Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 38942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 195(@200wpm)___ 156(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 195(@200wpm)___ 156(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
"We divide our time between secure properties—here, my villa in Sicily, perhaps my apartment in London when necessary. You'll learn security protocols, how to recognize threats, who can be trusted and who cannot." I move to stand beside her at the railing, careful to maintain a respectful distance. "When the time is right, we make strategic appearances in circles where your status as my wife will strengthen your position and deter potential threats."
"How long?" The question is barely a whisper. "How long will this last?"
"Until your position is secure. Until all threats are neutralized."
"Years, then," she says, not a question but a realization.
"Most likely."
She only nods, her profile delicate against the morning sky. I find myself studying the curve of her cheek, the soft fullness of her lips, the stubborn set of her jaw. She is lovely in a quiet, unassuming way—nothing like the calculatedly beautiful women who typically populate my world.
"I should hate this," she says suddenly. "Being forced into marriage, having my life stolen from me because of blood I didn't choose and connections I never made."
"You should," I agree.
"But I don't. Not entirely." She turns to look at me, her hazel eyes reflecting sunlight. "I'm terrified. I'm angry. I'm grieving for the life I thought I'd have. But hatred requires energy I can't spare right now."
Her honesty is disarming. Most people in her position would rage or collapse, fighting futilely against immovable reality or surrendering to despair. Instead, she assesses, adapts, acknowledges the complexity of her own emotions.
"You're stronger than you realize," I say, the observation escaping before I can measure its wisdom.
A small, sad smile touches her lips. "Necessity, not strength."
"They're often the same."
We fall silent again, the rhythm of the waves below creating a hypnotic backdrop to our unlikely negotiation. This woman beside me—this stranger who will soon bear my name—carries herself with a dignity that belies the chaos of her situation.
"I should have the final paperwork by midday," I tell her. "A judge I trust will perform the ceremony whenever you're ready."
"Tomorrow," she says, decision crystallizing in her voice. "If we're doing this, let's not drag it out."
She disappears inside before I can respond, leaving me alone with the wind and waves and the unsettling feeling that this arrangement may be more complicated than I anticipated.
I remain on the terrace long after she's gone, staring out at the dark water below. In my world, marriages are typically strategic alliances even when they purport to be love matches. Power wed to power, wealth to wealth, obligation to obligation. The honesty of our arrangement should be refreshing, uncomplicated.
Yet something about her quiet dignity, her clear-eyed approach to an impossible situation, makes me uneasy. As if the parameters we've so carefully established might prove insufficient to contain whatever grows between us.
I pull out my phone, sending encryption-secured messages to set tomorrow's plans in motion. Legal documents, witnesses, security arrangements—all the practical elements of our impending union. When I'm finished, I reach into my pocket and withdraw a small box that I've carried since yesterday.
The ring inside is simple but exquisite—a cushion-cut diamond flanked by smaller stones, set in platinum. Not ostentatious, but unmistakably valuable. The kind of ring that makes a statement without needing to shout.
I hadn't planned to offer it to her. The marriage we're arranging requires no such trappings of romance or sentimentality. A simple band would suffice for legal purposes, for the appearance of legitimacy.
And yet, I found myself selecting this particular ring from my family's collection—one of the few treasures I kept from my mother when I left Sicily behind. Something about its quiet elegance reminded me of Kleah—understated but resilient, complex beneath a seemingly simple surface.
Foolish sentimentality. A weakness I can ill afford.
I snap the box closed and return it to my pocket. Tomorrow she becomes my wife—a contractual arrangement born of necessity and obligation. No more, no less.
The wind shifts, carrying the salt spray higher against the cliffs. In the distance, a light appears on the horizon—a ship, perhaps, navigating through darkness toward some unseen harbor. Its journey reminds me of our own: charting a course through treacherous waters, seeking safe passage through forces beyond our control.
I turn to go inside, making one final sweep of the property's perimeter on security cameras before retiring. She's already in her room, door closed, light visible beneath it. I resist the urge to check on her—a strange, unfamiliar instinct that has more to do with reassurance than protection.
In my own room, I draft the final version of our agreement, detailing the terms we've discussed. Protection for obedience in security matters. My resources in exchange for her public cooperation. Privacy and autonomy in personal matters for both parties. Duration contingent on threat level rather than calendar dates. Provisions for dissolution once safety is assured.
When I finish, I print two copies and seal them in an envelope. Traditional contracts are typically signed in ink, perhaps notarized. But for this agreement, something more binding feels appropriate.