Page 16 of Bound in Silk

The distinction strikes home with uncomfortable accuracy. Safety has always been my default when emotions become too intense, when vulnerability feels too dangerous. It's why I left Knox eighteen months ago. It's why I nearly married Richard. It's why I'm trying to retreat now, when Knox's emotionalhonesty and Alessandra's cruel assessment have combined to make me feel exposed, vulnerable, at risk.

"I don't know how to do this," I admit, the words barely audible. "How to be with someone like you without losing myself. How to maintain my identity when you're so…overwhelming."

"We figure it out together," he says simply. "Day by day. Moment by moment. With honesty, with communication, with mutual respect for each other's needs." His hands slide from my face to my shoulders, then down my arms to capture my hands in his. "But not with physical distance. Not with emotional walls. Not with retreat disguised as 'processing.'"

Our fingers intertwine, and I feel that same electric awareness that's always existed between us, that connection that transcends physical attraction or circumstantial entanglement. That recognizes something essential, something irreplaceable in the other.

"Stay," Knox says, the word both command and request. "Stay in our bed. Stay present with me. Stay engaged in figuring out how we balance my need to protect with your need for independence. How we create something that honors both of us without diminishing either."

I search his face, looking for the calculation, the manipulation, the strategic maneuvering I've come to expect from Knox Vance. Finding instead an openness, a vulnerability, a genuine plea that's far more persuasive than any demand could ever be.

"Alessandra was wrong about many things," he continues, his voice low and intent. "But perhaps her cruelest lie was suggesting you aren't my equal. You are the only person who has ever truly challenged me, Seraphina. The only one who hasn't been blinded by wealth or power or position. The only one who has demanded I be better, do better, love better."

Love. There it is again—the word he used last night in the Egyptian wing, the declaration I'm still not ready to fully process or return. But hearing it now, in the quiet of our kitchen rather than the emotional aftermath of Alessandra's cruelty, it carries different weight. More real. More authentic. More frightening in its implications.

"I need to protect myself," I say finally, the last defense of a woman who knows she's already surrendering. "From how much it would hurt to believe you, to trust this, and be wrong."

"Then let me protect you instead," he counters, bringing our joined hands to his chest, pressing them against his heartbeat. "From Alessandra's poison. From your own fears. From anything and anyone who would make you doubt your place in my life, your value beyond any role you play, your absolute centrality to everything that matters to me."

It would be so easy to say yes. To lean into the security he offers, the certainty he projects, the love he's declaring with unprecedented vulnerability. To surrender the last of my resistance and acknowledge what we both know is true—that fighting what's between us has always been futile, that we are bound together by something deeper than circumstance or convenience or even the child I carry.

But self-preservation runs deep, the fear of losing myself in his overwhelming presence a specter I can't quite banish despite his assurances.

"I need to go to work," I say instead of answering directly, gently extracting my hands from his. "I have meetings I can't reschedule."

Disappointment flashes across his features before determination replaces it. "We'll continue this discussion tonight," he states, not a question but a certainty. "This isn't over, Seraphina. I won't let you retreat. Not again."

As I gather my things and prepare to leave for the gallery, I can feel his eyes following me, his attention unwavering despite my attempted withdrawal. And I know, with both trepidation and a treacherous sense of relief, that Knox is right—this isn't over. He won't let me push him away, won't let me hide behind emotional walls, won't let me retreat from the intense connection that has always defined our relationship.

The question is whether that persistence represents the controlling domination I've always feared, or the devoted commitment I've secretly craved. And whether I can find the courage to discover the answer without running away.

Chapter Ten

Knox

My hands move methodicallyas I set my plan in motion, but inside my chest burns a fire that has nothing to do with guilt and everything to do with determination. Seraphina has retreated emotionally since the gala, since Alessandra's poisonous words found purchase in her deepest insecurities, since my own emotional vulnerability exposed depths she wasn't prepared to face. Her attempt this morning to move back to the guest room, to create physical distance mirroring her emotional withdrawal, confirmed what I already knew—she's scared. Not of me, but of us. Of the intensity between us. Of how completely we belong to each other despite her continued resistance. Words alone won't convince her. Rational arguments won't penetrate the fear driving her retreat. What Seraphina needs is irrefutable evidence of her place in my life, her value beyond motherhood or convenience, her absolute centrality to everything I am and everything I'll ever be. And I intend to provide that evidence in a way so unmistakable, so overwhelming, that even her most determined resistance will crumble beneath its weight.

I reach for my phone, issuing a series of rapid commands to my most trusted staff. "Clear my schedule for the remainder of the day. Have Gabriel increase security at the gallery, but discreetly. Contact Emerson at Vogue—I'm ready to give that exclusive he's been requesting, with specific conditions. And tell Clarence to bring the finished piece. Today."

Each instruction is acknowledged with immediate compliance, my team accustomed to executing my directives without question, regardless of how sudden or seemingly irrational. They've learned that what appears impulsive is usually the culmination of careful calculation, that my timing is deliberate even when it seems spontaneous.

This particular plan has been developing since the moment Seraphina returned to my life—waiting for the right moment, the precise circumstances that would make its impact undeniable. Alessandra's cruelty, followed by Seraphina's emotional retreat, has created exactly the scenario I've been anticipating. The vulnerability beneath her defenses is exposed, the foundation of her resistance cracked. Now is the time to apply strategic pressure to those fractures, to shatter the last of her doubts about her place in my life.

Four hours later, everything is in place. The penthouse has been transformed according to my exacting specifications—every detail perfect, every element chosen with deliberate intent. Clarence arrived with the centerpiece of my plan, the physical manifestation of my claim that will leave no room for misinterpretation or doubt. Emerson from Vogue waits in my office, prepared to document what happens next, to share it with the world under strict conditions I've personally dictated.

Gabriel's text confirms that Seraphina has left the gallery, heading home as expected rather than attempting to avoid the conversation I promised this morning. Good. Her courage, herwillingness to face confrontation rather than run from it, is one of the many qualities that make her irreplaceable in my life.

I position myself carefully, calculating the optimal staging for maximum impact. This isn't just a romantic gesture—it's a strategic deployment designed to overcome specific resistance, to address particular insecurities, to establish unequivocal certainty about Seraphina's place in my world. Every detail has been considered, from lighting to timing to the precise words I'll say when she walks through the door.

The elevator's arrival pings, sending a surge of anticipation through my body. I hear her footsteps in the foyer, the momentary pause as she notices the path of white rose petals leading deeper into the penthouse. Then the sound of her approach, hesitant at first, then more determined as curiosity overcomes caution.

"Knox?" she calls, her voice carrying a note of confusion. "What is all this?"

I remain silent, letting her follow the trail I've created, allowing anticipation to build with each step. When she finally reaches the great room, her breath audibly catches at the transformation before her. Every surface covered with her favorite flowers—not just roses but peonies, ranunculus, orchids in precise shades that complement rather than overwhelm. Hundreds of candles creating golden light that softens the modern edges of the space. And dominating the center of the room, displayed on a custom pedestal, the red velvet box containing my grandmother's diamonds, open to reveal what Clarence has created from them.

"What..." she begins, then stops, unable to process the scene before her.

Now I step forward from where I've been waiting, moving to stand beside the pedestal, beside the ring that represents everything I'm offering her. "You tried to retreat this morning,"I say without preamble. "To create distance. To protect yourself from the intensity of what's between us."

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