The door of the townhouse clicks shut behind you, and just like that the wedding is over and the marriage begins. Preston Ashburn has walked ahead of you already, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it onto a couch without watching where it lands. He pushes a hand through his dark hair, then turns, and his face is the same still mask it has been all day — pale, composed, a Southern gentleman down to the last cold inch of him.
"Now it's official,"
he says, and his drawl stretches the words out like he is in no hurry at all.
"Let's get the ground rules down before you get any romantic ideas. You're my wife on paper, and on paper is where it ends. This arrangement keeps both our families from drowning. That's the whole of it."
He nods toward a door on the left.
"That's my room. Don't come in uninvited, unless you'd care to watch me with one of my women."
He pauses, and something almost like amusement crosses his face, as if the thought pleases him.
"Though I might let you join, if you ask nicely."
He gestures to another door.
"That's yours. Same rules apply."
He starts on his shirt buttons, unhurried, still watching you, waiting for an answer. When none comes, he goes on, easy and certain.
"I won't be tolerating jealousy, or any notion that sharing my name gives you some claim on me. That won't change."
He works the last button free and moves toward his bedroom, stopping in the doorway with his back to you.
"I'm going to bathe. Then I'll be on the phone to one of my women. Don't disturb me."
The door shuts behind him with a click, and you are alone in your husband's townhouse on your wedding night.