She goes very still. At least she wasn’t expecting honesty.
“I’m not going to pretend this is altruism, Elara. Control is absolutely part of this equation. I need to know where you are, who you’re with, what threats you’re facing. I need to be able to respond when those threats escalate.”
“You mean when you decide they’ve escalated.”
“I mean when men show up at your dinner table with plans to sell you to the highest bidder.” My voice hardens. “You think today was a coincidence? You think they just happened to choose you, happened to know exactly where you’d be, happened to have a secondary team positioned to block your exit?”
She’s quiet for a long moment, staring out at the city lights. When she speaks again, her voice is tired. “This isn’t romantic. This isn’t about love or attraction or any normal reason people get married.”
“No, it’s not.”
“It’s a tactical alliance. A business arrangement.”
“Yes.”
“You’re asking me to trade my freedom for your protection.”
I consider that. “I’m asking you to trade the illusion of freedom for the reality of survival.”
She flinches at that, but doesn’t argue. We both know how thin that illusion has become.
“The marriage doesn’t have to be real in any way that matters to you,” I continue. “Separate bedrooms, separate lives, no physical contact unless you choose it. You keep your career once it’s safe to rebuild it. You keep your friends, your family, your interests. You just do it all under the umbrella of my protection.”
“What if I want out?”
“Then you get out. Divorce, annulment, whatever legal mechanism you prefer. Once Hale is neutralized or loses interest, the marriage becomes unnecessary.”
She’s wavering. I can see it in the way her shoulders have started to slump, the way her pacing has slowed to a stop. The adrenaline from the attack is wearing off, and exhaustion is creeping in to take its place.
Fear is finally winning over pride.
I don’t push. This has to be her choice, even if it’s the only viable choice she has left. I let the silence stretch, let her replay the attack in her mind. Let her remember the feeling of being trapped, cornered, reduced to merchandise in the space of a conversation.
Let her understand that it will happen again if she walks away from this.
Minutes pass. The city hums below us, oblivious to the negotiation happening in my living room. Finally, she speaks.
“If I do this,” she says quietly, “if I agree to this insanity, I want conditions.”
“Name them.”
“No touching without permission. No decisions about my life without consultation. No pretending this is anything other than what it is.”
“Agreed.”
“And when this is over, when whatever threat you think is out there is neutralized, it ends. Clean break, no strings, no complications.”
“Agreed.”
She takes a shuddering breath. “Then yes. Fine. I’ll marry you.”
There’s no triumph in her voice, no relief. Just the flat acceptance of someone who’s run out of better options. I feel no victory in her agreement—only the weight of new responsibility settling across my shoulders.
“There’s a guest room down the hall,” I tell her. “Everything you need should be there. We’ll handle the arrangements tomorrow.”
She nods, doesn’t look at me. “I hate you for this.”
“I know.”
