Page 5 of Bound in Matrimony (Belonging to Him Trilogy #3)

Chapter Five

Seraphina

I stand alone in the cavernous master bathroom, staring at my reflection in the mirror that spans an entire wall.

Knox spared no expense having it custom-designed to eliminate any shadowing that might distort my appearance—because heaven forbid I apply my mascara in suboptimal lighting.

My wedding dress hangs from a specially installed hook on the door, a confection of silk and lace that costs more than my first car.

Three days. It took just three days for Knox to orchestrate what most brides spend a year planning.

Three days from announcement to execution, like a military operation rather than a celebration of love.

My fingers tremble as I reach for my moisturizer, the emerald on my left hand catching the light and throwing prisms across the marble countertop.

The ring appeared yesterday morning—fifteen carats of flawless clarity that makes my hand feel like it's carrying the weight of a small planet. Knox presented it over breakfast as casually as passing the salt, sliding the velvet box across the table while checking emails on his phone.

His grandmother’s ring with my heartbeat engraved on the band.

The only family heirloom he's ever mentioned, placed on my finger without ceremony. I didn't even know Knox had grandparents, let alone ones who passed down jewelry. Every time I think I understand the man I'm marrying, he reveals another layer.

The bathroom door is locked—a small rebellion in a penthouse where Knox has access to everything.

He's not here anyway, having spent the night at his downtown apartment because "tradition matters, Seraphina, even when I find it inconvenient.

" As if anything in Knox Vance's life happens without his explicit permission, including traditions.

The past forty-eight hours have been a blur of activity.

Designers parading dresses before me while Knox sat in judgment, dismissing options before I could even form an opinion.

Florists presenting arrangements for approval.

Caterers offering tastings of the world's finest cuisines.

Knox making decisions with military precision whenever I hesitated for more than thirty seconds.

"The Marchesa," he said, when I wavered between two gowns. "The lace at the neckline accentuates your collarbones."

I didn't argue, even though I slightly preferred the other. What's the point of arguing with a man who bought out an entire botanical garden for a day just so we could have privacy?

My hands rest on my swollen belly, feeling the reassuring kick of our daughter.

Seven and a half months pregnant and getting married.

Not exactly how I pictured it as a little girl.

Then again, I never pictured someone like Knox Vance either—a man so certain of what he wants that he bends reality to match his vision.

The first flutter of panic begins in my chest, a familiar tightening that makes my breath catch.

What am I doing? In three hours, I'll be legally bound to the most controlling, obsessive man I've ever met.

A man who tracked me across state lines when I ran.

A man who bought a hospital floor just to ensure our comfort.

A man who's rearranged his entire existence around possessing me completely.

I grip the edge of the counter, my knuckles whitening. Knox Vance doesn't do anything by half measures. This marriage won't be a partnership—it will be an acquisition. Me, incorporated into his empire, branded with his name, subject to his will.

My breathing quickens, echoing against the marble and glass surfaces of our bathroom.

Our bathroom. Already I think of everything as ours, when really it's all his.

The penthouse. The cars. The staff who materialize to meet my needs before I've even expressed them.

Even my body doesn't feel entirely my own anymore—not with his child growing inside me, not with the way he's mapped every inch of my skin with his demanding touch.

I need to get out. Just for a minute. Just to breathe air that isn't filtered through Knox's state-of-the-art purification system, to see sky that isn't framed by his custom windows.

The door to the bedroom opens. I hear my mother's voice calling my name, and I quickly splash cold water on my face, trying to erase the evidence of my panic.

"In here, Mom," I call, unlocking the bathroom door. "Just finishing my skincare routine."

She appears in the doorway, already dressed for the wedding in a chic blue dress that I know Knox's personal shopper selected for her. My mother—who used to bargain hunt at department stores—now draped in designer wear, a beneficiary of the Vance lifestyle just like me.

"Oh, sweetheart," she says, taking in my appearance. "You look pale. Are you feeling alright? Should I call Knox?"

"No!" The word comes out too quickly, too sharply. I soften my tone. "No, I'm fine. Just wedding jitters."

She studies me with the penetrating gaze that missed nothing throughout my childhood. "Seraphina. Talk to me."

The simple invitation breaks something inside me. Tears well up, spilling over before I can stop them. "I don't know if I can do this, Mom."

She guides me to the tufted ottoman in the center of the bathroom—because of course Knox's bathroom has seating furniture—and sits beside me, taking my hands in hers. "What are you afraid of, exactly?"

"Everything." I gesture vaguely at the opulence surrounding us. "This life. Him. The way he just…takes over. Three days, Mom. Who plans a wedding in three days?"

"A man who knows what he wants," she says simply. "And who has the resources to make it happen."

"But that's just it. He always gets what he wants. Always. What happens when what he wants conflicts with what I want?"

My mother's expression softens. "Has that happened yet? Has he forced you to do anything you truly didn't want to do?"

I open my mouth to answer, then close it.

Has he? Knox is demanding, controlling, possessive to the point of obsession.

But he's never actually forced me to do anything.

He's persuaded, insisted, arranged, but ultimately…

I've chosen to stay. I've chosen to accept the ring.

I've chosen to wear the dress hanging on the door.

"No," I admit reluctantly. "Not explicitly."

"And do you love him?"

The question hangs in the air between us.

Do I love Knox Vance? Do I love the man who treats me like a priceless acquisition one minute and a cherished partner the next?

Who can coldly orchestrate a hospital takeover for my benefit, then tenderly assemble a crib with his own hands?

Who looks at me like I'm something holy and touches me like I'm something sinful?

"Yes," I whisper, the truth of it resonating through my body. "That's what scares me."

My mother nods, understanding dawning in her eyes. "You're not afraid of Knox. You're afraid of how much you need him."

The insight strikes with precision, piercing straight to the heart of my panic.

She's right. I'm not afraid of what Knox will do to me—I'm afraid of what I've already become with him.

Dependent. Yielding. Wanting. All the independence I've cultivated throughout my adult life, all the careful boundaries and self-reliance, swept away by a man who claimed me as his from our first meeting.

"I could still leave," I say, but even as the words leave my mouth, I know I won't. Where would I go? Seven months pregnant, with a man who has the resources to find me anywhere on earth? A man who owns a floor of the hospital where I'll deliver his child?

But it's more than that. The truth—the terrifying, exhilarating truth—is that I don't want to leave. Not anymore. Somewhere between his high-handed commands and tender protective gestures, I've become addicted to Knox Vance's particular brand of devotion.

"You could," my mother agrees mildly. "But you won't."

"How do you know?"

She smiles, touching my cheek with a gentle hand. "Because I raised you to recognize value when you see it. And whatever else Knox Vance may be—controlling, intense, overwhelming at times—the way that man values you is undeniable."

She's right again. Knox doesn't love like normal people.

He doesn't send flowers and write poems. He buys hospital wings and interviews pediatricians with the intensity of a FBI interrogator.

He rewires entire buildings to optimize safety for our unborn child.

He remakes the world to protect what he loves.

"I'm scared of disappearing into him," I confess, voicing my deepest fear. "Of becoming just an extension of Knox Vance."

"Oh, sweetheart." My mother laughs softly. "That man wouldn't have chosen you if he wanted someone who would disappear. He wants your fire. Why do you think he works so hard to contain it? Not to extinguish it—to harness it."

I blink, considering this perspective. Is she right? Does Knox value my independence, my spirit, even as he seeks to direct it? Is that why he never breaks me, only bends me to his will?

"I don't know what kind of marriage this will be," I say, one hand resting on my belly where our daughter shifts restlessly, as if sensing her mother's turmoil.

"No one ever does," my mother replies with the wisdom of thirty years married to my father. "Every marriage is uncharted territory. Yours may be more…dramatic than most, given who Knox is. But I've watched him with you, Seraphina. That man would die before he hurt you."

The truth of her words settles something inside me. The panic recedes, not entirely gone but no longer threatening to drown me. I take a deep breath, then another.

"I have nowhere to run anyway," I say with a weak attempt at humor.

"You have nowhere to run because there's nowhere you need to go," my mother corrects gently. "You're exactly where you're supposed to be."

A knock at the door interrupts us. The wedding planner's voice calls through the wood. "Mrs. Vale? The hair and makeup team is here. We need to begin if we're going to stay on schedule."

On Knox's schedule, of course. The man probably has our wedding day planned down to the minute, with contingencies for every possible delay.

My mother stands, offering her hand to help me up. "Ready to become Mrs. Vance?"

The name echoes in my mind. Seraphina Vance. No longer the independent gallery director, but the wife of one of the most powerful men in the country. The mother of his child. The center of his universe—a terrifying and exhilarating position to occupy.

I place my hand in hers, feeling the weight of the enormous emerald on my finger. "I don't have a choice, do I?"

"You always have a choice, Seraphina." My mother's eyes are kind but knowing. "The fact that you keep choosing him is what tells me this marriage will work."

As we open the door to admit the small army of beauty professionals Knox has assembled, I catch sight of my wedding dress again—the one he selected because it accentuates my collarbones.

In three hours, I'll wear it down an aisle lined with flowers imported from three continents, toward a man who has rearranged his entire existence to claim me as his own.

The panic flutters again, faint but present. But beneath it is something stronger, something that feels remarkably like certainty. I can't run from Knox Vance—not because he won't let me, but because running from him would be running from myself. From what I want. From what I've become.

I'm trapped, yes. But the cage is gilded, the door is open, and I keep choosing to stay inside.