Page 21 of Bound in Matrimony

But for now, this is enough. Her name on my skin. My name on hers—in a thousand invisible ways that only we can see.

A balance. A claiming that goes both ways.

As it should be.

Chapter Twelve

Seraphina

The whispers followme through the gallery like persistent shadows. The staff smile a little too brightly, their eyes tracking me with a new wariness that wasn't there before. Something has shifted in the dynamics of the Meridian Gallery, and I know exactly what—or rather, who—is responsible. It's in the small changes I've noticed throughout the morning: the upgraded security system, the new climate control equipment being installed, the catering delivery from the Michelin-starred restaurant down the block "for the staff lunch." Knox has his fingerprints all over my workplace, though I've found no official documentation yet. I should be furious. Instead, I find myself suppressing a smile as I check my watch, calculating the hours until I can confront my husband about his latest territorial expansion.

"Mrs. Vance?" My assistant appears at my elbow, tablet in hand. Even she's using my married name now, though I never instructed her to change from Ms. Vale. "The board wants to confirm your availability for next Tuesday's meeting. They'vemoved it to the Vance Industries conference room since our renovations will be underway."

I maintain my composure, though internally I'm connecting dots at lightning speed. "The renovations I haven't approved yet?"

She blinks, confusion flickering across her face. "I thought…Mr. Hoffman said it was all arranged through the new ownership. Just a formality to run it by you." She shifts uncomfortably. "Should I tell them to hold off?"

"No," I say smoothly, unwilling to expose the gap in my knowledge to the staff. "That won't be necessary. Please confirm my attendance."

She nods and retreats, leaving me to process this latest development. New ownership. Renovations. Meetings at Vance Industries. My husband has been busy.

I retreat to my office, closing the door behind me. The space feels different somehow—as if Knox's energy has already permeated these walls. I run my fingers along the edge of my desk, noticing for the first time that it's been subtly adjusted to a more ergonomic height. The chair has been replaced with one nearly identical to the one in my home office—the custom-designed one Knox ordered after noting that I shifted uncomfortably during long working sessions.

Three months of marriage, and he's already reshaping my professional world to match the personal one he's crafted for us.

I should be livid. This is exactly the kind of high-handed, controlling behavior I've spent my adult life avoiding. My parents' marriage taught me early that maintaining independence—financial, emotional, professional—was essential. Watching my mother slowly diminish herself to accommodate my father's career, his preferences, his world, left scars I thought would never heal.

But Knox's brand of possession is nothing like my father's quiet erosion of my mother's identity. Knox doesn't want to diminish me—he wants to enhance me, protect me, wrap me in a cocoon of his making while still letting me fly. His obsession isn't about control for control's sake. It's about ensuring that every aspect of my life is perfected, secured, aligned with his vision of what we deserve together.

I sink into my chair—the one he selected because he noticed my discomfort—and open my laptop. A quick search confirms my suspicions: Meridian Gallery is now a subsidiary of Vance Industries, through a holding company that obscures the connection to all but the most determined investigators. The acquisition happened three weeks ago, while we were on our honeymoon in Santorini.

I lean back, trying to summon the outrage I should feel. This is my workplace. My professional identity. He's made a major move affecting my career without consulting me, without even mentioning it after the fact.

Yet instead of anger, I feel a strange, warming sensation spreading through my chest.

I remember his tattoo—my name permanently etched over his heart. The vulnerability in his eyes when he showed it to me, the need for me to understand that his possessiveness runs both ways. I think of the wardrobe filled with clothes bearing my new name, the way he watches me when I wear them. The house in the Hamptons he bought because I mentioned once, casually, that I'd spent happy summers there as a child. The private gallery he built in our home to display my modest art collection alongside works he's acquired specifically to complement mine.

A pattern emerges, clear as one of the modernist paintings I've spent my career analyzing. Knox Vance is obsessed with me—not just sexually, not just emotionally, but completely. He wants every aspect of my existence under his protection, woveninto his. My workplace, my clothes, my name, my body, my future—all claimed, all marked, all secured.

And the revelation that hits me with stunning clarity is that I love it.

I love his obsession. I love his need to possess me so completely. I love knowing that this powerful man who commands industries and intimidates titans of business is utterly fixated on my happiness and security. I love that he can't bear even the smallest separation between our lives.

The realization should terrify me. Instead, it feels like finally admitting a truth I've been dancing around since the day I agreed to marry him.

I grab my purse and coat, instructing my assistant to reschedule my afternoon appointments as I sweep through the gallery. The car Knox insists on providing is waiting outside, driver opening the door before I fully reach the curb.

"Vance Industries," I tell him, settling into the leather seat. "And please hurry."

The drive takes twenty-three minutes in midday traffic. I spend them composing and discarding approaches, trying to decide how to confront Knox about the gallery while simultaneously confessing my newly acknowledged appreciation for his obsessive nature. By the time we arrive at the gleaming tower that houses his empire, I've settled on directness. Knox values clarity above all else.

His executive assistant doesn't attempt to delay me, merely nods and buzzes me through to his office. Another sign of my new status—no one questions my right to interrupt Knox Vance's day.

He's standing at the floor-to-ceiling windows when I enter, his powerful frame outlined against the Manhattan skyline. He turns at the sound of the door, and the transformation inhis expression—from focused CEO to husband—still takes my breath away.

"Seraphina." He crosses the room in long strides, taking my hands in his. "Is everything alright? You never come here during work hours."

"You bought my gallery." I don't phrase it as a question.

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