Chapter10

Eleanor's POV

"The file on Isabella included a detailed profile," he said. "Lifestyle preferences. Flowers were on the list."

That was it. No warmth in it, no performance. Just the answer, delivered like he was reading off a receipt.

I stood there for a second and turned it over in my head. The file would have listed Isabella's preferences. Not mine. And yet every bed along that drive was planted exactly right — white climbing roses, lily of the valley, jasmine — things I'd loved since I was twelve years old and had never once mentioned to anyone in the West house. He'd had them put in three months ago, before I was even part of this arrangement.

I didn't ask. I just said, "Thank you. I really do love them," and left it at that.

He didn't acknowledge the thanks. He just turned and walked toward the entrance, and I fell into step behind him.

Inside, he took me through the manor the way someone briefs a new employee — efficient, no excess. The east wing was his. The library and the sitting room off the main hall were open to me. Dinner was at eight unless he was traveling. Staff handled everything; I didn't need to ask twice for anything. He said it all without slowing down, like he was handing me an operations manual and expected me to keep up.

I kept up.

We were moving through the east corridor — long, glass-paneled on one side, looking out onto the grounds — when I slowed without meaning to. There was a plot of land just outside the glass, maybe twenty feet wide, soil freshly turned, edges clean and straight. Empty. Nothing planted in it yet.

He didn't stop walking. He just glanced toward me and said, "That section's vacant. If you want something planted there later, tell the staff."

I looked at him. He was already facing forward again, voice completely flat, like he'd mentioned a spare drawer I could use.

Tell the staff.

I thought about the balcony at the San Francisco apartment. The little terrace off the bedroom where I'd kept four pots — a rosemary, two white geraniums, and one stubborn orchid that refused to die. Julian had had them removed about six months in. He'd said they were a hassle to maintain when I couldn't see. Said it with total sincerity, like he was doing me a favor. I hadn't argued, because back then I still believed that when someone said they were protecting you, that's what they were doing.

I didn't say any of that.

I said, "Okay," and caught up with him.

The tour ended at the master bedroom.

He pushed the door open and the lights came up automatically — warm, low, the kind of lighting that was designed to look like it wasn't designed. I walked in and took in the room in one sweep. Wide bed. Objects on both nightstands. A vanity along the far wall with a set of toiletries already laid out, clearly placed there for me. No second door leading anywhere. No indication that I'd be sleeping anywhere else.

I stood still.

He was already walking toward the bathroom. He paused at the doorway and said, without looking back, his voice softer than before, "Since we're already married, there's no reason to sleep in separate rooms." He paused, his tone softening even further. "I'll use the bathroom first. You can look around and get familiar with the place."

Then he went in and closed the door.

I stood in the middle of that room and listened to the sound of the shower starting up.

I'd known this was coming. I'd read the clause in the agreement — full maintenance of the marriage — and I'd asked him about it directly in the car and gotten a direct answer. I'd had days to sit with the idea. But there's a difference between knowing something in the abstract and standing in the actual room where it's going to happen, and that gap was wider than I'd accounted for.

I breathed through it. Walked to the window. Looked out at the grounds, the white flowers barely visible in the dark, and waited for the water to stop.

When he came out, I was still sitting in the chair by the window, coat on, hands in my lap. He looked at me once, then tilted his head toward the bathroom without a word.

I showered, toweled off my hair without really drying it, and came out to find him sitting on the edge of the bed with a folder open in his hands. I started toward the vanity.

"Come here," he said.

I turned. He'd already set the folder down and was pulling a hair dryer from the nightstand drawer.

I stood there for a second. Then I crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed in front of him, facing away.

He didn't say anything like let me do that or you'll catch cold. He just switched it on. His hands moved through my hair with the same efficiency he brought to everything else — not rough, not particularly gentle, just thorough. Like it was a task he'd decided needed doing and was now doing it.

The warm air moved across my scalp. My shoulders dropped without me deciding to let them.

I stared at the far wall and my head went quiet. Not relaxed exactly — more like something had briefly taken the wheel, and I didn't have to steer.

When my hair was dry, he clicked the dryer off and put it back in the drawer. Then he lay down, pulled back his side of the duvet, and picked the folder back up like nothing had happened.

I sat there another moment. Then I got into bed and moved as far to my side as I reasonably could, leaving what I considered a respectable amount of space between us.

I looked at the ceiling. Slowed my breathing down. Tried to settle.

Then an arm came around my waist — not grabbing, just solid and unhurried — and drew me back toward him.

"What are you doing all the way over there," he said. His voice was low, almost bored. "Another few inches and you'd fall off."

I went still. "I wouldn't."

"You would."

He didn't move his arm. His hand rested against my side, palm flat, and then he shifted closer, his mouth near my ear, and his voice dropped another register.

"I can wrap my whole hand around your waist," he said quietly.