Page 28 of The Chains that Bind
And that terrifies me more than all of Knox's masterful manipulations combined.
Chapter Sixteen
Knox
My hands aresteady on the controls of the helicopter as I leave the island, but inside my chest burns a fire of pure determination. Seraphina's refusal of my proposal was expected—she wouldn't be the woman I love if she didn't fight me at every turn—but it changes nothing about my ultimate plan. We will be married. She will wear my ring and my name. Our child will be born to parents bound together legally as well as biologically. But first, I need to remove any lingering obstacles, starting with the man whose altar she was standing at when I reclaimed her. Richard Whittington may be a footnote in our story, but even footnotes need proper resolution. And I intend to ensure he understands with perfect clarity that Seraphina Vale is permanently, irrevocably unavailable to him.
I've left Seraphina secure on the island, the security system reconfigured to my absence. She won't be able to leave—not that there's anywhere for her to go, surrounded by miles of ocean with every boat disabled and the helicopter pad locked down. Gabriel and the staff have strict instructions:keep her comfortable, cater to her every whim, but under no circumstances allow her to contact the outside world or attempt to leave.
She'll be furious when she realizes I've gone without telling her. Good. That fire, that defiance, is part of what makes her perfect for me. I don't want a docile woman who blindly accepts my decisions. I want Seraphina—challenging, stubborn, brilliant Seraphina who makes me work for every inch of ground I gain.
But first, Richard needs handling.
The helicopter touches down on the private landing pad atop my Manhattan headquarters three hours later. My executive team knows better than to schedule meetings during my absence—knows better, in fact, than to question anything about my sudden disappearance from New York or the very public way I reclaimed what's mine. The tabloids are having a field day, of course. "TECH BILLIONAIRE KIDNAPS BRIDE FROM ALTAR" screams one headline. "ROMANTIC GESTURE OR CRIMINAL BEHAVIOR?" asks another, more measured outlet.
None of it matters. By the time I'm finished, the narrative will be exactly what I want it to be.
My car is waiting, the driver opening the door without a word as I approach. "The Yale Club," I instruct him, settling into the leather seat. Richard Whittington is a creature of habit, according to my intelligence. Every Thursday evening, he has drinks at the Yale Club with the same group of equally bland financial and art world associates. Today is Thursday. And I've arranged a special invitation for him.
The text came from my private head of security an hour before I left the island:
Subject confirmed for 7 PM. Private room secured.
Perfect. I check my watch—6:45. Enough time to arrive first, to set the stage for this conversation that's been eighteen months in the making.
The Yale Club is exactly as I expected—old money, old wood, old ideas. The kind of place that represents everything Richard Whittington is: safe, traditional, unremarkable. I'm shown to a private room immediately, the club staff practically falling over themselves when they recognize me. My name might not be on their membership rolls, but my net worth opens doors that mere legacy never could.
I choose my position carefully—back to the window, facing the door, seated in the larger of two leather armchairs flanking a small table where two tumblers and a decanter of scotch wait. The power position, making him come to me, making him feel small before I've even spoken. These details matter in negotiations, and this is absolutely a negotiation—though only one of us will be offering terms.
At precisely 7:00, the door opens. Richard Whittington looks exactly as he did at the wedding, though his suit is different—navy instead of black, his tie the muted burgundy of old blood. His expression flickers from confusion to recognition to something approaching fear when he sees me waiting.
"Mr. Vance," he says, his voice admirably steady despite the circumstances. "I was told I had a meeting with a potential client."
"You do," I reply, gesturing to the empty chair across from me. "Sit."
He hesitates, clearly weighing his options. Fight or flight instincts warring on a face too transparent to hide anything.Finally, resignation wins, and he takes the seat, perching on the edge as if ready to bolt at any moment.
"I assume this is about Seraphina," he says, surprising me slightly with his directness.
I pour scotch into both tumblers, sliding one toward him. "Drink."
He eyes the glass suspiciously. "I prefer to keep a clear head for this conversation."
"It's not poisoned," I say dryly. "If I wanted you dead, you wouldn't see it coming."
His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows nervously, but he reaches for the glass, taking a small sip. Expensive scotch wasted on a palate that probably can't distinguish it from the well brands.
"You kidnapped my fiancée from our wedding," he states, a slight tremor in his voice. "Do you have any idea of the legal consequences?—"
"Let me stop you there," I interrupt, my voice cold enough to freeze the air between us. "Seraphina was never your fiancée. Not really. She was on loan, temporarily, while I allowed her the space she thought she needed. That loan has been called in."
His face flushes with indignation. "That's not how relationships work. She chose me. She agreed to marry me. She?—"
I leap from my chair so fast my head spins. I grab the bastard by the collar of his throat as I growl. “You’re lucky I don’t tear you limb from limb for every touching what’smine.”
He swallows and holds his hands up in a gesture of surrender before I release him and attempt to regather my self-control.
"She settled for you," I correct him, taking a leisurely sip of my scotch when I’ve reseated myself. "Because you were safe. Predictable. Unthreatening. The human equivalent of a cardigan sweater." I set my glass down, leaning forward slightly. "Tellme, Richard, did she ever scream your name when you fucked her? Did she ever leave marks down your back? Did she ever surrender to you completely, the way she does with me?"
