Twenty minutes later, the door opens again.
Janice emerges wearing a silk robe I recognize from the collection I’d had delivered—deep blue, tied loosely at the waist, revealing the soft curves of her body in ways the wedding dress had only hinted at. Her hair is down now, falling in wavesaround her shoulders. Face scrubbed clean of the makeup that had made her look like someone else’s version of a bride.
She looks like herself again.
She stops when she sees me still in the living room, clearly expecting me to have retreated to my own space by now.
“I thought you’d be in your room,” she says.
“This is my penthouse. Every room is my room.”
“You know what I mean.”
I do. She expected distance. Expected me to claim ownership through the ceremony and then give her space to process, to adjust, to build whatever walls she thinks will protect her from what comes next.
I’m not giving her that.
“The guest suite is yours if you want it,” I say. “But you’re my wife now. That comes with certain… expectations.”
Her jaw tightens. “If you think I’m sleeping with you, you’re delusional.”
“I think you’re going to make that decision yourself.” I stand, and she tracks the movement like I’m something dangerous. Smart woman. “We should talk. Really talk. No games, no manipulation. Just honesty about what this marriage actually means.”
“Fine. Talk.”
“Not here. My bedroom, where we won’t be interrupted.”
“We’re the only people in this entire penthouse.”
“You sure about that?” I let the implication hang. Surveillance, staff, security—she has no idea how many eyes might be watching at any given moment.
Her expression shifts. “You’re paranoid.”
“I’m careful.” I gesture toward the hallway leading to the master suite. “Come on. Unless you’d prefer to have this conversation where anyone monitoring security feeds can hear every word.”
She hesitates, weighing options, then follows.
The master suite is exactly as I left it this morning—bed made with military precision, everything in its place, no evidence of the chaos Janice has introduced into my carefully controlled life. Except she’s here now, standing in the doorway like she’s afraid crossing the threshold will trigger something irreversible.
Maybe it will.
I close the door behind us, and her eyes flick to it briefly before returning to me.
“Why did you really marry me?” she asks. “Don’t say protection. There are a dozen ways you could have kept me safe without marriage.”
“You’re right. There are.” I lean against the dresser, maintaining distance she clearly needs. “I married you because the alternative was letting you go, and I tried that once. It didn’t work.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I spent four years trying to forget you existed. Four years convincing myself that ending things was the right choice, that you were better off without me, that I could move on.” I meet her eyes directly. “I was wrong about all of it.”
“So this is what, delayed possession?”
“Partially.”
The honesty seems to surprise her. “At least you’re not pretending this is something noble.”
“There’s nothing noble about any of this. I’m being selfish. Taking what I want because I can, because circumstances aligned to make it possible, because the alternative is unacceptable.”
