"I assumed you would."
"If I agree to this—and I'm not saying I will—what would it actually look like? This marriage."
He was quiet for a moment, considering. "Legally, you'd be my wife. You'd live here, under my protection. You'd have access to resources—money, security, whatever you need."
"And in exchange?"
"Nothing."
I laughed, the sound harsh in the quiet room. "Nothing? You're proposing to marry a woman you've known for three weeks, and you want nothing in return?"
"I didn't say I wanted nothing. I said I'd ask for nothing." He turned back to the window, his reflection ghosting in the glass. "Whatever happens between us—if anything happens—would be your choice. Not an obligation."
"And you expect me to believe that?"
"I expect you to believe that I'm not your uncle. I'm not the Petrovics. And I'm not your father." He looked at me over his shoulder, and something in his eyes made my chest tight. "I don't take what isn't given."
I wanted to argue. Wanted to point out that he'd taken plenty—my peace of mind, my carefully constructed life, my sense of safety. But the words wouldn't come, because some part of me recognized the truth in what he was saying.
He wasn't like them. I'd spent enough hours in that office, watching him struggle with honesty, to know that much.
"What happens when the threat is gone?" I asked. "If the Petrovics give up, if my uncle loses interest—what then?"
"Then you decide what you want. Stay or go. Your choice."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that."
I drained the rest of my vodka and set the glass down harder than I intended. "You make it sound so simple."
"It's not simple. Nothing about this is simple." He turned to face me fully, and the distance between us felt suddenly inadequate. "You're asking me to explain something I don't fully understand myself. Why I was at your office today. Why I proposed what I proposed. Why I—" He stopped, jaw tightening.
"Why you what?"
"Why I can't stop thinking about you."
The words landed like a blow. I should have deflected. Should have reminded him—reminded both of us—that whatever connection we'd felt in those sessions was an illusion, a product of the artificial intimacy of therapy.
Instead, I stood there, six feet away from him in the darkness, and felt the pull of something I couldn't name.
"This is insane," I said softly.
"You keep saying that."
"Because it keeps being true."
"Doesn't make it less real."
He took a step toward me. Just one. Enough to close some of the distance, not enough to crowd me. I could have stepped back. Could have retreated, put space between us, made it clear that whatever this was, I wanted no part of it.
I didn't move.
"I've been watching you," he said quietly. "For a week. I told myself it was surveillance. Due diligence. Making sure you weren't a threat." He shook his head. "But that wasn't it. I watched you because I couldn't stay away. Because every time I tried to stop thinking about you, I ended up on your street, looking up at your window, wondering if you were as sleepless as I was."
"That's not romantic. That's disturbing."
"I know." A ghost of a smile. "And yet here we are."
