Page 18 of Bound in Matrimony

Chapter Ten

Seraphina

Sunlight filtersthrough the half-drawn curtains, coaxing me awake with gentle persistence. I reach across the vast expanse of our bed, finding Knox's side empty but still warm. The sheets smell of him—sandalwood and ambition and that indefinable scent that's purely Knox. We've been back from our two-week honeymoon for less than twelve hours, and already he's up and working. Typical. I stretch luxuriously, my body still pleasantly sore from our activities on the private jet home. Mrs. Vance. Three weeks of marriage and the name still gives me a little thrill whenever I think it. Sliding from the bed, I pad across the plush carpet toward the massive walk-in closet that houses my carefully curated wardrobe. I need coffee before I face whatever crisis has called my workaholic husband away so early.

I flick on the light switch and freeze in the doorway.

My closet—my meticulously organized, color-coded collection of designer pieces accumulated over years of careful investment—is gone. In its place hangs what appears to be anentirely new wardrobe. For a moment, I think I've somehow entered the wrong room in our sprawling penthouse. But no, this is definitely my closet space, with my preferred organizational system still in place. Just with…completely different clothes.

I step inside, reaching for the nearest garment—a cashmere sweater in the exact shade of emerald that Knox says matches my eyes. The quality is immediately apparent in the way it drapes over my hand, sumptuous and perfectly weighted. But as I examine it more closely, I notice something embroidered at the hem. In tiny, elegant stitching: Seraphina Vance.

My heart skips. I grab another piece—a silk blouse in cream. There, on the inside collar: Seraphina Vance. A tailored blazer: Seraphina Vance stitched into the lining. A pair of designer jeans: Seraphina Vance on the inside waistband.

Every single piece. My name. His name. Our name.

I move deeper into the closet, pulling out drawer after drawer, checking hangers, examining shoes. Everything—literally everything—has been replaced with an exact equivalent or superior version, each item bearing the same discreet but unmistakable marking. Seraphina Vance. The ultimate label.

When I reach the lingerie section, I almost laugh out loud. Because of course Knox wouldn't stop at outerwear. Every delicate bra, every wisp of silk and lace that would only ever be seen by him, bears the same embroidered name. Some less discreetly than others. A particularly stunning black lace set has Vance written in larger script across the hip of the panties and the side of one bra cup.

It must have taken a small army of designers and seamstresses working around the clock to accomplish this. And the expense—I can't even begin to calculate it. Though money has never been an obstacle for Knox. Not when he wants something.

And he wants everyone to know I'm his.

I should be angry. Part of me—the fiercely independent woman who built her career in the cutthroat art world without leveraging family connections—is definitely irritated. This is exactly the kind of high-handed, possessive gesture that would have sent me running when we first met. Replacing my entire wardrobe without consultation? Literally branding me with his name on every item I wear?

Yet as I run my fingers over a particularly gorgeous dress in deep burgundy silk, feeling the exquisite craftsmanship and knowing without trying it on that it will fit perfectly, I can't summon real outrage. Because underneath the possessiveness, there's something else in this gesture. Something that speaks to the wounded boy who grew into a man determined never to lose what matters to him.

I find his note pinned to a silk robe in the same emerald shade as the sweater. The heavy cream cardstock bears his firm, decisive handwriting:

So you never forget, not even for a moment, that you're mine now. The world should know it too. - K

PS: Your old wardrobe has been donated to a women's career development program, except for the pieces with particular sentimental value, which are preserved in storage.

The postscript makes me smile despite myself. He knows me well enough to anticipate my attachment to certain pieces—the dress I wore when we first met, the suit I had on when I received my director position, the sweater that was my mother's.

I sink onto the small velvet ottoman in the center of the closet, note in hand, surrounded by physical evidence of KnoxVance's need to claim me completely. Any other woman might feel smothered. But I understand what drives him. The boy who came from nothing, who built himself into a force of nature through sheer will and ruthless determination—he isn't capable of loving by half measures.

And isn't that what I loved about him from the beginning? His absolute certainty about what he wants and his refusal to accept anything less?

I've spent my entire adult life analyzing art, determining what makes a piece extraordinary versus merely competent. And what makes Knox extraordinary is this very quality—his relentless pursuit, his total commitment. He doesn't just want me. He needs to possess me, to mark me, to make me an indisputable part of his world.

I spot another note, this one attached to what appears to be a garment bag. Inside, I find a cream-colored cashmere sweater dress that would be perfect for my first day back at the gallery tomorrow. The second note reads:

Wear this. I want to see my name on you. - K

The dress is beautiful—elegant enough for the director of Manhattan's most prestigious contemporary art gallery, but with a subtle sensuality in the way it will cling to my curves. I slip it from the hanger and carry it to the full-length mirror, holding it against my body.

Would wearing it be surrendering some essential part of myself? Or would it be acknowledging the truth—that I chose this, chose him, chose to become Seraphina Vance with all that entails?

I let the robe fall from my shoulders and pull the dress over my head. The cashmere slides against my skin like a lover'scaress, settling perfectly around my body as if it were created specifically for me. Which, I realize, it probably was. The name embroidered at the hem is visible only if someone looks very closely. A secret I'll carry with me.

Stepping back, I examine my reflection. I still look like me—honey-blonde hair, green eyes, the posture of someone who knows her worth. But there's something different now, something that has nothing to do with the designer dress or the new name stitched into its hem. A certainty, perhaps. A belonging.

I return to the bedroom to find Knox standing in the doorway, watching me with that intense focus that still makes my pulse quicken after all this time. His eyes move from my face to the dress, noting the perfect fit, the way it showcases the body he knows so intimately.

"You found my gift," he says, voice low.

"It would have been hard to miss." I raise an eyebrow, adopting my gallery director expression—the one that evaluates and appraises. "Subtle as always, Mr. Vance."

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