Page 31 of Bound in Matrimony

I rise carefully, mindful of Claire's sleeping form, and move to sit on the edge of the bed. Seraphina's fingers brush my damp cheeks, tracing the path of tears I haven't bothered to hide.

"I've never seen you cry before," she says softly, without judgment.

"I've never had reason to." I look down at our daughter, then back to my wife's face—exhausted, beautiful, essential to my existence. "I've never felt anything like this."

Seraphina's eyes fill with tears of her own. "Tell me."

"I've never loved anything more." The admission comes easily, without calculation or restraint. "Either of you. Both of you. I didn't know it was possible to feel this much and survive it."

Her hand cups my cheek, her thumb brushing away a fresh tear. "It's overwhelming, isn't it? Like your heart suddenly exists outside your body."

"Yes." The simple word contains volumes. She understands, as she always does. This brilliant, perceptive woman who chose to become my wife, who has now given me the greatest gift imaginable.

Claire stirs against my chest, making those small sounds that already tug at something primal within me. I shift her carefully into Seraphina's waiting arms, watching as my wife's face transforms with the same wonder I'm feeling.

"We made her," Seraphina whispers, looking up at me with tear-bright eyes. "Together."

I lean down, pressing my forehead to hers, our daughter cradled between us. "The only thing I've ever created that matters."

And as Claire's tiny hand closes around my finger once more, I make a silent vow that the ruthlessness, the obsession, therelentless drive that built my empire will now serve a greater purpose. Everything I am, everything I have, everything I will ever be belongs to these two people.

My family.

My world.

My redemption.

Chapter Eighteen

Seraphina

The nursery glows with soft,diffused light that seems to emanate from no particular source—just another example of Knox's obsessive attention to detail. I rock slowly in the custom-made chair positioned perfectly beside the hand-painted mural of a night sky, Claire sleeping against my chest with that absolute trust only newborns possess. One week home from the hospital, and I'm still discovering the lengths to which Knox went to prepare for our daughter's arrival. This room alone must have cost a small fortune, with its bespoke furniture and state-of-the-art monitoring system that tracks Claire's breathing, heart rate, and body temperature with medical precision. But it's not the expense that overwhelms me—it's the thought behind every choice, every element carefully selected to create a space that is both beautiful and utterly safe. A sanctuary designed by a man determined to protect what he loves above all else.

The door opens silently on its custom hinges, and Knox appears with a steaming mug in his hand. He's shed hisusual impeccable suits for soft loungewear these past days, though somehow he makes even casual clothes look elegant and purposeful. Dark stubble shadows his jaw—another departure from his typically immaculate appearance. He hasn't left the penthouse since we brought Claire home, canceling meetings and delegating decisions with a ruthlessness that would terrify his executives if they knew the sole reason was his unwillingness to be separated from his wife and daughter for even an hour.

"Chamomile with honey," he says, setting the mug on the table beside me. "And your medication."

He's tracked my pain relief schedule with the same precision he applies to multi-billion-dollar deals, ensuring I never have to experience a moment of discomfort from my C-section recovery if he can prevent it. The first day home, I found a medical-grade chart posted discreetly in our bathroom, noting times, dosages, and his observations of my pain levels throughout the day.

"Thank you." I shift Claire slightly, wincing as the movement pulls at my healing incision.

Knox notices immediately—he notices everything. "Let me," he says, gently lifting Claire from my arms with a confidence that still surprises me. Those powerful hands that negotiate empires now cradle our seven-pound daughter with instinctive care.

He settles her against his shoulder, her tiny face nuzzled against his neck, and extends his free hand to help me stand. "You should rest. The doctor said?—"

"The doctor said I should move regularly to aid healing," I remind him with a smile. "And I've been sitting for almost an hour."

His expression is torn between concern for my recovery and respect for my autonomy—a battle I've watched play out repeatedly since Claire's birth. His instinct is to wrap me in the same protective cocoon he's created for our daughter. Myindependent nature resists, even as I find myself increasingly appreciative of his care.

"At least drink your tea while it's hot," he compromises, still supporting me with one hand while holding Claire securely with the other.

I accept the mug, taking a sip of the perfectly prepared tea. Of course it's exactly the right temperature—not too hot to drink immediately, not cool enough to be unsatisfying. Knox Vance does nothing by halves.

"She's out completely," I observe, watching Claire's peaceful face as she sleeps against her father's shoulder.

"She feels safe," Knox says simply, his voice softening as he glances down at our daughter. The transformation in his expression still takes my breath away—this tenderness that no one but Claire and I ever witness.

I follow them into the living room, where Knox has created another nest of comfort—pillows arranged to support my healing body, cashmere throws for warmth, a selection of books and magazines within easy reach. He settles onto the sofa, adjusting Claire so she remains secure against his chest, making room beside him for me.

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