Chapter 12
I had expected a room designed to intimidate: an oversized desk, medals displayed like warnings, perhaps a flag positioned so visitors would remember exactly who sat opposite them.
Instead, one wall was books. Military strategy, history, biographies—and several worn novels tucked between them. A round table near the windows seemed intended for conversation rather than hierarchy.
A lawyer waited beside two black folders.
For fifteen minutes, he walked us through the agreement.
One year.
Separate assets.
No interference with my education or future career.
No interference with Alexander’s military obligations.
Strict confidentiality.
Limited public appearances.
Property and financial protections written so clearly that even my anxiety could not invent hidden traps.
When the lawyer left, the closing door sounded final enough to make my palms damp.
Alexander opened his copy.
“Read yours.”
I did.
Dad had taught me never to sign anything simply because I trusted the person presenting it.
Especially then.
By the time I reached the final page, Alexander had not rushed me once.
“I don’t see anything unfair,” I said.
“There shouldn’t be.”
He folded his hands on the table.
“If something makes you uncomfortable, say it.”
“I will.”
His gaze dropped briefly.
“You’ve been gripping that pen hard enough to break it for several minutes.”
I looked down.
My knuckles were white.
I set the pen aside. “I may be slightly nervous.”
“I know.”
A cup appeared near my elbow sometime later, delivered so quietly I had not noticed the staff member enter.
“Chamomile,” Alexander said.
I stared at him. “How did you know?”
“I didn’t. It helps with nerves.”
The tea was warm enough to give my hands something useful to do.
We talked through practical questions.
Public appearances would be rare. Formal galas, perhaps. I would not be offered to the press as part of his image.
His mornings began at 04:30.
“Voluntarily?”
“Yes.”
“That’s deeply concerning.”
The corner of one eye creased.
“You are not required to join me.”
“Thank God.”
I warned him that I studied late, paced when memorising, and occasionally read notes aloud to myself.
“Pacing is permitted,” he said. “The walls are patient.”
I stared at him.
“Was that a joke?”
“No.”
It absolutely was.
We discussed disagreements.
“We talk,” he said.
“And if that fails?”
“Compromise.”
“And if that fails?”
“Then we use the lawyer we’re already paying.”
I laughed.
The tension loosened another notch.
When household expectations came up, I admitted I could barely cook.
“I thought you baked banana bread.”
I froze. “My father told you about that?”
“He also mentioned the kitchen fire.”
I covered my face.
“I am withdrawing from this marriage.”
“That would seem premature.”
I peered at him through my fingers. “You cook?”
“When time allows.”
“I assumed you survived on black coffee and discipline.”
This time I saw it clearly: the smallest lift at the corner of his mouth.
“I consume food, Miss Zane.”
I laughed, startled by how normal the moment felt.
Then came the condition I had been postponing.
“I don’t want you ordering me around.”
He went still.
I rushed to explain. “I know it’s your job. I know you command people all day. But I am not one of your soldiers, and I don’t want to spend a year feeling inspected or expected to stand at attention because you walked into the kitchen—”
“Grace.”
I stopped.
“I’ll try.”
“Try?”
“It is a reflex. I may forget. Remind me.”
“I may be too frightened to correct you.”
“You’ll adjust.”
The certainty in his voice was infuriatingly reassuring.
Then he added his own condition.
“When something bothers you, don’t tell me you’re fine.”
I blinked.
“What?”
“You smile when you’re uncomfortable. You use it to redirect attention.”
No one had ever said that to me before.
“You noticed?”
“I notice most things.”
For a moment, the legal pages between us felt less intimate than that observation.
“I’ll work on it,” I said.
“Good.”
He signed first.
His handwriting was sharp and efficient.
Then he slid the contract to me.
My hand trembled once before I wrote my name.
Grace Zane.
The final version would soon make that name temporary.
An hour later, I met Mia at our favourite café and collapsed into the booth opposite her.
“You survived,” she said.
“Marginally.”
“Tell me everything.”
I told her about the clauses, the tea, the 4:30 mornings, and my rule about orders.
“You told a four-star general not to order you around?”
“I was brave for approximately eight seconds.”
“What did he say?”
“He’ll try.”
Mia leaned back, delighted. “I like him.”
“You like chaos.”
“And he noticed your nervous smile after knowing you for what—two meetings?”
I stirred my drink.
“Yes.”
Her expression softened.
“That’s nothing, Grace.”
I looked toward the window.
No. It was nothing.
That was becoming the problem.
