Page 18 of Bound in Silk

And as I lead her toward our bedroom, leaving behind the elaborate display and the photographer who has captured exactly what I wanted documented, I know with absolute certainty that Seraphina's attempt to retreat has failed completely. She may still harbor fears, may still struggle with the intensity between us, but she is wearing my ring, accepting my claim, acknowledging what we both know is true.

She is mine. I am hers. And nothing—not Alessandra's poison, not Seraphina's fears, not anything or anyone—will ever change that fundamental, irrevocable truth.

Chapter Eleven

Seraphina

My fingers brushagainst the unfamiliar weight on my left hand, and I feel a jolt—not just from the contact but from the sudden, overwhelming panic that floods through me. Knox's ring. His claim. His very public, very permanent declaration of possession. In the warm light of morning, with his sleeping form beside me, the full implications of yesterday hit me with the force of a physical blow. The transformed penthouse, the photographer from Vogue, the ring with my actual heartbeat embedded in it—all of it orchestrated with Knox's typical thoroughness to ensure I couldn't retreat, couldn't maintain the emotional distance I'd tried to create. And I surrendered. Melted under the intensity of his focus, the sincerity of his declaration, the sheer overwhelming force of his devotion. Accepted his ring, his claim, his assertion that our marriage is inevitable. But now, in the quiet dawn, panic claws at my throat, a desperate animal need for space, for air, for a moment of clarity not shaped by Knox's all-consuming presence in my life.

I slide carefully from bed, holding my breath as Knox shifts slightly but doesn't wake. He looks younger in sleep, the hard lines of determination softened, the calculating intensity temporarily at rest. For a moment, watching him, my panic recedes—replaced by a tenderness that frightens me almost as much. Because that's the true danger here—not just Knox's possessiveness, his determination to claim me completely, but my own willingness to surrender to it. To lose myself in the safety and certainty he offers.

Moving silently to the bathroom, I close the door before turning on the light. The woman who stares back at me from the mirror looks both familiar and foreign—my features, my honey-blonde hair tousled from sleep (and Knox's hands), but something different in my eyes. A deer-in-headlights quality, a barely contained wildness that speaks to the panic building inside me.

The ring catches the light as I raise my hand, the main diamond sending prisms dancing across the bathroom wall. It's spectacular—of course it is. Knox would never settle for anything less than perfection, especially for something meant to mark me as his. I twist it, revealing the inscription hidden on the inside of the band: "My equal. My balance. My heart."

Beautiful words. Meaningful words. Words that touched me deeply yesterday when Knox revealed them, that seemed to answer my fears about being merely convenient, merely the mother of his child, merely temporary in his grand scheme. But now, in the cold light of morning, they feel like the final lock on a gilded cage, the last thread in a web so beautifully constructed I willingly walked into it.

Equal? How can there be equality in a relationship where one person orchestrates every major decision, controls the environment, shapes the narrative? Where one personcan transform the penthouse, summon photographers, declare engagements without so much as consulting the other person?

Balance? What balance exists when Knox's will inevitably prevails, when his resources and determination ensure that resistance is ultimately futile, when his vision of our future systematically eliminates all other possibilities?

His heart? That, at least, I believe. The vulnerability in his eyes yesterday, the rawness in his voice when he declared his love—those weren't calculated or strategic. Those were real. And that's what makes this all so much harder, so much more confusing.

Because Knox does love me. In his possessive, overwhelming, all-consuming way, he loves me completely. The question isn't his devotion—it's whether I can survive it without disappearing entirely.

The thought sends a fresh wave of panic through me, making my hands shake as I splash cold water on my face. I need space. Air. Distance from the magnetic pull of Knox's presence, from the carefully constructed reality he's created around us. Just for a day. Maybe two. Just long enough to think clearly, to find my center again, to decide whether I can truly do this—become Mrs. Knox Vance, surrender to his vision of our future, accept that his will shall shape our shared reality.

But how? Knox has made it clear he won't tolerate retreat, won't accept my need for distance, won't allow me to pull away even temporarily. The security in the building is state-of-the-art, the staff loyal to him, my movements discreetly but constantly monitored. Even at the gallery, Cain maintains his watchful presence, reporting back to Knox with a regularity that masquerades as protection but often feels like surveillance.

I return to the bedroom, watching Knox sleep for another moment. He has meetings today—important ones he can't reschedule, with investors from Tokyo connecting via videoconference due to the time difference. Three hours, maybe four, when his attention will be fully occupied with his empire, when his awareness won't be entirely focused on me.

My opportunity.

The plan forms as I shower, as I dress in casual clothes that won't attract attention. Not a permanent escape—I'm not foolish enough to think I could truly disappear from Knox Vance, especially now, especially pregnant with his child. Just temporary space. A day or two at a hotel where I can think clearly, can feel the boundaries of my own self without his overwhelming presence blurring the edges, can decide with clarity rather than surrender whether this is truly what I want.

I leave the ring on. Partly because removing it feels like a bigger statement than I'm ready to make, partly because its absence would immediately alert Knox to my intentions if he wakes before I can leave. I've learned to choose my battles with him, to preserve energy for the fights that truly matter. And this isn't about rejection—it's about breathing room.

Knox wakes as I'm finishing dressing, his eyes immediately alert despite just opening, finding me across the room with unerring precision. "Good morning," he says, his voice rough with sleep but his gaze sharp, assessing. Missing nothing—not my casual clothes when I should be dressing for the gallery, not my hair pulled back in a simple ponytail rather than my usual professional style, not the slight tension in my shoulders as I turn to face him.

"Morning," I respond, moving to the bed and pressing a kiss to his forehead—a calculated normalcy, a misdirection. "You should go back to sleep. It's early."

His hand captures mine, thumb brushing over the ring. Satisfaction flickers in his eyes at finding it still in place. "Where are you going? You don't usually dress for the gallery this early."

"I thought I'd stop by Janie's first," I lie, the name of a former assistant providing convenient cover. "She's having an early showing of her work at that new space in Brooklyn. Promised I'd give her feedback before the formal opening."

Knox studies my face, looking for the deception I'm working hard to conceal. I've never been a good liar—especially not with him, who reads me so easily. But the engagement ring helps, providing a distraction, a reason for any nervousness he might detect. And the story is plausible—supporting young artists has always been part of my professional mission.

"I'll have Gabriel drive you," he says, reaching for his phone on the nightstand.

"No need," I counter quickly, keeping my tone light. "I already called a car. And you know how Gabriel feels about Brooklyn."

A small joke, referencing his head of security's well-known disdain for the borough. Knox's lips quirk slightly, but his eyes remain thoughtful, calculating. "Check in when you arrive," he says finally, not quite a request.

"Of course." Another lie. By the time he expects that check-in, I'll be somewhere else entirely, somewhere I can think without his presence coloring every thought, shaping every decision.

He lets me go with one more assessing look, one more brush of his thumb over the ring that marks me as his. I leave the bedroom with practiced casualness, forcing myself not to hurry, not to reveal through body language the escape I'm planning.

In the kitchen, I pack my prenatal vitamins—the one thing I can't go without, won't risk the baby's health regardless of my emotional turmoil. A small go-bag waits in my office, packed yesterday during Knox's shower, containing essentials for a day or two away. Nothing that would trigger alarms if discovered—just a change of clothes, basic toiletries, items I could plausibly be taking to the gallery for an overnight work session.

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