Elsie placed her fork down and dabbed her lips with the linen napkin, a small, deliberate movement to buy herself a few seconds.
She met his gaze again, her own eyes filled with a desperate resolve. "Mr. Blake, there is one more thing I need to clarify."
He watched her, motionless, a silent invitation to continue.
Her nails dug into the soft flesh of her palms. She forced the words out, her voice barely a whisper. "After the wedding... will I be expected to perform... all of my wifely duties?"
The question hung in the air, shameful and terrifying. For a girl raised in the sterile environment of Sutton Manor, it was the ultimate taboo.
But she had to know. If he only wanted a wife in name, her path to freedom would be so much easier.
The atmosphere in the room grew thick, suffocating.
The ghost of a smile on Duke's face vanished. He stared at her, his eyes darkening to a deep, bottomless black. She felt stripped bare, every fear and calculation laid open for his inspection.
She expected him to be offended, or to deflect with some cold, corporate euphemism.
He did neither.
He was silent for a long, torturous thirty seconds, seeming to savor the panic blooming on her face. Then, he spoke, his voice slow, deliberate, and laced with a rough, magnetic quality.
"Miss Sutton, you seem to be under a misapprehension."
He leaned forward again, so close now that she could smell the clean, woodsy scent of his cologne.
"This marriage," he said, his words like stones dropping into a still pond, "is not an addendum to a business contract for me."
His gaze was a physical touch, searing a path across her skin.
Then he delivered the final, devastating blow, his voice dropping to an intimate, brutal murmur.
"I have a very high sex drive."
A bomb went off in Elsie's head. Every carefully constructed wall of composure, every rehearsed line, turned to dust.
She had never heard anyone, let alone a man of his stature, speak of such a thing so... factually. As if he were discussing the weather.
His eyes held hers, and she knew he wasn't threatening her or trying to intimidate her. He was simply stating a fact. A condition of their merger.
A hot, mortifying blush crept up her neck, flooding her cheeks, reaching the tips of her ears. She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but her throat was desert-dry. No sound came out.
He watched her meltdown, the way her eyes widened in shock, the way she looked like a cornered animal. A flicker of dark satisfaction crossed his face.
This was what he wanted. To shatter her illusions. To make her understand that in this marriage, there was no escape from him. It was also the perfect cover story, the first layer of misdirection to hide the painful truth of his condition.
He leaned back, giving her space to breathe. He picked up his wine glass, swirling the dark red liquid.
"Now," he said, his tone once again cool and detached. "Do you have any other questions?"
Her mind was a buzzing, static mess. She could only shake her head, a small, jerky movement.
She barely tasted the rest of the meal, moving her food around her plate in a daze.
When dinner was finally over, he walked her to the restaurant's entrance, where his driver was waiting. Before she got into the car, he stopped her.
He held out a slim, black business card.
"My personal number," he said, his tone leaving no room for refusal. "If you need anything, you contact me directly."
