James Moran placed a new file on Duke's desk. It was the final report on the Manhattan penthouse prepared for Elsie.

The file contained architectural blueprints, a list of the security team, and résumés for the private staff. Everything was configured to the highest possible standard.

"Sir, the Fifth Avenue residence is ready. We can welcome Miss Sutton at any time," James reported.

Duke flipped through the pages, his eyes pausing for a moment on the designs for a fully equipped "medical wing."

"What is the Suttons' timeline?" he asked, his voice flat.

"Mrs. Hermina Moody would like to proceed with the... transfer... as soon as possible after your first meeting."

Duke closed the file and tossed it onto the desk. The sound was sharp in the quiet office.

"No," he said.

James blinked, surprised. This marriage was orchestrated by Duke himself. He had assumed his boss would be eager.

Duke rose from his chair and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, his back to James. He looked down at the city below, a king surveying his kingdom.

"Let her stay at the manor for a few more days," he said, his voice distant. "A bird, moved too suddenly from one cage to another, will grow distressed."

James tried to decipher the meaning behind the words. It sounded almost like consideration, a sentiment so alien to Duke's usual methods that it was jarring.

"Is the restaurant for the first meeting confirmed?" Duke asked, changing the subject.

"Yes, sir. Le Bernardin. The most private table has been reserved."

"Inform the Suttons. The day after tomorrow. Seven p.m."

"Of course." James hesitated, then decided to risk it. "Sir, if I may be so bold... why the Suttons? Miss April Sampson of Sampson Pharmaceuticals seemed..."

The Sampson family was another biotech giant, one that had been aggressively pursuing an alliance with the Blakes for years.

Duke turned around. The shift in the room's atmosphere was instantaneous. The temperature seemed to drop twenty degrees. His eyes were chips of ice.

"James," he said, his voice dangerously soft, "do I need to explain my decisions to you?"

A cold sweat broke out on James's neck. "No, sir. My apologies."

"Get out."

James all but fled the office.

Alone again, Duke walked back to his desk and unlocked the drawer. He pulled out the photo of Elsie.

He stared at it for a long moment. This wasn't a merger. It was a hostile takeover of her life, one he had been planning for a very long time.

He wasn't in a hurry to move her to his penthouse. He was enjoying this. Enjoying watching her walk, step by step, into the intricate trap he had laid just for her.

A possessive, burning heat flashed in his eyes, but he quickly smothered it with his iron-clad control.

He put the photo away and pressed a button on his intercom.

"Send in Alex Stone."

Alex was the assistant in charge of his... private health.

Elsie arrived at Le Bernardin fifteen minutes early. Her mother had personally selected her attire: a conservative, cream-colored Chanel dress designed to broadcast an aura of pure, untouched innocence.

She sat in the private dining room, the silence amplifying the frantic beat of her heart against her ribs. She rehearsed opening lines in her head, her palms growing damp.

At precisely seven o'clock, the door opened.

Duke Blake was taller than he appeared in photographs. His presence was a physical force, sucking the air from the room. He wore a bespoke black suit, but the top button of his shirt was undone, a small, deliberate crack in his perfect, corporate armor.

He sat down opposite her. There were no pleasantries, no small talk. He simply watched her, his dark eyes assessing her with an unnerving intensity, like an appraiser examining a priceless work of art for flaws.

Elsie forced herself to meet his gaze. This was her interview. The results would determine the length of her leash.

A waiter appeared. Duke ordered for both of them without consulting her, selecting a series of light, hypoallergenic dishes.

A jolt went through her. How did he know her dietary restrictions? Was her file that detailed?

He saw the flicker of surprise in her eyes but offered no explanation.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy. It was a weapon, and he was wielding it expertly.

She decided she had to be the one to break it.

She lifted her chin, her voice soft but clear. "Mr. Blake. Are you satisfied with your choice of bride?"

It was a bold, direct question, stripping the pretense from their meeting and laying the raw transaction bare on the table.

A flicker of something-surprise? amusement?-crossed his face. He leaned forward slightly, and the space between them seemed to shrink, charged with a sudden tension.

"Miss Sutton," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly sound that vibrated in the air. "On what criteria should I base my 'satisfaction'?"

His gaze traveled deliberately from her eyes, down the column of her throat, to her hands resting on the table. It was an inventory. A claim.

Heat flooded Elsie's cheeks. She felt like prey, pinned by the gaze of a predator.

She held her ground. "Her commercial value. Her family's name. Or... her suitability as a wife." She delivered the line like she was reading a product specification, a desperate attempt to keep it impersonal, to test his boundaries.

He leaned back, and for the first time, a smile touched his lips. It didn't reach his eyes.

"You're clever," he said. "More interesting than your file suggests."

The words sent a chill down her spine. Was it a compliment, or a warning? A sign that he saw through her carefully constructed facade?

The waiter arrived with their first course, the clink of silverware a welcome interruption to the silent battle of wills.

Elsie picked up her fork. To her horror, she saw that her hand was trembling.

The food looked exquisite, a miniature work of art on the plate. A pity she wouldn't be able to taste any of it. To her, it was just texture and temperature, a pantomime of enjoyment she had long perfected.

She had underestimated him. This man was a thousand times more dangerous than she had ever imagined.

Duke saw her tremor. He said nothing, simply began to eat his meal with an unhurried grace.

He was enjoying this. Enjoying her struggle to maintain her composure. This fragile little bird had sharper claws than he'd expected. It only made the game more exciting.

Elsie took a sip of water, the cool liquid doing nothing to calm the fire in her nerves. She had to know. She had to ask the next question, the most important one of all.

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."