She searched my face for calculation. She would not find it.
“When?” she asked.
I almost smiled.
“When did it change?” I echoed softly. “I am not certain it ever was what we pretended.”
Her brows knit together. “It started as insurance,” she said.
“Yes.”
“And cooking.”
“Yes.”
“And a contract.”
“Yes . . . but for me,” I continue, “it became something else very quickly.”
“How quickly?” she whispers.
“Probably the whole time, if I was honest. But if I had to choose, it was that night you first fell asleep with your head on my shoulder.”
The truth landed heavier than I expected. All the fight left her at once. It drained out of her shoulders, out of her jaw. She just . . . stared at me.
I stepped fully into her space and lifted my hands to her face.
She didn’t pull away. Her skin was warm beneath my palms.
“You think I would purchase your company and secure your father’s care for a woman I intend to discard?” I ask softly.
Her throat moved. “I think you don’t always realize how much power you wield.”
That was fair. I softened my grip, thumbs brushing lightly along her cheekbones.
“It is real for me,” I said quietly.
Her eyes shine, but she does not look triumphant; she looks overwhelmed.
“You are not temporary,” I continued. “You are not an obligation. You are not a contract.”
I lowered my forehead to hers.
“You are my wife.”
The word felt different now.
“I choose you,” I added, softer still.
Then I kissed her. Slow. Intentional. It was a promise pressed into her mouth.
For a heartbeat, she melted into it. Her hands slid up my chest, fingers curling lightly in my shirt.
Then something shifted. She pulled back abruptly and placed her hands against my chest, pushing me away.
The spell broke.
I studied her.
