Twelve hours ago, I was conducting a routine arms deal. Now I'm lying in bed with the woman I’m going to make my wife, planning a future I never wanted.
We spend the rest of the afternoon in bed.
Not always sleeping. Not always fucking. Sometimes just talking, me telling her about the family, the business, what to expect tonight. Her telling me about her life, her job as a paralegal, her parents in Florida who call once a month if she's lucky.
She tells me about Brad, and I have to suppress the urge to find him and break every bone in his hands for touching her without permission.
"He's not worth it," she says, reading my expression. "He was just... disappointing. Like most men I've dated."
"And me?" I ask. "Am I disappointing?"
She laughs, the sound light and genuine. "No. Terrifying, yes. Overwhelming, definitely. But not disappointing."
"I'll take it."
Around four in the afternoon, there's a knock at the door. I pull on pants and go downstairs to find a maid from the main house with several shopping bags.
"The clothes you requested," she says, her eyes carefully neutral. "For your wife."
The word still sounds strange. But also... right.
"Thank you." I take the bags. "Dinner's at seven?"
"Yes, sir. Your uncle expects both of you."
I nod and head back upstairs.
Florrie is sitting up in bed when I return with the sheet pulled around her. Her hair is a mess, her lips still swollen from my kisses, and she's never looked more beautiful.
"I had clothes brought for you," I say, setting the bags on the bed. "For tonight."
She blinks. "You... bought me clothes?"
"Had them bought." I shrug. "I’d prefer you didn’t wear the dress from last night, but you can if you want."
She pulls the first bag toward her, peeking inside. "This is... Leon, this is designer."
"So?"
"So it's expensive." She gasps when she pulls the first garment out.
"You're my wife." I sit on the edge of the bed. "I can buy you whatever I want, whatever you want."
She worries her bottom lip, and I have to resist the urge to pull it free with my teeth.
"Try them on," I encourage. "See what fits."
She does, reluctantly at first, then with more interest as she sees the quality. Smart casual like I requested, dark jeans that hug her curves, a soft cream sweater, leather boots. Simple but expensive. Understated but unmistakably high-end.
When she's showered and dressed and I've showered and changed into dark slacks and a black button-down, I stand back and look at her.
"Perfect," I say.
"I look like I'm trying too hard."
"You look like a Dubovich wife." I pull her against me, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Trust me."
She takes a shaky breath. "I'm scared."
