Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty
SEVENTEEN MONTHS AGO

The morning began with the quiet authority of Niklath’s voice echoing through my office. I looked up from a briefing document, expecting a routine note about a market update or a board adjustment. Instead, he placed a leather folder on my desk, his posture composed, his face unreadable except for the flicker of purpose behind his eyes.

“Pack a bag,” he said. “We leave at first light. London first, then France, and Tokyo last. There are matters I want you to oversee with me.”

He did not linger for a response. He turned and walked out with the same unshaken control that always shifted the atmosphere around him. Within an hour, I had cleared my schedule, briefed Marianne, and surrendered the week. It was not unusual for him to pull me into his pace, but the tone this time carried something deeper.

The jet was waiting for us before sunrise. He poured juice into two tumblers and passed one to me, his fingers brushing the edge of mine. His voice was low, meant for me alone.

“I wanted to have you all to myself.”

London was brisk and orderly, a city that knew how to dress power in polite layers. We stayed in the Belgravia townhouse, white walled, clean lined, with tall windows that opened into the soft hush of old trees. Our mornings unfolded in boardrooms and terminals, the rhythm swift and constant. He met with shipping consortiums, port regulators, and risk officers, and I watched the way people adjusted themselves around him. He never raised his voice. He did not need to. His presence was its own command, carved from restraint and precision. Every sentence he spoke was sharpened to its edge. Even those who bristled still obeyed.

But when we were alone, his naughty possessive side comes to play. 

Evenings belonged to candlelit tables behind velvet curtains. He ordered for both of us without hesitation, always correct, always attentive to what I wanted before I asked. After dinner one night, we walked through St. James’s Park as a soft drizzle fell over the city. He stopped beneath a streetlamp, reached for my waist, and pulled me into him with a quiet hunger that left my skin flushed. He kissed me with the kind of patience that makes time feel irrelevant. The rain collected in my hair, but I felt only the weight of his hand pressing gently between my shoulder blades.

From London, we flew to the French coast, where the wind carried the sea straight into your lungs. The estate belonged to Niklath, one of several coastal properties passed down through his family’s maritime line. It sat on a high ridge above the harbor, framed by cypress trees and anchored into the cliff with weathered stone. The housekeeper greeted him with a warm familiarity, bowing her head before taking my hands gently in hers. “You suit this house,” she said softly, her voice touched by the sea air. “It has been waiting for a woman like you.”

Our work was more technical there. We reviewed port regulations, combed through contracts, restructured fleet logistics. He moved through it all with tireless focus, demanding excellence without needing to explain why. The managers fell into rhythm with him, as if his energy recalibrated everything around him. I watched. I learned. I was in awe of him.

At night, the sea would thunder against the shore, and I would fall asleep with his hand pressed flat against my spine, his breath hot on my skin. He never asked for tenderness. He took it. Not roughly, but with the absolute certainty of someone who had never once questioned what belonged to him. I gave into him each night without resistance, not out of obligation or weakness, but because he knew how to draw surrender from strength.

The morning we left for Tokyo, the sun rose slow and red behind the cliffs. He kissed my shoulder while I was still wrapped in sheets and murmured something about the tide. I watched him get dressed in silence, memorizing the shape of his back, the quiet motion of him moving through space like he was built for more than one world.

Tokyo opened beneath us like a circuit. Neon moved through the skyline with elegance. Niklath spoke Japanese fluently, though sparingly, and the staff at the penthouse greeted him with bowed heads and whispered greetings. The space itself was balanced between luxury and discipline. Everything inside smelled faintly of white tea and polished wood.

That evening, I changed into a pale satin dress and caught him watching me from the edge of the room. He did not speak at first. His gaze travelled from my shoulder to my ankle, lingering on the line of my waist. When he did speak, his voice was so quiet I almost missed it.

“You look like something the gods would refuse to return.”

Dinner had been planned days in advance. We were expected at a restaurant hidden above the city in a private suite built for only six guests. The table sat near a tall window that opened over Tokyo’s skyline, every light reflected in the polished lacquer of the walls. The air smelled of sesame oil and something faintly sweet, and the silence between us was calm until his phone lit up beside the wine.

He glanced at the screen, his brow shifting slightly. “Your father.”

I reached for the glass without urgency. “You should answer.”

He did. His voice in control. The call lasted a few minutes. When he hung up, he looked at me with that unreadable restraint again.

“They are asking when we intend to produce an heir.”

I tilted my head slightly. “They?”

“My father. And yours. Apparently, there have been murmurs.”

I exhaled slowly. “We have only just found rhythm.”

He reached across the table. His fingers covered mine. “They do not understand rhythm. Only legacy. But there is no rush. We move at your pace and no one else’s.”

I did not answer. There was nothing to be said that would not bring weight to a night that still held light. Across the room, I noticed a woman watching us…watching Niklath to be precise.  Her heels clicked softly across the tatami mat. Her eyes shimmered under amber light. And as she approached our table, her voice cut through the hum of the restaurant like a blade dipped in honey.

“Hello, Niklath…”

He turned his head, slowly, calmly. The air around him stilled.

“Cecilia.”