Chapter Twenty-Five: Conversations in Quiet Rooms
The dinner was a quiet affair. The clink of silverware seemed louder than usual, the conversation polite but subdued, orbiting around my health like cautious satellites. I could feel Adrian's gaze on me, a constant, worried pressure. I could see Maria's eyes, calculating and kind, watching for signs of renewed pallor or dizziness. The weight of their concern was a blanket, warm but stifling.
I needed to breathe. And more than that, I needed to know.
After dessert, as the family drifted toward the drawing room for coffee, I slipped away. My footsteps were soft on the Persian runner as I made my way to the west wing, to the door that was always slightly ajar when he was working late. Light spilled from the crack, a warm, inviting gold in the dim hallway.
I knocked softly.
"Come in."
William Madden sat behind a vast, antique desk that was remarkably clear. A single file folder lay open before him, a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose. The room smelled of leather, old books, and the faint, clean scent of his cologne. He looked up, and his stern expression softened with surprise, then gentle inquiry.
"Arisha. Should you be up? Are you feeling unwell?"
"No, sir. I mean, yes, I'm fine. I just… wanted to talk to you. If you're not too busy."
He immediately removed his glasses and gestured to the leather armchair opposite him. "For you, I am never too busy. Sit. Please."
I sat, folding my hands in my lap, suddenly nervous. In the soft lamplight, he didn't look like the Prime Minister. He looked like a tired father, the lines on his face etched by responsibility rather than mere age.
"I wanted to ask you," I began, my voice small but steady, "about your promise to my mother. About… about bringing justice for my father."
All trace of softness vanished from his face, replaced by a flinty focus. He leaned forward, his hands steepled. "Gregory Hale."
The name was a curse in the quiet room. I nodded. "You said you would make him face justice. For what he did."
"I did. And I am." He spoke with a chilling certainty. "The wheels of the law turn slowly, Arisha, especially when the quarry is powerful and well-lawyered. But they are turning. The financial forensics are nearly complete. What Hale did to your father wasn't just ruthless business. It was fraud. Embezzlement. Legal documents forged, assets illegally seized. We are building a case that will not just embarrass him in the papers. It will put him in prison."
He said it with such calm conviction that a knot of grief I'd carried for years loosened, just a fraction. "He died believing he'd failed us," I whispered. "That he'd lost everything through his own mistake."
William's eyes held a pain that mirrored my own. "Elias was no fool. He was an idealist in a den of sharks. Hale exploited his trust, his decency. That is not a failure of character. It is a testament to it." He paused, his voice dropping. "I failed him, too. I lost touch. I was… consumed by my own path. When I learned it was him… the guilt was profound. Securing justice for him, for your mother, for you… it is a personal debt. And I always repay my debts."
Tears welled in my eyes, but they were not tears of sadness this time. They were of a fierce, grateful relief. "Thank you," I managed.
He reached into a drawer and pulled out a small, elegant box. He opened it and slid it across the desk. Inside, on a bed of velvet, was a simple, beautiful fountain pen. "This was his," William said quietly. "We bought a pair together in our final year at King's. A foolish extravagance for two students. He insisted on paying for both. 'For the future prime minister and the future tycoon,' he said." A faint, sorrowful smile touched his lips. "I've kept it all these years. I want you to have it."
I picked up the pen. It was heavy, solid. A tangible piece of my father, held safe by his friend. I clutched it to my chest, unable to speak.
William watched me, his expression returning to that gentle, paternal softness. "Now, was there something else? You did not come here only to discuss old sorrows."
I took a shaky breath. "I… I wanted to ask your permission. To visit my mother tomorrow. And Lucia mentioned she wanted to go shopping. I thought… maybe we could go together. Just for a few hours."
His brow furrowed slightly. "Arisha, you do not need my permission for such things. You are an adult. You are family."
"I know," I said quickly. "But with… everything. The security. Hale. I didn't want to cause any complications or put anyone at risk. I thought it was proper to ask."
He studied me for a long moment, seeing, I think, not just the young woman before him, but the daughter of his friend, trying so hard to navigate this gilded labyrinth with grace. His eyes warmed. "It is considerate of you to ask. Of course, you may go. I will inform security. They will be discreet. Spend time with your mother. Let Lucia drag you to every overpriced boutique in the city." He almost smiled. "It will be good for you. For all of us, to have a little normalcy."
"Thank you," I said again, rising. I felt lighter, unburdened.
"Arisha," he called as I reached the door. I turned. He was standing now, his hands braced on the desk. "You have his strength, you know. And his good heart. Elias would be incredibly proud of the woman you are."
A fresh wave of emotion tightened my throat. I just nodded, clutching the pen, and slipped out into the hall.
The walk back to our wing was a blur. My heart felt full—with sorrow, with hope, with the weight of my father's pen in my hand. I pushed open the door to our bedroom, lost in thought.
I had only taken two steps inside when an arm snaked around my waist from the shadows, pulling me back against a hard, familiar chest. The door clicked shut behind us.
"And where," Adrian's voice murmured, low and taut against my ear, "have you been, little wife?"
He spun me around to face him. He was still in his dinner clothes, his tie loosened, his eyes dark and intense in the dim room. There was no playfulness in his gaze now. Only a simmering, possessive heat.
"I was talking to your father," I said, my breath catching.
"I saw you slip away. I waited. You were gone twenty-three minutes." His hands settled on my hips, holding me in place. "You asked him for permission. To visit your mother. To go shopping."
"I… I thought it was the right thing to do. With the security situation—"
"I am your husband," he cut in, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. He leaned in, his forehead nearly touching mine. "Not my father. If you wish to go somewhere, you come to me. You ask me. I decide what is safe for you. I arrange the security. I give the permissions in this marriage. Do you understand?"
His possessiveness was a live wire, sparked by the vulnerability of the last few days, by his own fear and guilt. It should have frightened me. Instead, a thrill shot through me, hot and undeniable.
"He was my father's friend," I whispered, defending myself weakly. "I wanted to ask him about… about Hale."
Adrian's eyes flashed. "And did he give you what you needed?"
"Yes."
"Good." His thumb stroked over my hip bone. "But the rest… from now on, it comes through me. You are mine to protect. Mine to permit. Mine." The last word was a growl, sealed by his mouth crashing down onto mine.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a reclamation. A stamp of ownership. It was furious and deep, and I melted into it, my earlier resolve dissolving under the onslaught of his need. The pen still clutched in my hand was forgotten as my arms wound around his neck.
He broke the kiss, breathing harshly. "Why does it drive me so mad," he rasped, "to think of you asking another man for anything, even my own father?"
"I don't know," I breathed, pressing closer. "But I like it."
A dark, triumphant smile touched his lips. "Do you?" In one swift motion, he bent and scooped me up into his arms. "Then let me remind you who your lord and master really is, Mrs. Madden."
He carried me to the bed, his earlier fear and guilt transmuted now into a fierce, consuming passion. And as he showed me, with relentless clarity, exactly to whom I belonged, I understood the final, most primal layer of the Madden name. It wasn't just about politics or power. In this dark, quiet room, it was about a possessive, protective love so absolute it bordered on tyranny. And I, his willing captive, surrendered to it completely.