Chapter 2 - The Rules of the East Wing
The drive back to the Anderson estate in Gladwyne was an exercise in acoustic torture. Rain had begun to slash against the tinted windows of the Maybach, smearing the amber glow of the city lights into streaks of bleeding gold.
In the front seat, Frank, William’s chief enforcer and driver for fifteen years, kept his eyes glued to the asphalt, his knuckles white against the steering wheel. Frank had seen William break bones, order executions, and negotiate multimillion-dollar black-market treaties without raising an eyebrow. But Frank had never seen William sit in the back of a car with a freshly torn hand, ignoring the blood soaking through a five-hundred-dollar silk handkerchief, his eyes fixed on his wife as if he were waiting for her to sprout wings and disappear into the night.
Emily sat pressed against the passenger door, looking out into the darkness.
"Who gave you permission to speak to him?" William’s voice finally broke the silence, rough and gravelly.
Emily didn't turn her head. "I didn't realize the marriage settlement included an ankle monitor, William. Or perhaps you wrote an addendum into the contract while I was busy keeping your house running?"
"Richard Coleman is an adversary."
"Richard Coleman is a legitimate businessman who asked me about my economics thesis," she snapped, turning to face him. Her cheeks were flushed with anger, making her look alive, vibrant, and stunningly dangerous. "He spoke to me for ten minutes. Do you know how many words he said to me in ten minutes? More than you have said to me since Thanksgiving."
William’s jaw clenched so hard the tendons in his neck flared. "He touched you."
"He held my hand across a dinner table! Like a human being acknowledging another human being! Something you haven't done since the priest told you to kiss the bride!"
William didn't shout. He leaned forward, his massive frame casting a shadow over her in the leather cabin. "He looked at you like he wanted to strip you out of that dress, Emily. And you let him touch your skin."
"I am starved, William!" Her voice cracked, not with tears, but with pure, unadulterated fury. "You bought me to pay my father's debts. You put me in a seven-bedroom wing, gave me a credit card, and locked the door behind you. You don't get to ignore me for three years and then play the jealous husband because another man looked at me and saw someone worth talking to!"
The Maybach rolled to a halt in the circular cobblestone driveway of the manor. Frank hit the door unlock button with frantic speed.
Emily didn't wait for an umbrella. She pushed the heavy door open, stepped out into the pouring rain, and marched up the limestone steps into the house. Mrs. Bell, the housekeeper, hurried into the foyer with a pair of dry towels, but Emily brushed past her. "I'm going to bed, Mrs. Bell. Goodnight."
She climbed the grand staircase, turned right toward the east wing, and entered her private master suite. She slammed the mahogany door shut, kicked off her designer heels, and stood shivering in the center of the Persian rug. The rain had dampened her hair, sending dark strands clinging to her bare neck.
*He cracked a glass with his bare hand,* she thought, her heart racing. *All because of Richard.*
It was absurdity. It was masculine vanity. William didn't love her; he had never shown the slightest inclination of affection. To William, she was an asset on an inventory list. A piece of Peterson collateral. And someone had dared to touch his property.
Emily reached behind her back, struggling with the hidden zipper of her midnight navy gown. Her fingers were cold, and the delicate teeth of the zipper caught on the silk fabric. She let out a frustrated growl, tugging at the seam.
A sharp knock echoed through the room.
Before she could speak, the brass handle turned, and the door swung open.
Emily froze.
In three years—one thousand and ninety-five days—William Anderson had never crossed the threshold of her bedroom. He had stood in the doorway twice to deliver logistical news, but his shoes had never touched her floor. It was his unspoken rule: an icy boundary that kept their lives completely compartmentalized.
Tonight, William shattered his own rule.
He stepped inside. He had stripped off his ruined tuxedo jacket and torn his bowtie away. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the throat, revealing the hard line of his collarbones and the top of a tattoo depicting the Anderson family crest. His right hand was roughly bandaged with medical gauze from the car's emergency kit, dark spots of crimson still seeping through.
"Get out," Emily breathed, backing up until the back of her knees hit the edge of her four-poster bed.
William closed the door behind him. The heavy latch clicked into place with terrifying finality.
"You're struggling with the dress," he said, his voice dangerously low.
"I can handle my own clothes. Get out of my room, William."
He ignored her completely. He walked across the Persian rug with slow, measured strides until he stood directly behind her. Emily could feel the radiant heat coming off his body, the heavy scent of rain and metallic blood. She tried to step sideways, but his uninjured left hand came up and gripped her shoulder—not violently, but with an immovable, iron authority that rooted her to the spot.
"Stand still," he commanded softly.
Emily held her breath. Every nerve ending along her spine flared to life as his calloused fingers brushed against the sensitive skin between her shoulder blades. He gently worked the caught fabric free from the zipper track. Slowly, with agonizing precision, he pulled the zipper down.
The cool night air rushed against her bare back as the silk parted.
William didn't let go. His hand lingered on the curve of her hip, his thumb grazing the warm skin above the waistband of her lace slip. Through the mirror of her vanity across the room, Emily saw his reflection.
His eyes were not cold anymore. The ice had shattered, revealing an abyss of raw, possessive hunger that terrified her to her core.
"Three years," he whispered near her ear, his breath hot against her damp hair. "You think I kept my distance because I didn't want you?"
Emily stared at his reflection, her voice trembling despite her best efforts. "You kept your distance because you looked down on me. Because I was an obligation."
May you like
William’s fingers dug slightly into the soft curve of her waist, pulling her back until the silk of her slip pressed flush against his chest. "I kept my distance, Emily, because the moment I touch you, I will never let you leave this house again. And you were already looking at the door."
***
