“Both.” I don’t lie about it. “The world knows you’re my wife now. That makes you valuable to rivals who’d use you to hurt me. The guards aren’t negotiable.”
She wraps her arms around herself. “What else?”
“You sleep in the master bedroom. My room. With me.”
Her breath catches. “I thought—you said time. You said—”
“I said we’d see. And I’m seeing that sharing space accelerates adjustment.” I keep my voice level. “I’m not forcinganything physical tonight. You sleep in my bed, in my room, where I know you’re safe.”
“Safe or controlled?”
“Both,” I repeat. “The door locks from the inside if it makes you feel better. You’re not sleeping alone in some distant wing where I can’t reach you if something happens.”
“Nothing’s going to happen—”
“You don’t know that. Neither do I. Which is why you stay close.” I straighten from the desk. “Those are the non-negotiable terms. Everything else, we discuss as it comes up.”
She’s trembling now. Not from cold. From anger barely contained. “You’re treating me like property you need to lock up at night.”
“Locking you up, as you put it, is for your own safety.”[9]
“Is it?”
“Yes. Property I wouldn’t care about protecting. You—” I stop before admitting too much. “You matter enough to guard carefully.”
The words land wrong. I can see it in the way her expression shifts from anger to something more complex. Like she doesn’t know whether to be flattered or horrified.
“Show me the room,” she says finally. “If I’m sleeping there whether I want to or not, I should at least see it.”
The master bedroom takes up most of the third floor’s east wing.
It’s a massive bedroom, sitting area, and private bathroom that’s more like a spa. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the grounds, heavy curtains that block all light when closed. The bed dominates the center, custom-made, larger than necessary for one person.
Large enough for two.
Elena stops in the doorway, taking it all in. I watch her process—the masculine décor, the dark colors, the complete lack of anything soft or welcoming.
“This is your room,” she says.
“Our room. As of tonight.”
She moves inside slowly, like entering dangerous territory. Trails her fingers along the dresser, the chair, not touching anything that’s definitively mine. Maintaining distance even while occupying the space.
“Where do I put my things?” she asks.
“The closet on the left. Dresser drawers are empty. Bathroom has space cleared for whatever you need.” I’ve already had her belongings moved from the guest room—not many, just what she accumulated during her time here.
She opens the closet. Finds clothes I had ordered weeks ago, before the wedding was even finalized. Dresses, casual wear, exercise clothes. Everything in her size, her style.
“You planned this,” she says quietly. “Before you even told me about the marriage. You were already preparing this room.”
“Yes.”
“How long?” She turns to face me. “How long have you been planning to keep me?”
Since the auction. Since she challenged me without knowing what it would cost. Since I realized letting her go was impossible.
“Does it matter?” I ask instead.
