Page 27 of The Chains that Bind
The obsequious flattery makes me want to roll my eyes, but I'm distracted by Knox reaching for a small red velvet box that sits apart from White's display.
"Actually," Knox says, his voice taking on a quality I've rarely heard from him—something almost like reverence, "I already have the stones. They've been in my family for generations."
He opens the box to reveal a collection of diamonds that literally take my breath away. Not because of their size, though they're substantial. Not because of their obvious value, though it must be astronomical. But because of their exceptional quality—the way they catch the light and fracture it into pure, brilliant fire.
"My grandmother's collection," Knox explains, his eyes on my face, gauging my reaction. "My grandfather gave her these over their fifty-year marriage. One for each milestone they reached together. I've been saving them for the right woman."
The sentiment—unexpected, genuine—catches me off guard. I've never heard Knox speak of his grandparents with such warmth before, never seen this softer edge to his usual hard-driving personality.
"They're extraordinary," I admit, unable to lie about something so objectively true.
His smile is triumphant, as if I've conceded a larger point. "Clarence will set them into whatever design you prefer. Money is no object, of course."
"Mr. Vance has indicated you favor classic elegance over trendy designs," White adds helpfully. "But I've brought options across the spectrum for your consideration."
I take a deep breath, gathering my scattered thoughts. This has gone far enough. "Mr. White, I appreciate you coming all this way, but there's been a misunderstanding. I haven't agreed to marry Mr. Vance. There is no engagement to create a ring for."
White looks uncomfortable, glancing between Knox and me with the expression of someone who's inadvertently stepped into a minefield.
"Seraphina—" Knox begins, his tone hardening.
"No." I cut him off with a firm shake of my head. "This is exactly what I'm talking about, Knox. You make these unilateral decisions about my life—our life—without even consulting me. You've arranged a wedding, flown in a jeweler, decided we're getting married, all without once asking if it's what I want."
"It's what we both want," he insists. "It's what's best for our child."
"That's not for you to decide alone!" My voice rises despite my attempt to remain calm. "Marriage should be a mutual decision, not something one person forces on the other."
"Force is a strong word," Knox counters, his jaw tightening. "I prefer to think of it as removing unnecessary obstacles. Cutting through the red tape of your resistance to get to what we both know is inevitable."
"Nothing is inevitable except death and taxes," I snap. "Not this wedding you've arranged. Not this marriage you've decided on. And certainly not me wearing any ring you choose, no matter how beautiful or meaningful its history might be."
White clears his throat awkwardly. "Perhaps I should give you two some privacy?—"
"No need," I interrupt, my anger reaching boiling point. "I'm the one who'll be leaving." I turn to Knox, meeting his thunderous expression with one of my own. "My answer is no, Knox. Not like this. Not on your arbitrary timetable. Not with your bulldozer approach to something that should be a mutual decision."
His expression doesn't change, but something flickers in his eyes—not anger or frustration, but something that looks almost like…appreciation? Even, bizarrely, pride?
"Thank you for your honesty, Seraphina," he says formally. "Clarence, pack up your displays, please. It seems we'll need to postpone our business."
White hurries to comply, clearly relieved to escape the tension crackling between Knox and me.
Once he's gone, I expect Knox to argue further, to attempt to wear down my resistance as he has with everything else. Instead, he simply watches me with that inscrutable expression, saying nothing until the silence stretches uncomfortably between us.
"Is that all you have to say?" I finally ask, suspicious of his calm acceptance.
His smile is slow and knowing. "For now. Except to note that I've always appreciated your fire, angel. Your refusal to be steamrolled, even by me. It's one of the many reasons you're perfect as the mother of my child. As my eventual wife."
"Eventual?" I repeat, catching the qualification. "So you're accepting my refusal?"
"I'm accepting that you need to feel you have some control over the timing," he clarifies. "Not that the outcome will be any different."
Frustration burns through me at his unshakable certainty. "You're impossible."
"No," he counters, moving closer until I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "I'm inevitable."
With that parting shot, he turns and strides from the study, leaving me standing amid the discarded ring cases, my heart pounding with a confusing mixture of anger, relief, and—most disturbing of all—disappointment.
Because part of me, some treacherous, weak part I've spent eighteen months trying to silence, had wanted to say yes. Had wanted to slip his ring on my finger and become Seraphina Vance, completely and irrevocably his.
