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A fragile peace settled over her as she stepped back to survey her work. For now, this was enough. This quiet rebellion, this piece of herself preserved in the midst of his control.
But as she turned toward the door, the illusion shattered.
Adrian filled the hallway, draining every molecule of oxygen from the space around her. His eyes moved past her, taking in the transformation of his pristine space. The sewing machine. The fabric. The silent defiance of her claim.
A moment stretched between them, thick with unspoken challenge.
Georgia’s throat tightened as Adrian’s gaze swept over her workspace. His silence filled the room, heavier than any words could be. The fabric swatches dulled and faded as his shadow fell across them, her precious tools seeming to wilt and diminish under his crushing stare.
Her pulse quickened. The urge to explain herself, to justify the space she’d carved out, rose in her chest. But she swallowed it back. Speaking first would give him power she wasn’t ready to surrender.
Adrian’s footsteps whispered against marble as he moved closer. His face remained unreadable, a mask of perfect control that revealed nothing of his thoughts. The corner she’d claimed suddenly felt small, fragile, like a sandcastle before the tide.
She forced herself to stay still as he traced a finger along her sewing machine. The gesture wasn’t threatening, wasn’t angry. But something in his touch made her skin prickle with awareness.
His continued silence pressed against her ears. Was he allowing this small rebellion? Or simply watching, calculating the perfect moment to remind her that everything here, even the air she breathed, belonged to him?
Georgia’s fingers curled into fists at her sides. The peaceful feeling from moments ago slipped away, replaced by the cold reality of her situation. These tools, these precious pieces of herself, existed here only because he allowed it.
Like everything else in this gilded cage, they were his to grant or take away.
Georgia held her breath as Adrian continued to run his finger over her sewing machine. His touch was light, almost reverent, but it made her chest tighten with an emotion she couldn’t name. The silence between them stretched thin, ready to snap.
“I wasn’t aware we’d discussed redecorating,” Adrian finally said. His voice was calm, the kind of calm that hid storms beneath its surface.
Georgia lifted her chin. “I didn’t think I needed permission to bring my work.”
“Your work.” He repeated the words, testing them. His gaze swept over the fabric swatches, the spools of thread, the sketches she’d carefully arranged. “The contract was quite specific about your new role, Georgia.”
“As your wife,” she said, the word sticking in her throat. “Not as your possession.”
Something flickered across his face. Not anger, but interest. His eyes returned to her, sharper now, more focused.
“You misunderstand the nature of our arrangement.” Adrian picked up one of her sketches, studying the lines with unexpected attention. “I purchased your time, your public appearance, your compliance. Not your talents.”
Georgia frowned, trying to decode his meaning. “So you’re saying?—”
“I’m saying,” he cut in, placing the sketch down with precision, “that your previous career is irrelevant to our agreement. What you do in your private hours is your concern, provided it doesn’t interfere with your obligations.”
The concession surprised her. She’d expected a fight, a reminder of her place, not this strange allowance. It felt like a trap, but she couldn’t see the trigger.
“Thank you,” she said carefully.
A flicker of amusement ghosted across his face. “Don’t thank me yet. I’m not being generous, Georgia. I’m being practical.” He gestured to her supplies. “An idle mind breeds discontent. Discontent leads to rebellion. And rebellion…” He paused, his eyes cooling. “Well, that would be unfortunate for both of us.”
The threat lingered beneath his words, soft but unmistakable.
“Besides,” he continued, straightening his already perfect cuffs, “a woman with purpose is far more interesting than one without.”
Georgia stared at him, trying to understand the man beneath the power and control. Was this calculation, manipulation, or something resembling kindness?
“My mother taught me to keep my hands busy,” she said, not knowing why she offered this piece of herself.
Adrian’s expression shifted, something unreadable passing through his eyes. “My mother believed in the same principle.” He touched one of the spools of thread, rolling it slightly. “Though her lessons tended toward more… traditional pursuits.”
For a moment, they stood in something close to understanding—two people sharing the barest glimpse beneath their armor.
Then Adrian stepped back, restoring the distance between them. “And Georgia?”