Page 6 of Bound in Matrimony

"Well, the provisions for Ms. Vale and your unborn child are quite…generous." Richards chooses his words carefully, as healways does. Smart man. "However, from a legal standpoint, the protections would be significantly stronger if you were married."

I've known this, of course. Known it since the moment I placed my hand on Seraphina's still-flat stomach months ago and felt the seismic shift in my universe. Everything I've built, everything I own—it means nothing if not passed to my bloodline, secured for the woman who carries my child.

"The prenuptial agreement—" Richards begins.

"There won't be one." I cut him off, enjoying the rare sight of my unflappable lawyer looking genuinely shocked.

"Sir, with assets of your magnitude, that's highly inadvisable?—"

"Do I strike you as a man who makes inadvisable decisions, Richards?" My voice drops to the quiet register that makes board members squirm. "Seraphina gets everything. No conditions, no clauses, no prenup."

His expression remains professionally neutral, but I catch the slight widening of his eyes. In all the years he's known me, I've never been careless with what's mine. But he doesn't understand. Seraphina isn't a potential liability. She's an extension of myself.

"Very well." He makes a note. "When do you anticipate the wedding might take place? I can begin preparations for the legal transition of assets and?—"

"Three days."

Richards's pen stills on the paper. "I'm sorry?"

"Three days from now. Saturday." The decision crystallizes as I speak it aloud, feeling right in a way few things have. "Make the arrangements."

"Mr. Vance, planning a wedding in three days is?—"

"A simple matter of resources and will. I have an abundance of both." I stand, indicating our meeting is over. "Send theupdated will to my private email for review. I want it executed before the wedding."

"Yes, sir." Richards gathers his papers, knowing better than to argue further. At the door, he pauses. "Congratulations, Mr. Vance."

I nod, already reaching for my phone as he leaves. Three days to plan a wedding worthy of Seraphina. Three days to make her irrevocably mine in the eyes of the law, as she already is in every way that matters.

The first call is to Elise, my events coordinator. Her sleek competence is why I keep her on permanent retainer.

"I need a wedding planned. This Saturday. Cost is irrelevant, excellence is mandatory."

To her credit, she doesn't gasp or protest. "Location preferences, sir?"

"The botanical garden. Buy it out for the day."

"Guest list?"

"Small. Intimate. I'll send you names." The truth is, I don't care who witnesses our union. It's not for them. It's for us—for the legal protection of my family, for the public declaration of what already exists between us.

"And the bride's preferences? Dress, flowers, menu?"

I pause, considering. Seraphina doesn't know yet. A flutter of something—not doubt, never doubt—passes through me. "She'll need options. The best. Arrange for designers to bring selections to the penthouse tomorrow."

Twenty minutes and a dozen calls later, the framework is in place. The botanical garden secured with a donation large enough to make them rename a wing after us. Three top chefs preparing menu tastings. Designers scrambling to pull their most exclusive pieces. Security protocols established. A private judge arranged.

It's efficient, methodical, exactly how I approach every project. But as I step into the elevator to head home, I feel a different kind of tension coiling in my chest. Not the usual predatory anticipation of a deal closing, but something rarer. Something I experienced when Seraphina first told me she was carrying my child.

Vulnerability.

I shake it off as the elevator rises to the penthouse. I'm Knox Vance. I don't do vulnerable. I see what I want, and I take it. And I want Seraphina Vale as my wife before our child is born.

She's in the nursery when I arrive home, one hand tracing the finished crib I assembled myself. The late afternoon sun catches in her honey-blonde hair, turning it to molten gold. My breath catches at the sight of her—this woman who's infiltrated every defense, who's carrying my legacy within her body.

"You're home early," she says, turning to me with a smile that still makes my heart stutter like some adolescent boy's.

I cross the room in four strides, cupping her face in my hands and kissing her with the hunger that never seems to abate, no matter how many times I claim her mouth. She melts against me, her rounded belly pressing between us, the physical reminder of what we've created together.

---