Page 2 of Bound in Silk

"Beautiful," he says simply, and I hate the warmth that spreads through me at the approval in his voice.

"The dress or me?" I challenge, fastening my seatbelt with more force than necessary.

"Both." His hand covers mine briefly, our fingers brushing again with that same electric awareness. "But mostly you. Always you."

I pull my hand away, staring out the window as Manhattan flows past. "You didn't need to escort me tonight. I'm perfectly capable of handling a gallery opening on my own. I've been doing it for years."

"I know you're capable," he responds, unruffled by my prickliness. "That's never been in question. But this is your first public appearance since the wedding incident. I thought my presence might...deflect some of the more intrusive questions."

He's right, of course. The press has been in a feeding frenzy since Knox's dramatic interruption of my wedding. Speculation runs rampant about our relationship, about why I was marrying Richard when apparently I had a billionaire lover waiting in the wings, about whether this was all some elaborate publicity stunt.

The pregnancy isn't public knowledge yet—won't be until I start showing or we decide to announce it. But Knox's presence tonight will set a clear narrative: we're together. A united front. Not a kidnapping victim and her captor, but a couple reconciled after a separation.

It's strategic. Sensible. And completely infuriating that he's once again ten steps ahead of me, anticipating problems and implementing solutions before I've even fully processed the situation.

The gallery is already filling with guests when we arrive, the city's art elite mingling with critics, collectors, and the inevitable social climbers who attend such events to be seen rather than to appreciate art. All conversation pauses momentarily as Knox and I enter, his hand at the small of my back, a proprietary gesture that sends a clear message to everyone watching.

"Ms. Vale, Mr. Vance!" A reporter from Art Monthly approaches, digital recorder already extended. "What a pleasure to see you both tonight. Can we get a comment on your reconciliation after the dramatic events at St. Patrick's Cathedral?"

Knox's hand tightens slightly against my back, a silent signal that he'll handle this if I prefer. But this is my gallery, my professional domain. I need to maintain some control.

"I'm happy to discuss the Farrow collection," I reply smoothly. "It represents an important evolution in contemporary abstract expressionism that deserves attention."

"Of course, but our readers are naturally curious about?—"

"About the exceptional artists we're featuring tonight," Knox interrupts, his tone pleasant but brooking no argument. "Seraphina has curated a groundbreaking exhibition. That's the story worth telling."

The reporter retreats, knowing better than to press further, and Knox guides me deeper into the gallery, greeting patrons and collectors with the easy charm that makes him so dangerous. He knows everyone, remembers their children's names, their artistic preferences, their recent acquisitions. And they respond to him with a deference that borders onobsequiousness, even those who typically treat gallery directors like myself with condescension.

"Mikhail," Knox greets a Russian oligarch whose collection rivals small museums. "Have you seen the centerpiece yet? It's exactly what you've been looking for to complete the east wing."

And just like that, I'm witnessing a million-dollar sale unfold before my eyes, orchestrated by a man who claims technology as his domain but seems equally adept in the rarified air of high art. By the end of the evening, we've sold three major pieces and have commitments for four more—a record even for our most successful exhibitions.

"You're good at this," I admit reluctantly as we ride back to the penthouse, the opening an unqualified success behind us.

"At what specifically?" Knox asks, his attention focused on his phone where he's undoubtedly managing some aspect of his empire even at this late hour.

"All of it. The schmoozing. The sales. The press management." I stare out the window, not wanting to see his satisfaction at my acknowledgment. "It's like you've invaded every corner of my professional life and somehow made it...better. More successful. Which just makes it harder to resent your interference."

He sets his phone aside, giving me his full attention. "It's not interference, Seraphina. It's partnership. There's a difference."

"Partnership suggests equality," I counter. "Mutual decision-making. Not one person orchestrating everything while the other just...complies."

"Is that how you see it?" Genuine curiosity colors his voice. "That I'm orchestrating and you're complying?"

"How else would you describe it? You decide where I live, how I get to work, who provides security, what dress I wear..." The frustration I've been containing all week spills out. "You'reeverywhere, Knox. Controlling everything. Making it impossible for me to maintain any sense of separate identity."

Instead of the defensive response I expect, he simply nods, considering my words. "I can see how it feels that way to you," he acknowledges, surprising me. "And perhaps I've been...overzealous in some areas."

The admission is so unexpected that I turn to look at him directly. "Overzealous?"

"I want to protect you. Provide for you. Ensure your happiness and success in all things." His dark eyes hold mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch. "But I don't want to suffocate the very qualities that make you who you are. Your independence. Your fire. Your determination to forge your own path."

"You have a funny way of showing it," I mutter, but the heat has gone out of my accusation.

"I'm learning," he says simply. "Finding the balance that eluded us before. But understand this, Seraphina—I will never stop trying to give you everything you need, whether you recognize those needs yourself or not. That's not control. That's love."

The word hangs between us, loaded with implications neither of us has fully addressed since my abduction from the altar. Love. Is that what this is? This consuming, overwhelming connection that defies rational thought? This push-pull between independence and surrender?

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