The first time I saw her dance, it wasn’t the beauty that caught me. It was her discipline.
The way she held herself like the world would collapse if she let go for even a second. The way she paid for every movement with pain she never showed. I recognized it immediately. That same devotion. The same willingness to bleed quietly for something larger than yourself.
That kind of woman doesn’t need to be chased. She needs to be understood.
So, I watched.
From the private box I bought the night I saw her perform Swan Lake. From the wings. From the street. From reflections and shadows and places she never thought to look. I learned her routines, her silences, the way she limped only when she thought no one could see.
I never approached and never followed close enough to frighten her.
Fear would’ve broken the spell I didn’t know I was weaving.
Awareness, though… that slow, persistent sense of being seen, sharpened her. Made her listen to her body instead of ignoring it.
I made sure she was never alone when it mattered. Made sure threats disappeared before they could reach her orbit. John wasn’t the first man I flagged.
The roses were never about romance. They were a marker. A signal. Yellow for devotion. For endurance. For the life she was already mourning without admitting it.
I wanted her to know someone saw her struggle and valued it.
By the time the Pakhan ordered us to secure heirs, the decision had already been made. The timing wasn’t a coincidence, not really. It was alignment.
She was ready, even if she didn’t know it yet.
I pull back onto the property and kill the engine near the barn, taking a moment before going inside. This is the pivot point. The moment where obsession becomes permanence, possession. Where my devotion can show itself to her more fully.
Emma doesn’t need lies. She doesn’t need comfort disguised as freedom. She needs structure. Safety. A future that doesn’t vanish the moment her body fails her.
I step out of the car and head toward the door, already mapping the next moves in my head. Introductions to the family will wait. Tonight is about containment. About letting her rest without feeling trapped.
Tomorrow, we’ll talk about marriage and the future. I’ll make sure she knows this isn’t a demand, but an inevitability she’ll come to understand is already knitted into her bones.
I open the door quietly, slip out of my coat and hang it in the closet.
She’s still here, sitting with her legs up on the sofa. The air shifts when I enter.
John is gone. The world that hurt her is closing behind her. What comes next is mine to build for her, with her. And I won’t fail her.
“You didn’t leave,” I say, even though I knew she wouldn’t.
“I don’t know where I am, or where I’d go,” she answers. “And I find my reaction to this situation more unnerving than the situation itself,” she adds.
“I should be horrified that I know you killed a man I know. Knew…” She shakes her head and swings her legs around into a sitting position. “I should be scared of being here. Wondering if I’ll ever see my family again.”
“If your family can accept your life with me, they will always be welcome and safe.”
She swallows and nods.
“And you’re sure you want me?” she asks, taking me by surprise. “I have no experience with relationships. I struggle to make and keep friends even. Ballet is…was my whole life.”
I drop onto the sofa beside her. “Relationships are easy when they’re with the right person.”
“You don’t know me, but you want a baby with me,” she counters.
“I do know you. I know all the things that matter.”
The living space suddenly feels huge, too huge. I slowly turn to her, cupping her face in my hands.
