At exactly three o'clock, Elsie stood in the sterile, echoing halls of the Manhattan City Hall. She wore a pristine, white Chanel suit the styling team had provided.
Beside her stood Arthur, looking like a dark god in a bespoke charcoal suit.
There were no flowers. No music. Just the monotonous drone of the judge reading the standard vows. When Elsie took the thin, stamped marriage certificate in her hands, she felt entirely numb. It felt like a hallucination.
By evening, the Maybach bypassed the city and drove deep into Westchester County, pulling up to a sprawling, modern fortress of a villa built into the side of a mountain.
The head housekeeper, Mrs. Gable, stood at the entrance with a line of staff, bowing deeply as Elsie stepped out. Elsie forced a stiff, polite smile, her stomach tying itself into knots.
After a silent dinner, Arthur retreated to his study to take conference calls from Europe.
Elsie was escorted upstairs to the master suite.
The room was massive, decorated in cold, masculine tones. But all Elsie could see was the enormous King-size bed in the center of the room. Clause 17 screamed in her mind.
She practically ran into the en-suite bathroom. She scrubbed her skin raw in the shower and changed into the most conservative, long-sleeved silk pajamas she could find. She sat on the very edge of the mattress, her hands tightly wrung together in her lap.
At ten o'clock, the bedroom door opened.
Arthur walked in. He had showered in the guest bath. He wore a dark grey robe, his hair slightly damp, radiating the clean, sharp scent of soap and cedar.
He walked to the wet bar in the corner, poured two glasses of red wine, and walked over to the bed. He handed one to Elsie.
His dark eyes swept over her rigid posture. He sat down on the mattress next to her. The bed dipped under his heavy weight.
Arthur set his glass on the nightstand. He shifted his body toward her. A stray lock of damp hair had fallen across Elsie's cheek.
Slowly, Arthur reached his hand out, intending to tuck the hair behind her ear.
The second his warm fingertips brushed the skin of her cheek, Elsie's body violently revolted.
She jerked backward as if she had been burned with a branding iron.
Her hand spasmed. The crystal glass tipped, and the dark red wine splashed violently across the pure white bedsheets, looking exactly like a pool of fresh blood.
Elsie couldn't breathe. The walls of the room were closing in.
The smell of the wine, the weight of the man on the bed-it all triggered a massive, uncontrollable flashback. She saw the dark hotel room. She felt the heavy hands pinning her down. She heard the crowd calling her a whore.
She scrambled backward until her back hit the headboard. She wrapped her arms tightly around her knees, her entire body shaking violently.
"Don't touch me," she sobbed, her voice a broken, terrified plea. "Please, don't touch me."
Arthur's hand froze in mid-air.
He stared at her trembling, broken form. A physical pain, sharp and agonizing, ripped through his chest.
He knew exactly why she was reacting this way. Because he was the monster in her nightmares. He was the man who had lost control three months ago.
Arthur swallowed hard, forcing the suffocating guilt down his throat. He slowly pulled his hand back, keeping his movements deliberate and non-threatening.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he said, his voice incredibly soft.
He stood up and grabbed a dry towel from the bathroom, stepping toward her to clean the wine off her hands.
Elsie whimpered, pressing herself harder against the wood of the headboard, her eyes wide with blind panic.
Arthur stopped dead. He dropped the towel onto the nightstand. He realized his very presence was torturing her.
He took two large steps backward, putting distance between them. His face hardened back into the cold, untouchable billionaire.
"It seems you aren't ready to fulfill your obligations," he said, his voice clipped and distant.
Elsie bit her lip, tears streaming down her face. "I'm sorry," she choked out. "I can't control it. I'm so sorry."
Arthur turned his back to her. "I need to leave for Europe on a business trip for a few days," Arthur said without looking back, his tone tight with restrained emotion. "You... get some rest. Take whatever time you need. We will figure this out together."
He walked out, shutting the door firmly behind him.
The moment the latch clicked, Elsie collapsed onto the pillows, gasping for air as if she had been drowning.
Down the hall, Arthur walked into the guest room. He stood by the window, lit a cigar, and inhaled deeply. He pulled out his phone and dialed Silas Grey.
"Silas," Arthur said, his voice heavy. "I need the best psychiatric intervention protocols for severe sexual trauma. Now."
The next morning, Elsie woke up to find the house empty. Mrs. Gable informed her that Mr. Michael's private jet had already departed for London.
Elsie looked out the window at the grey sky, a heavy mix of relief and dread settling in her stomach.
