Page 12 of Bound in Silk

Knox stands across the room, surrounded by tech moguls and financial titans, commanding attention effortlessly in hisbespoke tuxedo. Even from a distance, his awareness of me is palpable—his eyes finding mine periodically, checking on me, ensuring I'm comfortable despite the bold move he's made tonight. The possessiveness should feel suffocating. Instead, it feels like being tethered in a storm—something solid to hold onto as I navigate the swirling currents of New York society's curiosity about the woman who was kidnapped from her own wedding only to emerge weeks later as Knox Vance's "fiancée."

"You must be thrilled," an elegantly dressed woman comments as she joins me near the champagne fountain. "Knox Vance is quite the catch."

I smile politely, falling back on gallery-director diplomacy. "He's certainly unique."

"And those diamonds!" She leans closer, examining the necklace with barely concealed envy. "Family heirlooms, I understand? He must be serious indeed."

"They belonged to his grandmother," I confirm, resisting the urge to touch the stones self-consciously. Their weight feels symbolic—the burden and privilege of being chosen by a man like Knox, of being marked as his in ways both subtle and unmistakable.

The conversation drifts to safer topics—the foundation's work, recent gallery exhibitions, the unseasonably warm weather—before the woman is drawn away by other guests. I remain near the edge of the room, observing the social dynamics with the detached interest of someone who's always been adjacent to these circles without fully belonging. The art world intersects with high society but maintains its own hierarchy, its own rules. Tonight, however, I'm not here as a gallery director but as Knox Vance's fiancée—a role I haven't agreed to but find myself playing nonetheless.

The most disconcerting part? How natural it feels. How easily I've slipped into orbit around Knox, how effortlessly wefunction as a unit despite my continued internal resistance to everything he represents—control, possession, the sublimation of my independence to his overwhelming presence.

Across the room, Knox dominates his conversation circle, his commanding presence drawing people toward him like moths to flame. He gestures as he speaks, his movements precise and controlled, his expression animated in a way few people ever see. This is Knox in his element—powerful, strategic, ten steps ahead of everyone around him. I watch as a senator defers to his opinion, as a hedge fund manager laughs too loudly at his subtle joke, as a tech journalist scribbles notes on a cocktail napkin after a casual comment that will undoubtedly move markets tomorrow.

This man—this force of nature—has decided I belong to him. Has crafted our reconciliation with the same strategic brilliance he applies to business acquisitions and technological innovations. Has introduced me as his fiancée tonight with absolute confidence that reality will conform to his vision, as it almost always does.

And the truly terrifying part? I'm letting him. More than letting him—I'mparticipating, complicit in my own capture, accepting congratulations for an engagement I haven't formally agreed to, wearing his family diamonds, carrying his child, sleeping in his bed every night for the past week.

The realization makes me suddenly need air, space, a moment alone to gather my thoughts. Knox is deep in conversation with the Mayor, unlikely to notice a brief absence. I slip away from the main hall, following signs toward the ladies' room, grateful for the chance to compose myself.

The corridor is blissfully quiet after the din of the gala, my heels clicking against marble as I navigate through the museum's grandiose interior. I've nearly reached the restroom when voices from an adjacent alcove catch my attention—femalevoices, one vaguely familiar, speaking in the careless way of people who believe themselves unobserved.

"—absolutely can't believe he's serious about her." The words, dripping with disdain, stop me in my tracks. "Knox Vance, settling down with a gallery director? Please."

"She's pretty enough," another voice concedes. "In that understated, curator way. But hardly his usual type."

"That's because she's not his type at all." The first voice again, now recognizable as Alessandra Winters, a socialite I've seen frequently in gossip columns—usually on the arm of a different billionaire each season. "She's a placeholder. A convenient solution to his…situation."

My stomach drops as I realize they're talking about me, about Knox, about our supposed engagement. I should walk away, should continue to the restroom as intended, should refuse to give their petty gossip power over me. Instead, I find myself frozen, unable to move, unable to stop listening as these women dissect my relationship with surgical precision and obvious malice.

"The pregnancy, you mean?" the second woman asks, her voice lowering conspiratorially. "Is it even his?"

"Oh, it's his," Alessandra confirms with absolute certainty. "Knox is many things, but he'd never claim another man's child. No, this is classic Knox Vance crisis management—get the mother of your heir under control, establish your claim publicly, ensure proper lineage. But marriage? True commitment? Please."

"You sound very sure," her companion observes.

"I should be. I spent six months in his bed two years ago." Alessandra's laugh is brittle, sharp-edged. "Knox doesn't do forever with women like her. She's too…ordinary. Too unambitious. Too content with her little gallery and her modest successes. Knox needs someone who can match his fire, hisdrive, his world. Someone who understands power, who knows how to wield it. She'll never be enough for him. Never."

The words slice through me with devastating precision, finding every insecurity I've harbored since the beginning of our relationship, every doubt that led me to walk away eighteen months ago, every fear that's whispered in the back of my mind since Knox brought me back into his life. Too ordinary. Too unambitious. Never enough.

"Then why the big show tonight?" the other woman asks. "The diamonds, the fiancée announcement?"

"The baby, obviously." Alessandra sounds impatient, as if explaining to a child. "Knox is nothing if not traditional about dynasty. He'll marry her, give the child his name, fulfill his obligation. But passion? True partnership? Please. He'll be bored within a year, back to women who can actually challenge him, stimulate him, match him. She's a womb with good breeding potential, nothing more."

A womb with good breeding potential. The crude assessment lands like a physical blow, making me nauseous in a way that has nothing to do with pregnancy. Is that all I am to Knox? A convenient vessel for his heir? A problem to be managed with diamonds and public announcements? A temporary solution until someone more suitable, more equal to his power and position, catches his eye?

The bathroom door opens nearby, startling me from my frozen position. I force myself into motion, continuing down the corridor as if I'd heard nothing, maintaining composure through sheer force of will. In the elegant restroom, I lock myself in a stall, pressing my forehead against the cool marble wall, struggling to steady my breathing.

Alessandra's words echo in my mind, finding fertile ground in every doubt I've harbored about my place in Knox's world. I've always known I don't truly belong in his stratosphere—my success in the art world, while significant on its own terms, is minuscule compared to his globe-spanning empire. My ambitions, focused on artistic expression and cultural impact, seem small next to his drive to reshape entire industries. My modest background and practical education pale beside his ruthless self-made ascension.

What if she's right? What if I am just a convenient solution to an unexpected problem? What if Knox's determination to reclaim me has nothing to do with love or connection and everything to do with controlling the mother of his heir? What if, once the baby is born and his claim legally established, he loses interest in the gallery director who could never truly be his equal?

I press my hand against my stomach, still flat beneath the midnight blue silk. Our child. The connection that can never be severed, regardless of what happens between Knox and me. Is that all that matters to him? Is that all I am?

The door to the restroom opens again, voices filtering in—more gala attendees seeking a moment away from the crowds. I straighten, wiping away tears I hadn't realized were falling, forcing composure back onto my features. Now isn't the time for breakdown. Not here, not surrounded by New York's elite, not wearing Knox's family diamonds and publicly claimed as his fiancée.

I check my reflection in the mirror, reapplying lipstick with a hand that only trembles slightly. The woman looking back at me appears composed, elegant in her midnight blue gown, Knox's grandmother's diamonds glittering at her throat. No one would guess the turmoil beneath the surface, the devastating insecurity unleashed by a few carelessly cruel words in a museum corridor.

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