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."

Back in the sterile safety of her room at Sutton Manor, Elsie felt like she had survived a hurricane. She peeled off the Chanel dress, which now felt like a costume from a play where she had forgotten all her lines.

She stared at her reflection in the mirror, at the blush that still stained her cheeks. His words echoed in her mind, a relentless, shocking loop. I have a very high sex drive.

Niam brought her a glass of warm water, his eyes questioning. She shook her head, trying to signal that she was fine, but the tremor in her hands betrayed her.

She placed Duke's business card on her nightstand. It looked small and innocuous, but it felt like a live grenade.

She expected to lie awake all night, but the sheer emotional exhaustion pulled her under. She dreamt of dark, unreadable eyes.

The next morning, Elsie was in her small, private studio, a converted sunroom where she kept her collection of fabric swatches from around the world. The textures and colors were her only real comfort.

Her phone rang, shattering the peace. It was her mother.

"The meeting went well," Hermina said, her voice crisp and devoid of emotion. "Mr. Blake was... satisfied."

Elsie felt nothing. Her mother only ever cared about the bottom line.

"Since he is satisfied," Hermina continued, "we can now proceed with the next phase of our agreement."

"What agreement?" Elsie asked, a knot of dread tightening in her stomach.

"As of today, your freedom of movement will be determined solely by Mr. Duke Blake."

The blood drained from Elsie's face. "What does that mean?"

"It means," Hermina explained with chilling clarity, "that if you wish to leave the manor for any reason-shopping, a doctor's appointment, a visit to your little dressmaker-you must first obtain his permission. It was his request. A measure to ensure your future safety."

Elsie's fingers tightened around her phone, her knuckles turning white.

Her cage hadn't disappeared. It had just been assigned a new warden. A warden who was more powerful, more unpredictable, and infinitely more terrifying than her mother.

"I have already synced your external travel protocols with Mr. Blake's security team," Hermina added as a final warning. "They will be coordinating with our staff to oversee your safety whenever you leave the grounds. Do not attempt to do anything foolish."

The line went dead.

Elsie stood frozen, a profound, bone-deep chill spreading through her.

She had thought this marriage was her ticket out. Now it seemed she had merely traded one prison for a maximum-security fortress.

Her gaze fell on a bolt of exquisite silk from Lake Como, Italy. It had been reserved for her by Greta Novak, the owner of her favorite couture workshop. She had planned to visit Greta next week to discuss a new design.

Now, that simple trip was a privilege she had to request from Duke Blake.

A hot wave of humiliation and anger surged through her. She would not be a passive prisoner.

Her eyes landed on the business card on her nightstand.

Fear was still there, a cold knot in her gut. But the primal need for freedom, for a single breath of fresh air, was stronger.

She had to contact him. Not just to get permission, but to test the rules of her new confinement. To find the cracks in the walls.

She picked up her phone, her thumb hovering over his name. She took a deep, steadying breath and began to type, weighing every single word.

Elsie's fingers hovered over the screen. She typed and deleted a dozen different messages. Each one sounded either too demanding or too pathetic.

A direct request would be too easy for a man like him to deny. She needed a different approach. A lure.

Finally, she settled on a message, carefully crafted to be both submissive and strategic.

Mr. Blake, good evening. In light of our upcoming... arrangement, I was hoping to understand if you have any particular preferences or requirements for my future wardrobe.

It was a brilliant piece of misdirection. It cloaked her true desire-to go out-in the guise of fulfilling her duty as his future wife.

Her heart hammered against her ribs as she pressed send. She tossed the phone onto her bed as if it were on fire.

In his private gym, Duke was pushing through a grueling set of reps, sweat glistening on the hard planes of his muscles.

His personal assistant, Alex Stone, approached cautiously, holding out a phone. "Sir. A message from Miss Sutton."

Duke lowered the weights with a controlled thud. He took the phone. A ghost of a smile touched his lips as he read the text.

She was a clever one. She wanted to go out.

Appreciating her cunning, the way she had framed her request as a question of his desires, he wiped his hands on a towel and typed a short, dismissive reply.

No requirements. Wear whatever you like.

He sent it, shutting down her line of inquiry completely.

Elsie's stomach dropped when she saw his reply. It was a brick wall. A clear denial of her veiled request.

Frustration pricked at her. Fine. If the direct approach didn't work, and the subtle approach failed, she would have to use a different kind of weapon.

Thinking of her voice, with its soft, breathy quality people had always commented on—a natural innocence she had learned to use to her advantage—she made a bold decision: opening a new message, this time tapping the microphone icon, she took a breath, consciously softening her tone, infusing it with a delicate mix of confusion and vulnerability, and began to record.

"But... if I don't know what you like, how can I possibly choose the right fabrics for my gown? Or... were you not planning on coming with me?"

Letting the last few words hang in the air, her voice lifting slightly, a subtle, almost imperceptible hint of a pout, she squeezed her eyes shut and hit send.

Duke had just stepped out of the shower, a towel slung low on his hips, when Alex handed him the phone again.

He frowned when he saw it was a voice message. He connected his wireless earbud and pressed play.

Elsie's voice filled his head.

It was soft, intimate, the sound of silk brushing against skin. The little hitch in her breath, the slight, questioning lilt at the end-it was like a feather being dragged directly across his nervous system.

The carefully administered suppressant that kept his condition in check was instantly overwhelmed.

A raw, primal heat flooded his veins.

His entire body went rigid. His jaw clenched, and he could feel the blood pounding in his ears.

Damn it. He had severely underestimated the effect she would have on him.

Alex saw the change immediately. The sudden tension in his boss's shoulders, the darkening of his eyes, the way his breathing became harsh.

Duke ripped the earbud out and slammed his phone face down on the counter. He closed his eyes, fighting for control, wrestling the beast back into its cage.

Having lost this round, made to lose control by nothing but her voice, he turned to Alex, his own voice a low, rough rasp he barely recognized.

"Tell James to clear my schedule. We're picking up Miss Sutton tomorrow morning. Ten o'clock."