Page 19 of Arranged with Twins
That makes me pause because she’s not wrong. I have been treating her like she doesn’t fully grasp the dangers we’re facing, and her judgment can’t be trusted in matters of security and family business. She’s never dealt with the threats I’m accustomed to, but instead of explaining them, I’ve just seized control. “You don’t understand the full scope of what we’re dealing with,” I say, though the words sound weak even to me.
“Then explain it to me. Trust me with the truth instead of making decisions for me like I’m a child.” She steps closer, and I see the hurt beneath her anger. “I’m intelligent, Leo. I’m educated, capable of understanding complex situations, and I certainly have opinions about my own safety.”
“This isn’t about your intelligence?—”
“It’s exactly about that. You think I’m too naïve or too sheltered or too something to be a real partner in this arrangement. So you make choices for me and then tell me they’re for my own good.” Her voice cracks slightly. “Just like everyone else in my life. Maybe it’s not intelligence. Maybe you regard me as a convenience or inconvenience to be used as needed.”
The pain in those last words catches me off guard. This isn’t just about security protocols or business agreements but a lifetime of being treated like her thoughts and feelings don’t matter. “Whatwould you suggest?” I ask, genuinely curious about her answer. “How would you handle security for someone in your position?”
“I’d want to know what the actual threats are, not just vague warnings about danger. I’d want to discuss what protection looks like. I guess, such as obvious bodyguards versus detached surveillance versus something in between. I’d want some say in how my life changes rather than being told it’s changing.”
Her suggestions are reasonable, practical, and show considerably more strategic thinking than I gave her credit for. Sienna isn’t just intelligent. She’s thinking like someone who understands power dynamics and long-term consequences.
“You’re right,” I admit. “I should have discussed these with you instead of presenting them as accomplished facts.”
“Yes, you should have but didn’t. I need to know if you’re going to be like my parents.” She laughs without humor. “Do you know what the most frustrating part is? I actually trust your judgment more than my parents’. If you’d explained the situation and asked for my input, I probably would have agreed to most of what you’re proposing.”
The admission catches me by surprise. “You would have?”
“I’m not stupid, Leo. My family is in trouble and being engaged to you makes me a target. I’m aware you aren’t a squeaky clean billionaire, though I don’t know how deep your ties to the criminal underworld go versus what your father’s or grandfather’s were. I understand some changes are necessary.” She picks up one of the contracts, scanning a page more carefully. “I want to be part of the decision-making process, not just a signature on documents other people have negotiated.”
I study her face, seeing frustration and a hint of disappointment. Not just anger at being controlled but genuine hurt that I didn’t think enough of her to include her in important decisions. She’s clearly saddened that I’m treating her just like her parents do when she dared hope for more. That makes my stomach clench with anger at myself and a strong dose of discomfort at my highhandedness.
“We could go through the agreements together,” I say slowly. “We can discuss the security options and talk about what makes sense.”
“Could we? Or will you just explain why your original decisions were correct and I should accept them?” She arches a brow as she asks, and the worst part is, her skepticism, though probably learned through years of dealing with her parents, isn’t unwarranted.
The question forces me to examine my own motivations. Am I willing to actually consider her input, or am I just looking for a way to get her compliance without changing anything substantial? “I want your input,” I say finally. “Real input, not just a token consultation.”
“Then we should probably start over. Put away the contracts you’ve already drawn up and talk about what we actually need.” She sets down the papers and looks at me directly. “First though, I want to know something. Are you planning to stage more romantic moments for the press? More opportunities to ‘control the narrative’ like Katherine did with the ring photos?”
The question startles me. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, are you going to suggest we record a proposal video or stage other intimate moments for social media? Because if this isall performance, I’d rather know up front.” She seems weary at the moment, like the pretense is taking a huge toll on her.
I understand what she’s really asking. She wants to know whether anything between us is genuine, or if every moment of apparent intimacy has been calculated for public consumption. “No,” I say quietly. “I’m not planning to stage anything else. We’ve given the media enough to work with.”
“Good.” She lets out a ragged breath. “I’m tired of acting or pretending this is all just business when it obviously isn’t anymore.”
She’s speaking a blatant truth neither of us has been willing to acknowledge directly until now. “What is it then?” I ask.
“I don’t know. It’s not just business though.” She steps closer, and her pulse is fluttering rapidly in her throat. “Is it?”
The honest answer is no. Somewhere between defending her dress choices and selecting a ring I thought she’d actually like, this arrangement has become something more complicated than either of us planned. “No,” I say softly. “It’s not just business.”
The admission changes the atmosphere in the room completely. Suddenly, we’re not discussing contracts and security protocols. We’re standing too close together, both of us breathing slightly harder than normal, and both of us aware that we’ve crossed some invisible line.
“Then what happens now?” she asks, her voice softer than before.
I reach up to touch her face, brushing my thumb across her cheekbone. “I don’t know. I’d like to find out though.”
She leans into my touch, and the last of my carefully maintained control begins to fray. “Leo?—”
I kiss her before she can finish the sentence, and she responds immediately, pressing against me with a hunger that matches my own. This isn’t the careful, public kiss from the restaurant. This is desperate, raw, and completely truthful.
When we break apart, both of us are breathing hard.
“This is probably a mistake,” she whispers against my lips.
