“Yes,” I say. “I am.”
She frowns. “And what if I don’t agree with that?”
“Non-negotiable,” I say. “I will not hurt him, but he’s no longer allowed to jeopardize your safety.”
“And if he doesn’t want that?” she asks.
“He doesn’t get a choice,” I say. “It’s time for him to be the adult in your relationship.”
She’s silent for a long time. The car turns again. The road is familiar now. My penthouse is close.
“You’re going to protect me from him,” she says, like she’s testing the words. “Who else and what else will you protect me from?”
“Everybody, everything,” I say. “That’s my job as your husband.”
Her eyes are wet again, but she’s not crying. She’s staring at the rings on her hand, like they and I are trying to drag her into a future she doesn’t want.
“And what about me?” she asks quietly. “If I do something that hurts you?”
I think about that for a while. She made threats of going to the police and of making my life hell when we signed the contract, but she can’t make good on those without also incriminating her father. And now that she’s my wife, she’d also incriminate herself. Instead, I remember her sharp tongue, her stubbornness, her refusal to be broken. Of the way she stood up to Danyl, the way she looked at me when she said she’d walk away if I forced her to have a baby.
“You talk as if this marriage is a contract between adversaries,” I say. “That’s not what this is.”
“What is it, then?” She asks, and her voice is small.
“A promise,” I say. “A promise between two people who don’t have a choice. I’m promising you I won’t be the worst thing in your life. I’m promising you I’ll protect you. I’m promising you that if anyone comes after you, they have to go through me first. That’s the deal.”
She’s silent for a long time.
“Thank you,” she finally whispers.
We pull up to my building, and I open my door and jog around to help her again as the driver holds hers open.
She holds up the material of her dress with her right hand. Her shoulders slump, and her exhaustion paints hollows under her eyes.
“Can you carry them?” I ask quietly, nodding to her left hand and the rings when she looks up at me with a question in her eyes.
She laughs, a small, tired sound. “I don’t think so. It’s… too much.”
I take her hand. “I’ll help,” I say. Pretending I don’t love the way her hands fit perfectly in mine and that the rings mark her as mine.
“Thank you,” she says with a small, but real, laugh.
We walk into the building holding hands. The doorman, who’s armed and part of my security details congratulates us. Rose gives him a tired smile.
The elevator takes us straight into my penthouse apartment, and as we step inside, the setting sun paints the sky a bruised purple.
I keep her hand in mine as we walk through the open plan living room and kitchen area. “This is your home now,” I say. “If you want to redecorate, let me know.”
She looks around, eyes wide, and then we reach the open door of the main bedroom suite. An Alaskan king-sized bed dominates the room. Its pristine white sheets, down comforter, and fluffy pillows provide a stark contrast to the light, sand-colored walls.
“I’ll take the guest bedroom,” I say before she can ask. “This is yours. I will not force you to share a bed with me. I don’t want to be the reason you’re afraid to sleep.” While we were at the chapel, my men moved her clothes to this room and her toiletries are in the ensuite. Except for the furniture left in her old apartment, her other stuff is in boxes in my office for her to sort through and place wherever she wants them later.
She looks at me, eyes wide, then nods slowly, like she’s testing the weight of the words.
“Thank you,” she says, and I hate how small her voice sounds.
She steps into the bedroom and closes the door behind her.
