coffees forward.

"Ginger latte, extra foam, no whip—just how you like it when you’re feeling like roadkill. We were worried. You never call in sick. Like, never."

Fiona took the cup automatically. The warmth seeped through the cardboard and into her cold fingers.

"I’m okay," she said. "Just... needed a day."

Maya walked over, arms folded loosely, concern softening her usual brisk efficiency.

"You sure? You look tired. And you’ve got that look—like someone kicked your puppy and stole your lunch money."

Riley snorted.

"More like someone kicked her puppy, stole her lunch money, *and* keyed her car."

Fiona managed a real laugh—small, surprised, rusty.

"I’m fine. Really."

Sara leaned over her partition.

"We saved you the good snacks from yesterday’s meeting. Chocolate-dipped shortbread. They’re in your top drawer."

Fiona’s eyes stung suddenly—stupid, unexpected tears.

She blinked them back.

"Thanks," she whispered. "You guys didn’t have to."

Riley slung an arm around her shoulders—careful, not too tight.

"We wanted to. You’re one of us now. We take care of our own."

Fiona swallowed hard.

She hadn’t realized how much she needed that sentence until she heard it.

Maya gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze.

"No pressure today. If you need to leave early, go. If you need to hide in the supply closet and cry, I’ll guard the door."

Riley waggled her eyebrows.

"And if you need to vent about whatever—or whoever—has you looking like you’ve seen a ghost, my desk is open. No judgment. Only snacks and savage commentary."

Fiona’s laugh was wetter this time.

"I’ll... keep that in mind."

They let her settle at her desk without pushing further.

She opened her laptop.

The Voss Éclat logo blinked awake.

She stared at it for a long moment.

No Martin.

No urgent emails from him.

No meeting invites on her calendar with his name attached.

Just the usual: campaign notes, asset approvals, a Slack thread about the event timeline.

She exhaled—shaky, relieved.

If this could go on for longer—if he could just stay on the 45th floor, stay distant, stay silent—she might actually manage to have her peace. She might actually survive the next two months.

She dove into work.

The grand event preparations swallowed her whole.

She reviewed the keynote script—tweaked wording on the inclusivity pillars, flagged a few lines that felt too corporate. She answered supplier emails, confirmed delivery dates for the custom backdrops, scheduled a last-minute call with the AV team. She lost herself in spreadsheets and timelines and color palettes, the way she always did when the rest of her life felt like it was crumbling.

Lunch came and went—she ate at her desk, a salad Riley had dropped off without a word. The baby kicked every time she took a bite, as if approving.

Riley rolled over around 2 p.m., propping her chin on the partition.

"You’re doing the thing again."

Fiona didn’t look up from her screen.

"What thing?"

"The ’I’m fine’ thing. Where you bury yourself in work so deep no one can reach you."

Fiona’s fingers paused on the keyboard.

"I’m just... catching up."

Riley studied her for a long moment.

"You don’t have to talk. But if you do... I’m here. No pressure. No deadline."

Fiona met her eyes—really met them.

"Thanks," she said quietly. "I mean it."

Riley nodded once.

"Anytime."