The Chicago skyline materializes through the airplane window, familiar skyscrapers reaching toward clouds tinged pink with approaching sunset. After two weeks in Paris, the city looks simultaneously foreign and achingly familiar, like a dream half-remembered upon waking.
I sit beside Gage in the private jet, hands folded in my lap, wedding ring catching the fading light. My body bears invisible marks from our honeymoon—places claimed and reclaimed daily, sometimes hourly, by the man who now legally owns me. The man who spent fourteen days methodically dismantling my resistance through relentless physical pleasure.
"Home," Gage says, his hand settling over mine with casual possession.
The word carries weight I can't quite process. Home had been my apartment above Wildflower, the shop I built, the life I created. Now home is wherever Gage Blackwood decides to place me.
"The staff has prepared the east wing suite for us," he continues, scrolling through messages on his tablet. "You'll find your personal items have been transferred from your previous rooms."
I nod, the gesture automatic now. Two weeks of Paris have taught me the value of strategically chosen battles, of conserving energy rather than wasting it on futile resistance.
"Your first official appearance as Mrs. Blackwood is scheduled for Friday," he adds, setting aside the tablet to focus on me. "The Children's Hospital fundraiser. Black tie, significant press coverage."
"I remember," I say, maintaining the neutral tone I've perfected.
He studies me with that assessing gaze, searching for cracks in the compliant facade I've constructed. "You've been... oddly compliant since Paris."
The observation carries unstated question. I meet his gaze directly, revealing nothing. "I'm practical, as you've often noted."
His lips curve slightly. "Indeed."
The plane touches down with barely a tremor, the pilot's voice announcing our arrival through the cabin speakers. Within minutes, we're transferring to the waiting car, Victor opening doors with practiced efficiency, staff loading luggage under his watchful direction.
Chicago flows past the window as we drive toward the estate.
The estate appears exactly as we left it, manicured perfection maintained by invisible hands. Mrs. Henderson waits at the entrance, warmth in her greeting as she welcomes us home, informs us dinner will be served at seven, asks if we require anything after our journey.
Gage's hand settles at the small of my back as we climb the stairs—that familiar possessive gesture now so routine I barely register it. The east wing suite proves larger than my previous accommodations, decorated in subtle shades of blue and cream.
My clothing hangs in walk-in closets, organized by type and color. My toiletries rest on marble counters in the bathroom.My grandmother's pendant sits in a velvet-lined drawer of the jewelry box on the dressing table.
Everything arranged with meticulous attention, everything selected and placed according to Gage's specifications.
"Does the arrangement suit you?" Gage asks, watching me survey the space that will now be our shared domain.
"It's beautiful," I reply honestly. The suite is objectively stunning, its luxury beyond anything I might have selected for myself but tasteful rather than ostentatious.
"Your studio has been prepared in the south conservatory," he adds, moving to open doors that reveal a spacious balcony overlooking the gardens. "Supplies delivered yesterday, workspace arranged according to specifications from your previous setup."
The consideration catches me off-guard despite similar gestures throughout our honeymoon.
"Thank you," I say, the words emerging with unexpected sincerity.
His lips curved in that dangerous almost-smile. "I do try, wife."
Wife. The word still felt foreign, a role I'd been forced into but was now performing with increasing conviction.
"Paris changed nothing," I said, needing to remind us both of reality even as my body leaned toward his.
"Didn't it?" His hand came up to cup my face, thumb tracing my lower lip. "Your body seems to disagree."
Before I could form a retort, his mouth captured mine in a kiss that held nothing back. Gone was the calculated restraint he'd shown in the early days of our arrangement. This was pure possession, hungry and demanding.
My hands flew to his shoulders, whether to push him away or pull him closer, I couldn't say. But when his tongue slid againstmine, tasting of the champagne we'd shared on the private jet, my fingers curled into the expensive fabric of his suit.
"I've been thinking about this since we boarded the plane," he growled against my lips, hands sliding down to grip my hips. "About getting you home, about claiming what's mine."
"I'm not—" I began, the familiar protest dying as his teeth scraped the sensitive skin of my neck.
