Page 29 of Bound in Matrimony

Knox's eyes, when I meet them, are suspiciously bright. "I thought…what about Claire? After your grandmother?"

The suggestion catches me off guard. Knox never met my grandmother, who died when I was in college. But I've told him stories of her—the first woman in our family to go to university, the one who encouraged my interest in art when my parents pushed for a more practical career. I mentioned once, months ago, that I'd always loved her name.

"You remembered," I whisper, emotion closing my throat.

"I remember everything you tell me." His voice is rough, stripped of its usual polish. "Everything that matters to you matters to me."

"Claire," I repeat, looking down at our daughter. "Claire Vance." I test the name, feeling how it fits. "It's perfect."

Knox reaches out, resting his palm gently on Claire's back as she sleeps against my chest. The three of us connected, a complete circuit. The look on his face steals what little breath I have left. I've seen Knox in many modes—the ruthless businessman, the demanding lover, the obsessive husband. But this—this unguarded adoration, this naked vulnerability—is entirely new.

"I didn't know," he says, so quietly I almost miss it.

"Didn't know what?"

"That it would feel like this." His eyes move from Claire to me, then back again. "When I saw her…when they placed her in my arms…it was like someone reached inside my chest and rewired everything. Nothing works the same way anymore."

I've spent my career studying and analyzing artistic expression, learning to read what lies beneath the surface. But I don't need those skills to interpret what I'm seeing in Knox's face. It's written there plainly, without artifice or restraint—a love so profound it's transformed him from the inside out.

"You look at her like she's your whole world," I observe softly.

"She is." He meets my eyes with startling directness. "You both are. Everything else—the company, the properties, the money—it's just scaffolding. You and Claire are the actual structure. The only thing that matters."

From anyone else, these might be pretty words, the expected sentiments of a new father. From Knox Vance, a man who weighs every word with precision, who guards his vulnerabilities like state secrets, they are nothing short of revolutionary.

I've watched Knox's obsessive nature manifest in countless ways throughout our relationship—from replacing my entire wardrobe with his name stitched into every piece to secretly acquiring my gallery. I've witnessed his need to possess, to protect, to secure what matters to him. But this is different. This isn't just possession. This is complete surrender.

Claire stirs against me, her tiny fists waving in momentary protest before she settles again. Knox adjusts the blanket around her with a concentration he usually reserves for major business decisions.

"She has your temper," I tease gently, watching him fuss over the perfect positioning of the blanket.

"God help us all," he murmurs, but his lips curve into a smile I've never seen before—softer, less guarded, yet somehow more powerful for its honesty.

A nurse returns to check my vitals and help me with Claire. Knox steps back only as far as absolutely necessary, his eyes never leaving us. The moment the nurse leaves, he reclaims his position beside the bed, reaching for Claire when my arms begin to tire.

"Rest," he instructs, lifting our daughter with newfound expertise. "I've got her."

I watch through heavy eyelids as Knox settles into the chair beside my bed, cradling Claire against his chest. He begins speaking to her in a low voice, the words too quiet for me to catch. But I can see their effect on his face—the fierce pride, the wonder, the absolute commitment.

This is the man the world never sees—not the ruthless CEO or the calculating strategist, but Knox Vance stripped to his essence. A man whose protective instincts and possessive nature have found their purest expression in fatherhood.

As sleep begins to claim me, I find myself thinking of the gallery I direct—how we arrange lighting to highlight a masterpiece, how we position viewers to experience the full impact of a significant work. Knox has always treated me as his masterpiece, something precious to be displayed perfectly, protected vigilantly. Now he has two works in his private collection, and I have no doubt he will move heaven and earth to ensure we are both exactly where he wants us—safe, secure, and completely his.

"Seraphina." His voice pulls me back from the edge of sleep. "Thank you."

I force my heavy eyelids open. "For what?"

"For her." He looks down at Claire, then back to me, his expression more open than I've ever seen it. "For us. For everything."

I reach out, and he takes my hand, completing our circle. "We made something beautiful together," I whisper.

"We're just getting started," he promises, and I believe him.

As I drift into sleep, the image of Knox holding our daughter burns itself into my memory—the powerful man who commands empires, looking at our tiny daughter like she's hung the moon and stars. Looking at me like I've given him the only gift that ever mattered.

My last conscious thought is that I never truly understood Knox's obsessive nature until this moment—because now I feel it too. This same consuming need to protect, to cherish, to keep safe at any cost. Our daughter has awakened in me the same fierce devotion that drives her father.

Claire Vance is less than a day old, but she's already done what I thought impossible—she's made me understand, down to my bones, exactly why Knox Vance needs to possess what he loves completely.

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