Chapter 15
Eleanor solved the problem of separate bedrooms by refusing to acknowledge it existed.
“Newlyweds do not retire to opposite ends of the house,” she announced after dinner.
Alexander did not argue in front of her.
Neither did I.
When the master suite door finally closed behind us, I turned to him in alarm.
“The contract—”
“Remains unchanged.”
He nodded toward an adjoining study with a sofa long enough to accommodate most people and barely long enough to accommodate him.
“I’ll sleep there.”
“Alexander, that’s ridiculous. This room is half a house.”
“The sofa is sufficient.”
I looked at the many tiny buttons running down the back of my wedding dress.
“I have a more immediate problem.”
His eyes followed mine in the mirror.
For the first time all day, he looked uncertain.
“Can you help?”
He came behind me.
One by one, his fingers worked through the buttons.
The contact was minimal. His knuckles occasionally brushed my back through the lace.
Still, every place he touched seemed to remember.
Neither of us spoke.
When the last button came free, Alexander stepped back immediately.
“Good night, Grace.”
“Good night.”
The study door closed.
I stared at it much longer than necessary.
At dawn, I woke to movement outside.
From the balcony, I saw Alexander in the courtyard sparring with Ethan and two security officers.
There was nothing decorative about the way he moved. He was fast, efficient, controlled even at full force. The public knew him as a strategist. Watching him disarm Ethan in three movements reminded me that strategy was only part of what his career required.
He glanced toward the balcony.
I ducked behind the curtain.
Then felt ridiculous.
Later, trying to find the breakfast room, I took a wrong corridor and discovered a security door that required clearance.
Then another.
Then a staircase I was fairly sure had not existed five minutes earlier.
“Lost?”
I turned.
Alexander stood behind me in training clothes, hair still damp from a shower.
“Exploring.”
“You’re in a restricted wing.”
“So… strategically exploring.”
A pause.
“Come with me.”
He walked slower than usual so I could keep pace.
“This house needs signs.”
“Security dislikes signs.”
“Security is not currently hungry.”
That earned the faintest breath of amusement.
When we reached the kitchen, he opened the door for me.
“Breakfast is through here.”
“Thank you.”
For the first time, the estate felt fractionally less like a fortress.
Perhaps because I was beginning to know where the doors led.
Perhaps because one of them now belonged to me.
