I lean forward, resting my elbows on the desk.
"If you are Ivy Ross, broke art student and daughter of a deadbeat gambler, you are fair game. They will snatch you off the street, and no one will blink. But..."
I pause for effect.
"...if you are Ivy Vane, wife of Silas Vane, CEO of Vane Enterprises and the man who controls half the shipping ports on the East Coast... then you are untouchable."
I see the gears turning in her mind. She’s smart. She’s terrified, but she’s logical. She understands power, even if she’s never held it.
"You’re doing this to protect me?" she asks, skepticism dripping from her tone.
"I’m doing this to protect my property," I correct her coldly. "I don't like people touching my things. If you wear my name, it’s a warning label. It tells the world that if they touch you, I will burn their entire lineage to the ground."
It’s the truth. Mostly.
The strategic value of the marriage is real. The Russians respect the sanctity of a wife in a way they don't respect a girlfriend or a mistress. A wife is part of the man. To harm her is a declaration of total war.
But that’s not the only reason.
I look at her standing there in the blue silk, her hair messy from sleep, the diamonds glittering at her throat.
I want to bind her to me in every way possible. Legally. Spiritually. Physically. I want her to look at her driver’s license and see my name. I want her to file taxes with my name. I want there to be no paper trail in this world that leads back to Ivy Ross. I want to erase her past so thoroughly that I become her only history.
"Come here," I say again. This time, my voice leaves no room for argument.
She hesitates for one second longer, then pushes off the doorframe. She walks toward the desk, her bare feet silent on the rug. She stops across from me, keeping the heavy mahogany barrier between us.
"Closer."
She takes a small step.
I sigh. I stand up and walk around the desk.
She tries to back away, but she bumps into the leather chair I gestured to earlier. I crowd her, stepping into her personal space until my thighs brush against hers. I tower over her, blocking out the light, blocking out the room.
I reach out and take her left hand.
Her skin is cold. Her fingers are trembling.
"You have pianist’s fingers," I murmur, running my thumb over her knuckles. "Long. Dexterous. Perfect for holding a charcoal stick. Perfect for..."
I let the sentence trail off.Perfect for gripping my sheets. Perfect for wrapping around me.
I reach into my pocket and pull out the box.
It’s not the velvet box from last night. This one is leather. Old, worn leather.
I flip it open.
Ivy gasps softly.
The ring is a monstrosity of beauty. It’s an antique setting, platinum, dark with age. In the center sits a four-carat black diamond, oval-cut, surrounded by a halo of tiny, blood-red rubies. It looks like a gothic artifact. It looks like a cursed object.
It’s perfect.
"This belonged to my grandmother," I lie. It didn't. I had it custom-made in Antwerp three months ago. I drew the designmyself while watching her sketch in the park. But the lie adds weight. It adds a false history that traps her further.
"Silas..." she breathes, looking at the ring with wide, fearful eyes. "I can't wear that. It looks... evil."
