I choose my next words with care. This matters. “I won’t force you into anything. Not the bedroom, not anything else.”
She looks up, meeting my eyes directly for the first time since we sat down. “But you’d want…that…eventually?”
The question lands heavily. My body reacts instantly as I envision her skin against mine, her mouth under mine, her body writhing beneath me. Her hair spread across my pillow, her voice crying my name. The images flood my mind unbidden, vividly, and I have to force them down.
“I won’t lie to you. Yes, eventually, I’d want a real marriage. Children. But only when you’re ready. If you’re ever ready.”
“And if I’m never ready?”
“Then we’d figure it out.”
She swallows hard, her throat working. “Have you…do you…have someone else? For that?”
“No.”
“Would you? If I couldn’t?—”
“No.” The word erupts from my mouth, sharp andpossessive. My hands clench on the table before I can stop them. “If you’re my wife, you’re my wife. I don’t share and I don’t cheat.”
Even hypothetically, I hate the idea of her imagining me with someone else while I’m married to her—it contradicts everything I ever thought a marriage was supposed to be.
This is a business arrangement. So why am I already feeling territorial over a woman I barely know?
Her breathing changes—quickens. A flush spreads across her cheeks. She’s thinking of having a marriage in the biblical sense, the same as I am, and it doesn’t frighten her.
It does the opposite.
Another silence fills the space between us. I let it stretch, watching her wrestle with thoughts I can only guess at.
“How long?” she asks.
There’s a clause. After five years, if you want out, you can leave with a settlement. Or it can be permanent.”
I slide the contract across the table. Her eyes widen at the thickness of the document.
She falls silent again, studying the contract without touching it. I wait. She needs time to process.
“You should have a lawyer review it?—”
“I don’t have a lawyer,” she interrupts.
“I’ll get you one. Independent, not connected to me.”
Her eyebrows lift, surprise visible in the way her forehead creases. She didn’t expect fairness. Of course she didn’t. I doubt anyone in her life has ever been fair to her.
“What if I say no?”
“Then I set you up somewhere safe with enough money to start over. But you’d be more vulnerable.” That’s the truth. I’d protect her either way, but my name, my ring—those provide protections even I can’t guarantee otherwise.
She stares at the contract without touching it. The silence stretches between us. I wait. I can be patient when I want.
“I know this is a lot,” I say, pulling myself back to safer ground. “Take time to think?—”
“Yes.”
I blink, certain I’ve misheard. “Yes what?”
“Yes, I’ll marry you.”
