Page 11 of Bound in Silk

"Marcus." I shake his hand firmly before executing the introduction I've been planning all evening. "Allow me to introduce my fiancée, Seraphina Vale. Seraphina, Marcus Morgan, our host for the evening."

The word "fiancée" ripples through our immediate vicinity like a stone dropped in still water. Beside me, Seraphina tenses almost imperceptibly, though her social smile never wavers as she extends her hand to Marcus.

"A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Morgan. The work your foundation does is truly commendable."

"Please, call me Marcus," he responds, clearly charmed as most men are upon meeting her. "And congratulations on your engagement. When's the happy day?"

Before Seraphina can respond with a diplomatic evasion, I smoothly interject. "We're still finalizing details. With Seraphina's gallery commitments and my company's expansion, finding the perfect date requires some coordination."

The assumption of certainty, of inevitability, is deliberate. Not "if" but "when." Not possibility but certainty.

"Of course, of course," Marcus nods understandingly. "Well, we're delighted to have you both here tonight. Knox has been our most generous supporter for years."

As Marcus moves to greet other guests, Seraphina turns to me, her smile fixed in place for public consumption while her eyes flash warning signals.

"Fiancée?" she whispers through barely moving lips. "That's presumptuous, even for you."

"Is it?" I counter, guiding her deeper into the room with a hand that never leaves the small of her back. "You're wearing my family diamonds. Sleeping in my bed. Carrying my child. The only thing missing is the formality of a ring on your finger, which I'm more than ready to provide whenever you're prepared to admit the inevitable."

Before she can formulate a suitably cutting response, we're approached by the Mayor and his wife, then the CEO of a rival tech company and his much-younger date, then a stream of New York's elite, all eager to confirm the rumors and congratulate us on our engagement. With each introduction, each handshake, each conversation, the narrative solidifies—Knox Vance and Seraphina Vale are engaged, a power couple uniting the worlds of technology and art, their dramatic beginning merely the opening chapter of a compelling love story.

I watch Seraphina navigate these interactions with the grace and intelligence that first captivated me three years ago. She doesn't correct the assumption of our engagement, doesn't contradict my introduction. Instead, she plays her role perfectly, her hand occasionally finding mine, her body angled toward me in unconscious acknowledgment of our connection.

Only once, when approached by an investment banker whose eyes linger too long on the elegant curve of her neck, do I detect a note of strain in her performance. The man's interest is too obvious, too predatory, his gaze straying to the swell of her breasts above the midnight blue silk.

"Charles," I greet him, my voice carrying a warning undertone as my arm slides possessively around Seraphina's waist. "Have you met my fiancée, Seraphina Vale?"

The emphasis on "fiancée" is unmistakable, as is the message in my eyes when they meet his—back off or suffer consequences.Charles, whose company relies on my goodwill for several key partnerships, quickly recalibrates his approach, his gaze lifting to Seraphina's face as he offers congratulations with newly discovered respect.

"You didn't have to do that," Seraphina murmurs when he retreats. "I'm perfectly capable of handling unwanted attention."

"I know you are," I acknowledge, turning her slightly to face me. "But tonight, you're mine to protect, to claim, to celebrate. Indulge me."

Something softens in her expression, the irritation giving way to a reluctant understanding. "This means a lot to you, doesn't it? Not just the public claiming, but the label itself. Fiancée."

"Yes," I admit, seeing no reason to deny what must be obvious. "It's a step toward what we both know is coming. A public acknowledgment of private truth."

"I haven't said yes," she reminds me, though without the heat of real resistance.

"You will," I respond, absolute certainty in my voice. "When you're ready to admit what your heart already knows."

The orchestra begins playing, signaling the opening of the dance floor. Without asking permission, I take her hand, leading her to the center of the floor where all eyes will be on us. Her body fits against mine perfectly as we begin to move, her hand in mine, my other hand at the small of her back, the diamonds at her throat catching light with every turn.

"Everyone's watching," she observes, a hint of her old discomfort with being the center of attention surfacing.

"Let them," I reply, pulling her incrementally closer. "Let them see that you're mine. That we belong together. That what happened at that cathedral wasn't a kidnapping or a scandal, but a man reclaiming what should never have been lost in the first place."

She doesn't argue, doesn't pull away. Instead, she relaxes further into my embrace, her body moving in perfect harmony with mine as we navigate the dance floor. In this moment, with the eyes of New York society upon us, with my grandmother's diamonds marking her as the future of my dynasty, with our child growing unseen within her, the victory I've been working toward since bringing her home feels complete.

Seraphina Vale may not have verbally accepted my proposal yet, but tonight, in every way that matters, she has acknowledged what we both know is true—that she is, and will always be, mine.

The ring and the wedding are mere formalities yet to come.

Chapter Seven

Seraphina

My hands feelnumb as I accept another flute of sparkling water from a passing server, but inside my chest burns a warmth that I recognize as something between pride and panic. The weight of Knox's grandmother's diamonds against my collarbone reminds me with every breath of the public claiming that's occurred tonight—introduced as his fiancée to New York's elite without my explicit agreement, paraded as the future Mrs. Vance before I've even accepted his proposal. I should be furious. Should create a scene, correct the assumption, maintain the boundaries I've fought so hard to establish. Instead, I find myself playing along, smiling at congratulations, accepting good wishes, letting the narrative Knox has crafted become reality through sheer force of repetition. What does that say about me? About the independence I've supposedly been protecting? About how completely Knox has orchestrated my gradual surrender to exactly what he wanted all along?

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