“I’m sorry you feel that way,” I said robotically. A well-rehearsed reply to the same thing I’d heard over and over again.

“No, you’re not.”

“You’re right. I’m not sorry at all. You can’t run your car on adorable.”

“But I can run it on batteries, thanks to Elon Musk,” she dished back, her tone sweet.

“I know women are fond of battery-operated devices, but they’re never as good as the real thing.”

She choked on her lollipop. I wondered if she had an oral fixation. First the cigar, and now this. It was hard to concentrate when her pink lips were always wrapped around something. Especially when it wasn’t my cock.

I could have told her the truth. That the Arctic wasn’t a long-term plan. That I had a greener environmental plan to put my hands on natural gas. A futuristic, twenty-second century invention that was in the works. But I didn’t much mind to be known as the man who was responsible for ruining the world.

“Why are you really here, Persephone?” I pushed off the wall, advancing in her direction, not stopping until we were flush against one another. While emotions were a liability, getting my wife pregnant was a calling.

The faster we could get it done, the sooner we could cease communication.

Her delicate throat bobbed with a swallow. She was plastered to the wall, cornered like an animal. She licked her lips, her blue eyes dropping to my mouth.

“Lunch.” She stuck to her version. “Why else would I be here?”

I put my arm over her head, crowding her, meeting her eyes. I had a few good inches on her, even with her new heels.

“I think you’re here because you owe me something.”

“I’m giving you everything I signed on for. I live in the apartment you’ve designated for me. I’m available to you. I don’t remember you picking up the phone and asking to consummate our marriage.” She arched an eyebrow.

She had delicate eyebrows. Another thing I wouldn’t mind my children getting from her.

In fact, I’d be glad if they took everything from her.

Everything but that bleeding heart.

And that showed you exactly how highly I thought of myself.

“I don’t beg,” I drawled.

“No one asked you to. But if you want to get into my bed, you’ll need to make the required arrangements. It’s not too much to ask.”

She made sense, and that worried me because usually, I was the pragmatic person in the conversation. Any conversation.

“You’re here now,” I noted.

I wasn’t in the mood for sex, but I supposed I had to get it over with at some point.

She beamed around the lollipop, her lips swollen and achingly kissable. “We’re not having sex in your bathroom. I have more self-respect than that.”

“Are you sure?” I asked, half-sardonic, half-hopeful. “So far, you’ve acted like a glorified mail-order bride. Bending over the vanity would be well within your typical behavior.”

She laughed.

She actually laughed.

Flipping her hair to one shoulder, my wife spun on her heel.

“Goodbye, hubs.”

She strutted her way to the door, all fire, sugar, and temptation. She knew exactly what she was doing, and she did it well. No part of her was meek and naïve now.

Not accustomed to having women leave before verbally excusing them, I watched with fascination mixed with annoyance. I’d never had to figure out how to keep someone close. Usually, my status, power, and fat wallet did it for me.

Watching her leave made me feel as though I’d been robbed of something.

“Persephone,” I barked.

She stopped.

“Turn around.”

“No.”

“Don’t make me teach you a lesson.”

“Why?” she asked brightly. “I’m a good student. Although I think I’m the one who is giving you a valuable class today. If you want me to stay, you’re going to have to ask nicely and not order me around.”

My instincts urged me to disregard her. Put her in her place. But that would be acting out of emotions, and I didn’t do those. Normal Cillian—sane Cillian—would humor her to get what he wanted and then discard her.

Quarreling with her wasn’t going to bring me a step closer to triumph. Or to having an heir.

Swallowing down a juicy curse I couldn’t believe I thought about, let alone could utter, I took a breath.

“Please turn around.”

She did, slowly. And for the first time, I realized how awful it felt to be at someone else’s mercy. The humbleness in my situation made me borderline nauseous.

Knock her up and get rid of her. You’ll be the last one to laugh when she is changing diapers and raising your future heirs while you’re deep inside a French socialite.

“Would you like to have dinner with me?” I spat out.

“Yes.” Her smile was warm like the sun, full of promise. “Tonight okay?”

“Tonight’s fine.”

“Why don’t I cook for us?”

Because it will probably taste horrible.

But these were thoughts I needed to filter at least until my objective was achieved. Not being unbearable was a learning curve.

“I have a private chef. We can also order in.”

She shook her head. “Nothing beats a home-cooked meal.”

“Where do you think my chef cooks my meals? Not the bathroom,” I bit out.

Definitely a learning curve.

She laughed. “Your chef doesn’t cook with their heart.”

“Fortunately,” I scowled, “that would be unhygienic. Any preferences?”

Her eyes traveled down to my crotch. Heat rose up my spine. It was the celibacy. I wasn’t used to being dependent on someone else’s availability.

Was this what monogamy felt like? No wonder the divorce rate in Western countries was through the roof.

“Don’t worry about my preferences. Just let me do the cooking. I have one stipulation.”

There were always stipulations with this woman.

But no matter how much I wanted to regret marrying her and not sticking to my Minka Gomes plan, I had to admit Persephone was an aphrodisiac the carnal side of me couldn’t refuse.

Her biting beauty, easy wit, and warm personality gave her a regal shine. Like all rare jewels, I wanted her for myself for the sake of having her.