“Alfred,” I say, then pause.
I don’t offer the last name. I can feel the shift in him—how his muscles tighten slightly, how his possessiveness sharpens.
He might not love me, but I’m his wife now, and I know that protective instinct is written into his bones.
I shake my head softly. “It’s not important what his name is.”
“Disagree,” he growls.
“The point is,” I continue, “I haven’t told you everything. And even though this marriage isn’t?—”
I swallow, then push through the discomfort, “Even though it isn’t real, I feel like I should.”
Atlas’s hand stills over my back, but his voice is deep and sure.
“Before you do, kardhoúla, I think there’s one thing you need to understand.”
“What?” I whisper.
“This marriage is completely binding. Legal. And for all intents and purposes, it is very real. You are my wife. Now, tell me about this previous engagement.”
Oh.
The way he says wife does something to me I can’t name. Not without shaking.
I press my cheek to his bare chest.
“Did you love him very much?” he asks softly.
“Love? Um, at the time I thought I did. But now? No, I don’t think I really did. I just wanted what my parents have. What all the couples in my family seem to have. That big, messy, all-consuming kind of love.”
He huffs a low laugh.
“Ah, the famous Volkov and Fury love affairs. People speak of them like legends.”
I smile faintly. “Yeah. So, you can imagine the pressure to find your own happy-ever-after when you’re the daughter of one of those said love affairs. Anyway, when Alfred proposed, I said yes. And after that, I did what I thought I was supposed to do. I tried to make him happy.”
“What do you mean?”
I hesitate.
“Little things at first. Straightening my hair more. Taking out my piercings. I knew he wanted a family, so I did the responsible thing. Got a full check-up. He did too.”
I can feel Atlas frown, the tension creeping into his body, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“He didn’t like my tattoos showing, so the places where they did, he asked me to get them removed. And I agreed. I even scheduled my first laser appointment.”
His jaw ticks.
“And then the doctor called. Said I had some unusual test results.”
I take a breath.
“Turns out I was born with only one ovary. And I have polycystic ovarian syndrome. PCOS.”
He still doesn’t speak.
“Basically,” I go on, voice quieter, “it means pregnancy would be difficult. Unlikely, really, without help from a clinic. And even then, there are no guarantees.”
