And yet, when Callum opens the door and steps aside to let me enter, my heart starts racing.
Tonight feels different.
The room is stunning, of course. Large and elegant, with a four-poster bed dominating the space like a centerpiece. Someone—probably Jamison or an attentive housemaid—has lit a fire in the fireplace and scattered rose petals across the bedspread. A bottle of champagne sits chilling in an ice bucket beside two crystal flutes.
— Well, I say, slowly turning in place, you can’t say they didn’t go all out for our first night as a married couple.
— It’s a bit excessive, Callum admits, closing the door behind him. I can have it all removed if it makes you uncomfortable.
— No, it’s… it’s fine. Authentic. If anyone walks in, they’ll find exactly what they expect in a bridal suite.
A slightly awkward silence settles between us. Callum clears his throat and gestures toward a side door.
— We’re married, but that doesn’t change our arrangement. I’ll sleep on the couch, of course?—
— Callum, I interrupt gently, we’re adults. And more importantly, contractually bound. Sharing a bed without touching is probably the least complicated part of this entire situation.
He nods, visibly relieved.
— In that case, I’ll give you space to change. Unless you need help with your dress?
That innocent question suddenly makes me aware of a very practical problem: my dress fastens up the back with an intricate row of tiny buttons I barely managed to close with the help of two assistants.
— Actually, I begin hesitantly, I might need a little help. If you don’t mind?
— Not at all, Callum replies, his politeness at odds with the flicker in his eyes.
I turn my back to him, gathering my hair to one side to give him access.
— It’s the small buttons all the way down my spine. They’re delicate, so if you could…
My words trail off the moment I feel his fingers brush against my bare skin. His touch is feather-light, methodical as he works on the tiny buttons—but every contact sends a wave of heat down my back.
— This is complicated, he murmurs, his voice rougher than usual. Who designed this? A medieval torture expert?
I try to laugh, but the sound comes out strangely strained.
— Haute couture and practicality rarely go hand in hand, I say, desperately trying to maintain normal conversation while every brush of his fingers feels like a line of fire across my skin.
— Almost done, he murmurs, so close I can feel his breath against my neck.
The final button gives, and my dress loosens slightly at the back. His hands linger for a fraction of a second—barely there, but enough to steal my breath.
— There, he says, stepping back.
I turn slowly to face him, clutching the front of my dress to keep it from slipping. Our eyes meet, and the intensity in his gaze hits me like a physical force. His usually clear eyes seem darker somehow—deeper.
— Thank you, I whisper.
— You’re welcome, he replies just as quietly.
We stand there, suspended in a moment thick with tension neither of us is ready to name. My heart pounds so loudly I’m certain he can hear it.
— I should… I should go change, I say finally, breaking the silence.
Something that looks like disappointment flashes across his face, but he simply nods and steps back again.
— Of course. Take your time.
