Page 19 of Bound in Silk

The elevator ride to the garage feels interminable, each second stretching with the fear that Knox will appear, will somehow sense my intentions despite my careful planning. But the doors open to reveal the empty garage, the row of luxury vehicles, the freedom that waits just beyond the security gate.

I don't take one of Knox's cars—too easily traced, too obvious. Instead, I walk past them to the street exit, the morning air cool against my face as I emerge onto the sidewalk. No car service, either, despite what I told Knox—those records would be accessible to him with a single phone call, a single demand.

Instead, I hail a passing taxi, sliding into the cracked leather seat with a sense of anonymity that feels like the first full breath I've taken in weeks. "The Standard Hotel," I tell the driver, choosing a place unlikely to attract Knox's immediate attention, large enough to provide some measure of privacy.

As the taxi pulls away from the curb, from the building that houses the penthouse, from Knox himself, the band around my chest loosens slightly. Guilt mingles with relief, concern with determination. I twist the ring on my finger, feeling its weight, its significance, its beauty and its burden.

This isn't rejection. Not exactly. It's self-preservation—a desperate grab for clarity before I surrender completely to the gravitational pull that is Knox Vance, before I lose the last edges of myself in his overwhelming presence. Just a day or two. Just enough time to think clearly, to be certain that my decisions are truly mine and not simply the path of least resistance against his implacable will.

The taxi moves through morning traffic, each block increasing the distance between us, creating physical space that might allow for emotional clarity. On my finger, the ring catches the sunlight streaming through the window, sendingsmall rainbows dancing across the back of the driver's seat. My heartbeat embedded in platinum and diamonds. Knox's claim made physical, visible, permanent.

I press my hand to my stomach, to the small life growing there that connects us irrevocably regardless of rings or vows or public declarations. Our child. The ultimate entanglement, the final proof that whatever happens between Knox and me, we are bound together by something deeper than choice or convenience or momentary desire.

"You've got a beautiful ring," the taxi driver comments, catching the flash of diamonds in his rearview mirror. "Recent engagement?"

"Yes," I answer, the simple truth easier than explanation. "Very recent."

"Congratulations," he says, his eyes returning to the road. "Nothing like starting a life together."

That's the question, isn't it? Whether life with Knox is a beginning or an ending. Whether surrendering to his vision, his will, his consuming love means creating something new together or losing the essential core of who I am. Whether I can maintain my identity, my independence, my sense of self while still giving him what he needs, what he demands, what he deserves.

I don't know the answer. Can't know it while suffocating under the weight of his presence, his planning, his absolute certainty. Hence this escape. This breathing room. This desperate grab for clarity before the tidal wave that is Knox Vance sweeps away the last of my resistance, the final boundaries between his will and my surrender.

As the taxi navigates toward downtown, I silence my phone, knowing Knox will call soon, will expect me to check in as promised. The guilt is there—for the deception, for the worry I'll cause him, for the certainty that my disappearance will trigger every possessive, protective instinct he possesses. But beneathit burns a fiercer determination—to claim this space, this time, this moment of clarity for myself before deciding whether I can truly become what Knox wants, what Knox needs, what Knox has already declared inevitable.

Mrs. Knox Vance. His wife. The mother of his child.His.

The taxi stops in front of the hotel, and I pay in cash, another small defiance against the digital trail Knox could so easily follow. The ring weighs heavy on my finger as I check in, as I ride the elevator to my room, as I finally close the door behind me and sink onto the edge of the bed.

Alone. Truly alone for the first time in weeks. The silence both welcome and oppressive after the constant awareness of Knox's presence, the perpetual hum of connection between us even when in separate rooms.

I know what I've done will hurt him. Know that my disappearance will trigger his deepest fears of loss, of abandonment, of having what matters most slip through his grasp. Know that when he finds me—and he will find me, of that I have no doubt—his reaction will be intense, overwhelming, possibly frightening in its raw emotion.

But I also know that this space, this clarity, this moment of being fully myself rather than an extension of his will, is necessary if I'm to move forward with open eyes. If I'm to give myself to Knox Vance, it must be a conscious choice, a deliberate surrender, not simply the path of least resistance against his implacable determination.

The ring catches the light again, a constant reminder of the man I've left behind, of the claim I've neither fully accepted nor entirely rejected. My heartbeat in platinum and diamonds. His devotion made physical, visible, permanent.

I don't remove it. Not yet. Because I don't know what comes next—only that I need this space, this clarity, this breath of air unconditioned by Knox's presence, before I can decide whetherto fully embrace or finally reject the future he's designed for us with such confident certainty.

Chapter Twelve

Knox

Her hair isa tangle of honey-blonde strands pulled back in a hasty ponytail, her lips a tense line of apprehension when I finally find her. Six hours, fourteen minutes since I realized she'd run. Six hours, fourteen minutes of cold, calculated fury mixed with a fear so primal it nearly brought me to my knees. Six hours, fourteen minutes of mobilizing every resource at my disposal, of tracking her methodically while my mind conjured increasingly desperate scenarios. Standing in the doorway of the hotel room my security team has just unlocked, watching her rise from the bed with wide eyes like a cornered animal, I feel something crack inside me—the control I've maintained throughout the search fracturing under the weight of relief and rage in equal measure. She still wears my ring. That's the first thing I notice, the first detail my mind registers through the red haze of emotion. She ran, but she didn't remove my claim. Didn't fully reject what I offered, what I declared, what I know with bone-deep certainty is meant to be.

"Knox," she says, my name both acknowledgment and plea. "I can explain?—"

"Save it," I cut her off, stepping into the room and closing the door behind me with deliberate control, despite the storm raging inside me. "I've spent the last six hours imagining every possible scenario—that you'd been taken, hurt, lost. That something had happened to you or our child. That some enemy of mine had found a way to strike at me through what matters most."

I pause, letting her see the raw emotion I've contained during the search, the fear beneath the fury. "Instead, I find you here. Safe. Unharmed. Having run from me by choice, with calculation, with deliberation."

Her chin lifts slightly, that familiar defiance that simultaneously infuriates and captivates me. "I didn't run from you. Not exactly. I just needed space. Time to think clearly without your…overwhelming presence."

"Space," I repeat, the word like acid on my tongue. "Time." I move closer, watching her fight the instinct to back away, to maintain distance. "After everything. After the ring. After my declaration. After what we shared."

The morning had started normally enough. I'd registered her absence when I woke fully, noted her casual attire, accepted her explanation about visiting her former assistant's exhibition. It wasn't until an hour later, when she failed to check in as promised, that the first threads of suspicion formed. Two hours later, when calls to her phone went straight to voicemail and the gallery confirmed she hadn't arrived for her scheduled meetings, suspicion crystallized into certainty.

She ran.

---