Quinn commands attention without asking for it.
She takes up space unapologetically, like someone who knows exactly what she's worth.
When I go downstairs, she's already waiting in the kitchen, tablet in hand, platinum blonde hair catching the morning light.
"First thing," she says without preamble, "we need to discuss boundaries."
I pour myself coffee, grateful for the direct approach. "Whose boundaries? Mine or Arthur's?"
Quinn raises one eyebrow. "Yours. His are already built into the architecture."
I laugh, surprising myself. She's not wrong.
"I'm here to manage your life," Quinn continues, "not reshape it. I need to know what matters to you. What you want protected. What you're willing to share."
The question catches me off-guard. What do I want protected? My first instinct is to say everything—my privacy, my choices, my identity outside of this sudden fortune. But that's not specific enough to be useful.
"I don't want to lose myself," I say finally. "I don't want to become someone who only exists because of money."
Quinn nods, making a note. "That's a good start. Anything else?"
I think about the staff unpacking my suitcases. About the comments on my clothes.
"I want to wear what I want. Even if it's sparkly."
Quinn's mouth quirks upward. "Especially if it's sparkly."
"And I want to go to CAMICon," I add, surprising myself with how firmly I say it. "It's important to me."
Quinn doesn't question this. She simply adds it to her list.
"What about Arthur?" she asks. "What are your boundaries there?"
The question feels more intimate, somehow. I look down at my coffee.
"We're still figuring that out," I admit.
She doesn't press for details, which I appreciate. Instead, she transitions smoothly into logistics—how she'll handle communications, schedule management, security concerns.
"Your personal accounts will be separate from household accounts," she explains. "You'll have complete control over your own finances, but we should discuss investment strategies soon."
I nod, trying to absorb it all.
"And the media narrative?" I ask. "People are going to find out I married Arthur. They'll have opinions."
Quinn's expression turns shrewd. "Let them speculate. We control what we confirm."
There's something reassuring about her confidence. About having someone in my corner who isn't afraid of the noise.
***
Henry finds me in the garden.
I'm sitting on a stone bench, scrolling through the CAMICon schedule on my tablet.
"Are you really going to CAMICon?" Henry asks, approaching cautiously.
I look up, surprised to see him. He's been keeping his distance since the wedding announcement, which I can't blame him for.
