Page 1 of Bound in Silk

Chapter One

Seraphina

My fingers brushagainst Knox's as he hands me my morning tea, and I feel a spark—not static electricity, but that same magnetic connection that's always existed between us, unchanged by time or circumstance. I pull back quickly, retreating to the other side of the kitchen island, needing physical distance to maintain emotional boundaries. A week in New York, a week of navigating this strange new reality where I'm not quite prisoner but certainly not free, where Knox occupies every corner of my life with his overwhelming presence. He's everywhere—in the penthouse we now share, in the gallery where his security man shadows my every move, in my inbox where his messages check on my well-being with clockwork regularity, in my dreams where memories of the island replay in vivid detail. I'm drowning in Knox Vance, and the most terrifying part is how natural it feels to stop fighting the current.

"You look tired," he observes, his dark eyes missing nothing as he sips his black coffee. "Not sleeping well?"

"I'm fine," I respond automatically, though we both know it's not entirely true. The morning sickness has kicked in with a vengeance this week, leaving me queasy and exhausted. Knox has been there for every episode, appearing with ginger tea and cool cloths as if summoned by some primal instinct.

"You have the Farrow collection opening tonight," he reminds me, as if I could possibly forget the most important exhibition of the season. "I'll have the car ready at six."

"I can take a cab," I counter, a token resistance we both know is futile. "There's no need for you to rearrange your schedule."

His smile is patient, indulgent. "My schedule is already arranged, Seraphina. I'll be there."

And that's how it goes—every assertion of independence met with calm insistence, every attempt to create space countered by his unwavering presence. Not through force or threats, but through a relentless, gentle pressure that's somehow harder to fight than outright domination.

After breakfast, I retreat to the office he created for me, ostensibly to review the final details for tonight's opening but really to gather my thoughts, to find moments where I'm not directly under his gaze. The space is perfect—everything I could want in a work environment, tailored specifically to my needs as if he'd been inside my head. It's thoughtful, considerate, and completely unnerving how well he knows me.

My phone buzzes with a text from Lisa, my assistant at the gallery:

Richard's replacement from São Paulo calling again. What should I tell him?

A familiar knot forms in my stomach. Richard's sudden departure—orchestrated by Knox, of course—left a hole in our curatorial team that needs filling. But every candidate Iinterview seems to have some connection to Knox, some loyalty that makes me question their independence. It's as if he's slowly infiltrating every aspect of my professional life, surrounding me with people who answer to him as much as to me.

Tell him I'll call back this afternoon .

I reply, knowing I'll probably cancel again. The thought of adding another Knox-approved person to my staff makes me irrationally resistant, even if they're perfectly qualified.

At noon, I leave for the gallery, taking the private elevator Knox installed directly from my office to the garage where Cain, my "security detail," waits beside a sleek black SUV. He's professionally polite, never intrusive, but his presence is a constant reminder of Knox's control extending well beyond the penthouse walls.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Vale," he greets me, opening the rear door. "Directly to the gallery today?"

"Yes, please," I respond, sliding into the leather seat. At least he doesn't report my every movement to Knox. Or so I've been told. I'm not entirely convinced.

The gallery is my sanctuary—or it was, before Knox's influence began seeping into even this space. Now I notice the surveillance cameras installed "for security purposes." The new insurance policy covering the priceless artworks we display, courtesy of a company I later discovered is a Vance Technologies subsidiary. The renovated lighting system that just happened to be donated by an anonymous benefactor.

Piece by piece, Knox is marking his territory, claiming my professional domain as subtly but thoroughly as he's claimed every other aspect of my life.

"Seraphina, there you are!" Lisa hurries toward me, tablet in hand. "The caterers had a question about the wine selectionfor tonight, and that new collector—Mr. Jiang—wants to preview the collection before the opening."

Work. Focus on work.That's my mantra these days, the one thing that still feels somewhat under my control. I throw myself into final preparations for the opening, positioning artwork, approving lighting, rehearsing my remarks for the press. Cain maintains a discreet distance, positioned near the entrance where he can observe without interfering.

Hours pass in productive activity until my phone chimes with a text from Knox: "Car arriving in 45 minutes. The red dress is hanging in your office. Wear it tonight."

The presumption of it makes my blood boil. The red dress—a stunning Valentino that appeared in my closet yesterday—is exactly what I would have chosen myself for tonight's event. Which makes Knox's directive all the more infuriating. It's as if he's inside my head, anticipating my choices before I make them, then positioning himself as the authority granting permission.

"I'll wear what I please," I mutter, even as I find myself walking to my office where, sure enough, the red dress hangs in perfect readiness.

It would be childish to reject it purely out of spite. Professional suicide to appear anything less than impeccable at tonight's opening. So I change into the dress, hating that it fits perfectly, that the color makes my skin glow, that Knox knew exactly what would showcase me to best advantage.

When I emerge, Lisa's eyes widen appreciatively. "Wow. That's…wow. Knox has amazing taste."

"I have amazing taste," I correct her, perhaps more sharply than necessary. "Knox just happens to agree."

Her knowing smile suggests she sees right through my protest, which only irritates me further. Has everyone in my life decided that Knox and I are some predestined couple, thathis high-handed methods are somehow romantic rather than controlling?

The SUV arrives precisely on schedule, and I'm not surprised to find Knox already inside, immaculate in a black suit that probably costs more than most people's monthly rent. He looks up from his phone as I slide in beside him, his eyes darkening appreciably as they take in the red dress.

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