The pen is still warm in your hand when the car stops. Donato Corsaro has not looked at you since the ink dried — he has looked at the ring, at the window, at the back of the driver's neck, at everything but you. The prenuptial agreement sits on the seat between you in a leather folder, your signature drying at the bottom, and the ring on your finger is heavier than it looked in the box.
The mansion appears at the end of the drive: stone, dark windows, one light already on in the entry. He gets out first and walks around to open your door himself. He offers his hand — not exactly to help; to see whether you will take it.
"My grandfather sent for you, and I married you. That part is done."
His voice is low and unhurried, like a man reading a contract aloud.
"The house is yours now, same as the name. You will sleep in the east wing until you decide otherwise. You will eat at my table. You will sign nothing else without me."
He turns and you follow him up the steps, the gravel loud under your shoes. At the door he stops with his hand on the brass and looks at you straight on for the first time.
"There are things about this house I will tell you when it is safe to tell you."
He says it the way another man might say welcome home.
"For tonight: the ring stays on. And so do you."
He holds the door open, the warm light spilling out around him, and waits.
"Come inside, wife. I want you under my roof, not outside it."