Without warning, he drops to one knee before me, still holding my hand. The gesture—so traditional, so unexpected from this man who operates outside conventional boundaries—steals my breath.
"I tore up our contract because it was inadequate," he says, looking up at me with uncharacteristic humility. "Thirty days could never be enough. No legal document could ever capture what I feel for you, what I believe you feel for me."
From his pocket, he withdraws a small velvet box. When he opens it, the diamond inside catches the light with such brilliance it seems to contain its own fire—large but not ostentatious, set in a platinum band of elegant simplicity.
"I want forever, Delilah," Roman says, his voice steady despite the vulnerability in his eyes. "I want to build a life with you. I want to wake up beside you every morning and fall asleep with you in my arms every night. I want to support your career, your passions, your growth as the brilliant woman you are." His grip on my hand tightens. "And yes, I want to possess you completely—body, mind, heart, and soul. But I also want to be possessed by you in exactly the same way."
He takes a breath, and for the first time since I've known him, Roman Wolfe appears genuinely nervous. "Delilah Monroe, will you marry me? Will you be mine, officially, legally, permanently—as I will be yours?"
The proposal leaves me dizzy with conflicting emotions. Part of me—the feminist scholar, the independent woman, the cautious survivor—screams that this is too fast, too intense, too rooted in problematic dynamics to be healthy. We've known each other less than a month. Our relationship began with surveillance and financial coercion. The power imbalance remains significant despite his recent vulnerability.
Yet another part of me—the part that has flourished under his attention, that has discovered new dimensions of pleasure and connection, that has found a sense of belonging I've craved since losing my parents—whispers that some connections transcend conventional timelines and circumstances. That what exists between us, however it began, has evolved into something genuine and powerful.
"Roman," I begin, my voice unsteady. "This is... fast. Incredibly fast."
"Time is an arbitrary measure for what exists between us," he says, still kneeling, still holding the ring that represents a future I never imagined for myself. "You know me, Delilah. Better than anyone ever has. And I know you—your strengths, your vulnerabilities, your dreams, your fears. What more would time add to that knowledge?"
His logic is seductive, as always. And there's truth in it, despite the unconventional nature of our relationship. He does know me, in ways no one else has bothered to learn. And I know him—not just the controlled billionaire he presents to the world but the complex, brilliant, damaged man beneath.
"If I say yes," I say carefully, "it would need to be a partnership. Not ownership. Not control. A genuine sharing of lives."
Something like relief flashes across Roman's face. "Yes," he agrees immediately. "I don't want a subordinate, Delilah. I want an equal—intellectually, emotionally, in every way that matters." His expression turns wry. "Though I won't pretend my possessive nature will simply disappear. It's intrinsic to how I love."
"I know," I acknowledge, a small smile tugging at my lips despite the gravity of the moment. "And strangely enough, I've come to... not mind it. To value it, even, in its way."
Hope brightens his eyes. "Is that a yes?"
Our fingers brush, and we feel a spark—static from the dry air, but it jolts us nonetheless. In that small contact, I feel the connection that has grown between us—complicated, intense, perhaps even dangerous in its potential, but real. Undeniable. Something I no longer want to fight.
"Yes," I say softly, then with more conviction: "Yes, Roman. I'll marry you."
The joy that transforms his face is almost painful to witness—so raw, so genuine, so unlike his usual controlled demeanor. He slides the ring onto my finger with hands that tremble slightly, then rises to pull me into an embrace that feels like coming home.
"Mine," he murmurs against my hair. "Officially. Permanently."
"Yours," I agree, arms tightening around him. "And you're mine, Roman. Equally. Completely."
His kiss is different from any we've shared before—not possessive or demanding but grateful, almost reverent. When he pulls back, his eyes hold a promise that makes my heart race with equal parts anticipation and trepidation.
"I will spend the rest of my life ensuring you never regret this decision," he vows, his hand cradling my face with unexpected tenderness. "Everything I have, everything I am, everything I will ever be—it's yours now, Delilah. As you are mine."
As we stand there, framed by the city lights with a diamond glittering on my finger, I recognize the magnitude of the step I've just taken. I've agreed to bind myself permanently to a man whose pursuit methods were objectively concerning, whose possessiveness borders on obsession, whose control issues are profound and possibly pathological.
But I've also agreed to share my life with a man who sees me completely and values what he sees. Who challenges me intellectually and satisfies me physically. Who offers protection without demanding weakness, who supports my ambitions while adding his own resources to their fulfillment.
For better or worse, I've chosen Roman Wolfe—with all his complications, all his intensity, all his dangerous devotion. And as his arms tighten around me, as his lips find mine in a kiss that promises forever, I find I don't regret it at all.
twenty
. . .
The diamondon my finger catches the morning light, sending prisms dancing across the ceiling of Roman's—our—bedroom. Three days engaged, and I'm still getting used to the weight of it, the significance it represents. Freedom, ironically. By accepting Roman's proposal, I've transitioned from contractual obligation to willing partnership. From possession to mutual commitment. At least, that's what I've been telling myself as I drift through these days in a haze of contentment, planning my dissertation defense, imagining a future where I'm Dr. Monroe-Wolfe, equal partner to the man who started as my owner but became something more complicated, more genuine.
"You're awake," Roman observes, entering the bedroom with two coffee cups. He's already dressed for the day in tailored slacks and a light blue shirt, sleeves rolled to expose forearms corded with lean muscle. His hair is damp from the shower, and that subtle cologne clings to him like an expensive shadow.
"Just thinking," I say, accepting the coffee with a grateful smile. He's prepared it exactly as I like it—a splash of cream, no sugar. One of countless small details he's memorized, cataloged, perfected in his pursuit of complete knowledge of me.
"About?" He sits on the edge of the bed, one hand settling possessively on my thigh through the silk sheets.
