Chapter Text
Bound
Chapter One: The Proposal
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I stared at the document in my hands, then at the man sitting across from me, then back at the document.
Perhaps if I did this enough times, the world would realign itself into something resembling sanity.
"You're joking," I said flatly.
Lord Francis Dalgliesh smiled. That smile—charming, warm, the kind of smile that made debutantes swoon and mothers calculate wedding dates. I'd seen it before. I'd also seen what lay beneath it.
"No joke, Miss Linton. I assure you, I am entirely serious."
"But... this is a marriage contract."
"Yes."
"Between you and me."
"Correct."
"But... why?"
His smile deepened. "Must a man not have reasons for wishing to marry? Perhaps I find myself in need of a wife. Perhaps I have observed your... unique qualities and concluded you would be an admirable partner. Perhaps—" his voice dropped, "—I simply want you."
I laughed.
Not my polite laugh. Not my nervous laugh. Not even my angry laugh. This was my full-bodied, can't-help-it, this-is-the-most-ridiculous-thing-I've-ever-heard laugh.
"Oh, that's good. That's really good." I wiped my eyes. "You almost had me there for a second. The sincere act? The vulnerability? Brilliant performance. Really, top marks."
Dalgliesh's expression didn't change, but something behind his eyes shifted. "You think I'm performing."
"I know you're performing. It's what you do. You're Lord Francis Dalgliesh. You've been performing so long you probably don't even remember there's a real person underneath anymore." I tossed the contract back onto his desk. "Nice try, though. Ambrose would be proud of the production value."
I turned toward the door.
"It's not about Ambrose."
I kept walking.
"This has nothing to do with him."
My hand reached for the door handle.
"I love you."
I stopped.
For three seconds, I stood there with my fingers wrapped around cold brass, my back to the most dangerous man in London, while the word love echoed in my ears like a gunshot.
Then I turned around.
"No. You don't."
"I—"
"You don't love me." I walked back toward him, and now I was the one advancing, now I was the one making him lean back in his chair. "You don't even like me. You tried to kill me. Multiple times. You tried to kill him. You've spent years destroying everything he cares about, and now you expect me to believe you suddenly care about me?"
"People can change."
"People don't change. They just get better at hiding what they really are." I stopped at the edge of his desk, planted my hands on the polished wood, and leaned forward until we were inches apart. "So here's what I think. I think this is another game. I think you saw the way he looks at me—and don't bother denying it, I've seen it too, even if he'd rather die than admit it—and you thought, 'Ah. There it is. His weakness.'"
Dalgliesh's jaw tightened. Just slightly. Just enough.
"And I think you decided that if you couldn't beat him in business, you'd beat him in... this. Whatever this is between us. You'd take the one thing he actually cares about, and you'd dangle me in front of him like bait, and you'd watch him squirm." I smiled, and it wasn't nice. "How am I doing so far?"
For a long moment, he just looked at me.
Then, slowly, he began to applaud.
Three slow, deliberate claps.
"Brilliant," he said softly. "Absolutely brilliant. You see schemes everywhere, don't you? You've been working for Ambrose so long you've started thinking like him."
"I—"
"Oh, I'm not mocking you." He rose from his chair, and now we were both standing, both leaning toward each other across the desk like duelists preparing to fire. "In fact, I find it rather attractive. The suspicion. The paranoia. The absolute refusal to accept anything at face value. You've learned well, Miss Linton."
"Don't patronize me."
"I'm not. I'm admiring you." His eyes traveled over my face with an intensity that made my skin prickle. "Do you have any idea how rare you are? A woman who thinks. A woman who questions. A woman who looks at a man like me and sees the monster instead of the mask."
"I've seen your monster. It tried to drown me."
"And yet here you stand. In my library. Yelling at me." He smiled, and it was different from before—sharper, more genuine, more dangerous. "Most women would have fainted. Or fled. Or simpered and accepted the proposal because I'm rich and titled and handsome enough to make their mamas weep with joy."
"Most women are idiots."
"Agreed." He leaned closer. "Which is precisely why I want you."
I stared at him.
He stared back.
And for one horrible, disorienting moment, I saw something in his eyes that looked almost like truth.
Then I blinked, and it was gone, and he was just Dalgliesh again—charming, dangerous, utterly untrustworthy.
"Here's what's actually going to happen," I said, straightening up and smoothing my skirts. "I'm going to walk out of here. I'm going to forget this conversation ever happened. And you're going to go back to trying to destroy Ambrose through legitimate business channels, because we both know that's the only game you're actually interested in."
"Miss Linton—"
"And if you ever—ever—try to use me against him again, I will personally ensure that your next business venture involves a very unfortunate accident with a ship, a storm, and a distinct lack of lifeboats." I smiled sweetly. "I've learned a few things working for Ambrose. How to make problems disappear is one of them."
I turned and walked to the door.
"Take the contract."
I paused.
"Take it with you." His voice was quiet. Almost tired. "Read it. Not because you'll believe me—I know you won't. But because someday, when you finally realize this wasn't a game, you'll want to know what I was offering."
I looked back.
He held out the document.
For a long moment, I considered refusing. Considered walking out and never looking back.
But I was Lilly Linton, and Lilly Linton never refused information.
I took the contract.
"I'll read it," I said. "And then I'll burn it."
"Fair enough."
I left.
I didn't look back.
---
I made it three blocks before I had to stop and lean against a lamppost, gasping for air.
What just happened?
Lord Francis Dalgliesh—ruthless villain, attempted murderer, Ambrose's sworn enemy—had just proposed marriage. To me. And for one terrible moment, I had almost believed he meant it.
Which was ridiculous. Obviously. Clearly. Completely and utterly—
"Miss Linton?"
I looked up.
And felt my heart stutter.
Rikkard Ambrose stood on the pavement, three feet away, his dark eyes fixed on my face with an intensity that made me want to hide. And also, traitorously, made me want to run into his arms and never let go.
"Mr. Ambrose." My voice came out remarkably steady, considering. "What are you doing here?"
"I was informed you had an unscheduled meeting with Lord Dalgliesh." His tone was flat. Controlled. The tone he used when he was barely containing volcanic rage. "I came to ensure you survived it."
"I'm fine."
"You're holding something."
I looked down. The contract was clutched against my chest like a shield.
"It's nothing."
"Miss Linton." Just my name. Just those two words. But the weight behind them—
"It's a marriage contract." The words tumbled out before I could stop them. "He proposed. Dalgliesh. He wants me to marry him. He says he—" I stopped. Swallowed. "He says he loves me."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Ambrose didn't move. Didn't speak. Didn't blink.
Then, very quietly: "And what did you say?"
"I laughed at him."
Something flickered in his eyes. Too fast to identify.
"I told him it was obviously a scheme to get to you. I told him I wasn't an idiot. I told him—" I stopped again, because my voice was doing something strange. Something wobbly. Something that absolutely was not happening.
"You told him the truth."
"Yes."
"Good."
We stood there, two feet apart on a London street, while the world rushed past us completely oblivious.
"Miss Linton." Ambrose's voice was quieter than I'd ever heard it. "The contract. May I see it?"
I handed it over without thinking.
He read it in silence. Page after page, his eyes moving methodically, his expression never changing.
When he finished, he looked up.
"It's genuine."
"I know."
"The terms are... generous."
"I know."
"He's offering you everything. Money. Property. Protection for your family. Complete independence within the marriage." Ambrose's jaw tightened. "Everything except the one thing that matters."
"What's that?"
He looked at me.
For three heartbeats, the world stopped.
Then he looked away, and the moment shattered.
"Nothing." He handed the contract back. "Do what you want with it. You always do."
He turned and walked away.
I watched him go, my heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat.
Everything except the one thing that matters.
What thing?
What did Ambrose think mattered that Dalgliesh wasn't offering?
And why, when I looked at the contract now, did it feel like ashes in my hands?
---
I didn't burn it.
I told myself I would. I told myself I was keeping it as evidence, as leverage, as proof of Dalgliesh's latest scheme.
But every night, I took it out from beneath my mattress. Every night, I read the terms again. Every night, I stared at Lord Francis Dalgliesh's signature at the bottom—already signed, already waiting for mine—and wondered.
What if he meant it?
The question haunted me.
Not because I believed him. I didn't. I couldn't.
But because for the first time in my life, I wasn't completely certain.
And that uncertainty was more terrifying than any villain Dalgliesh had ever been.