"It was different," he admits finally.
"Good different?"
He hesitates, thinking.
"Yes."
***
Later, after dinner, after Henry goes upstairs, after the house exhales into its nighttime rhythm, I find myself standing in the doorway of my room.
Quinn texted earlier, confirming tomorrow's schedule. Security interviews. Financial planning sessions. A meeting with a publicist to discuss "image management," which sounds like code for teaching me how to dress like I belong here.
I stare at the message without responding.
Then I think about Arthur's hand at my back.
The way he moved at the museum—fast, protective, unapologetic.
The way he looked at Henry today in the car, like he was seeing something for the first time.
This was supposed to be simple.
A partnership. A structure. A solution to problems that couldn't be solved alone.
But partnerships don't make your pulse race when someone touches you.
Structures don't leave you replaying moments over and over, searching for meaning in gestures that weren't meant to carry weight.
I sit on the edge of the bed, phone still in my hand.
My life has changed so fast—lottery, marriage, move, staff, security threats, museum incidents. Everything compressed into days instead of years.
And through all of it, Arthur has been steady.
I think about the way he looked at me in that alcove—close enough to feel his breath, close enough to see the exact moment his control slipped.
Just for a second.
Just long enough for me to know he was worried about me.
I lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
The house is quiet now. No footsteps. No voices. Just the hum of systems keeping everything safe.
I think about Arthur's hand again.
About the way it felt—steady, warm, certain.
About how easily I could get used to that.
How dangerous it would be if I did.
This marriage has rules. Boundaries. Clear definitions of what it is and what it isn't.
Falling for Arthur Dupree wasn't part of the agreement.
But as I close my eyes, feeling the ghost of his touch still lingering against my spine, I realize something terrifying:
It might already be too late.
