Rules of the House

When Lila woke the following morning, early golden sunlight was streaming through four arched French doors that opened onto a private stone balcony overlooking the misty Hudson Valley.

She was nestled deep within a colossal king-sized bed draped in white linen and charcoal cashmere. Her bruised wrists had been treated with soothing herbal arnica salves while she slept.

On the mahogany chaise lounge lay fresh clothing tailored precisely to her measurements: soft cream cashmere knit sweaters, dark designer denim, and supple leather ankle boots.

After dressing, Lila followed the rich scent of dark roast coffee and toasted sourdough down to the sunlit conservatory kitchen.

Kael was seated at a massive live-edge walnut table, dressed in a black turtleneck and tailored charcoal trousers, reviewing architectural schematics on a tablet. He looked relaxed, powerful, and utterly in command of his empire.

"Sit," Kael said without looking up, gesturing to the chair opposite him.

Martha set down a porcelain plate of poached eggs, smoked salmon, and fresh brioche before Lila, alongside a steaming mug of black tea with wild honey.

"Eat," Kael commanded gently. "You're too thin. Vitelli's goons didn't feed you for thirty-six hours."

Lila tasted the brioche; it was warm, buttery, and melted on her tongue. Despite her pride, she ate with ravenous hunger, realizing how exhausted her body truly was.

When she set her fork down, Kael set his tablet aside, his storm-gray eyes locking onto hers.

"Three rules, Lila," Kael stated, his tone firm and measured. "Rule number one: you do not leave the estate perimeter without an armed escort. Vitelli is furious that I humiliated him at his own auction. He has scouts watching the county roads."

"Rule number two?" she asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Rule number two: the north wing master study is strictly off-limits between midnight and sunrise. That is my private workspace."

"And rule number three?"

Kael leaned across the table, his gaze dropping to her soft pink lips before rising back to her hazel eyes with unmasked intensity.

"Rule number three: if you ever need something—anything at all—you ask me directly. You do not cower. You do not apologize. In this house, you answer only to me."

Lila felt her pulse quicken. "And what if I want to paint?"

Kael rose from his chair, buttoning his cuffs. "Follow me."

He led her through a set of double iron doors at the rear of the conservatory, down a glass-enclosed breezeway into a freestanding stone rotunda.

Lila stepped inside and stopped dead in her tracks.

The entire circular room was an artist's paradise. Soaring twenty-foot skylights flooded the space with pure northern light. An enormous Belgian easel stood in the center, flanked by racks of fine linen canvases, jars of imported French oil pigments, rows of hand-carved sable brushes, and a marble wash station.

"Your studio," Kael murmured, watching her expression.

Tears pricked Lila's eyes. She turned to him, her throat tight. "You bought all of this for me? In less than twelve hours?"

"You are an artist, Lila," Kael said softly, his calloused thumb gently wiping away an unshed tear from her cheek. "I don't intend to clip your wings. I intend to build you a sky."