The King family mansion was not a home. It was a fortress. And Esme, it seemed, was its newest and most prized prisoner.
Raphael hadn't allowed her to be discharged in a simple wheelchair. He'd insisted on carrying her from the car, over the threshold, and up the grand, winding staircase, his eyes scanning the path ahead as if it were a minefield.
He was still in his sharp black suit from the hospital, though his tie was gone, giving him the air of a man who had been working for 48 hours straight.
"The nursing staff's quarters are in the adjoining room," he said, his voice a low, clinical baritone as he gently deposited her onto the king-sized bed in the master suite.
Her old room, the "guest" room, was apparently no longer acceptable. "The nutritionist is already in the kitchen. Your meals will be every two hours. Your heart monitor is linked directly to their station and to my phone. Do not, under any circumstances, get out of this bed without..."
"Without 'stressing' you?" Esme finished, her voice flat.
Raphael's jaw tightened. "Without assistance. I'll be back."
He left, not with a loving glance, but with the air of a CEO exiting one meeting to attend another.
Esme was left alone in the massive, opulent room. She stared at the silk-covered duvet.
This was his "doting." It wasn't soft. It wasn't warm. It was obsessive, controlling, and utterly terrifying.
She pressed a hand to her still-flat stomach.
He's just doing this for the heir in her womb.
He was a King. And a King always protected his heir. She, the "frail little wife", was just the incubator. The temporary, breakable vessel.
A cold, steely resolve settled over her, a feeling more familiar than any of this "doting."
Fine. She would play her part. She would be the perfect, frail, docile patient. She would eat the bland food, take the medicine, and not get stressed. She would do everything to ensure this baby was born healthy.
And the moment she gave him his child, she would get her divorce.
She would give him the heir he so clearly, obsessively wanted, and in return, she would take the one thing she wanted: her freedom.
She was so lost in this new, grim plan that she didn't hear him re-enter.
"What's wrong?"
His voice was sharp. Esme flinched, and the monitor beeped in response.
"Nothing," she said, schooling her features.
"You were frowning. Frowning leads to thinking, and thinking leads to stress." He held out a glass of water. "Drink."
She ignored it. "Raphael, we need to talk."
"We are not talking," he said, his voice firm. "We are not having an 'argument.' We are not doing anything that makes that machine beep. Drink the water."
"I'll drink it after you listen," she said, her voice quiet but unyielding. "This... arrangement. It's not going to work."
Raphael's face darkened. "I just told you. I'm moving my office home. I've hired a full staff. I am handling it."
"You're not handling me," Esme said. "You're handling a high-risk asset. I... I can't live like this. Not for a year. Not for nine months."
"What do you want, Esme? A different brand of water?"
"I want a divorce," she said.
The monitor beeped.
"Stop that!" he snapped, glaring at the machine. "Stop saying that! You're stressing yourself!"
"I'll be less stressed when we have an agreement," she pressed. "After I give birth, you get the child... and I get my divorce."
Raphael stared at her as if she'd just suggested they set the house on fire.
"No."
"No?"
"No," he said, his voice flat. "That is not the plan. You already agreed not to divorce me."
"I said 'how can I?' in a hospital bed!" she shot back. "That's not a contract!"
"I promised," he said, his voice dropping low, "that I would do my best to not hurt you. This... this," he gestured to her, "is me doing my best. You will be safe, the baby will be safe, and this marriage will continue."
Esme let out a hollow, bitter laugh.
"I can't trust you, Raphael. Not when it comes to promises. You couldn't even keep the one you made six months ago. How do I know you're not still... I don't know... in contact with Sienna Vance? How do I know..."
"Is that what you think of me?"
The question cut her off. He didn't shout. He said it with a chilling, furious calm that was ten times more terrifying. His eyes were pinning her to the bed.
Esme didn't flinch. She'd known this monster her whole life.
"Yes."
He stared at her, the silence stretching. The muscle in his jaw jumped. He looked away, scrubbing a hand over his face in a rare, unguarded gesture of pure exhaustion.
He turned back, and the CEO was back. He was no longer her warden; he was her business partner.
"Fine," he said, his voice clipped. "A new contract. You want out?"
Esme's heart gave a hopeful, dangerous lurch.
"Then I will make sure to change that. I will be the perfect husband. I will give you no reason to distrust me. And if... if... by the time you give birth, your feelings don't change... if you still look at me and see... that..."
He took a deep breath.
"I'll sign the divorce papers."
---
Esme woke up to the smell of... nothing.
The master suite, which was now her golden cage, was hermetically sealed.
The air was filtered. The sunlight was a pale, gentle gold, diffused by three layers of sheer curtains. There was no dust. There was no noise. There was only the quiet, infuriating beep... beep... beep of her new, state-of-the-art heart monitor.
The new contract.
She lay still, staring at the ornate plaster ceiling, and replayed his words. If, by the time you give birth, your feelings don't change... I'll sign the divorce papers.
It was a trap. A beautiful, nine-month trap.
He knew she would never, ever risk her own health...and by extension, the baby's.
He had just given her a "get out of jail" card that he knew she was physically incapable of using. He wasn't a "grovelling" husband. He was a master tactician.
And he was doing it all for the heir.
The thought left a bitter, metallic taste in her mouth. She was just the incubator. A very, very high-maintenance incubator.
The door opened with a soft click.
Raphael walked in, not in his usual sharp suit, but in a soft, grey cashmere sweater and dark trousers.
He looked... domestic. It was somehow more terrifying than the suit.
He was carrying a tray.
"The nutritionist has cleared this," he announced, his voice devoid of any warmth. It was a report. "It's a steamed egg custard with coddled spinach. No sodium."
He placed the tray over her lap. It was, Esme noted, the blandest, most joyless-looking meal she had ever seen.
"It looks like prison gruel," she muttered.
The old Raphael would have snapped. He would have told her to be grateful, or just left the tray and stormed out.
This new, terrifyingly calm Raphael just pulled up a chair.
"The doctor said no sodium," he repeated, his eyes fixed on her. "Eat."
"I can feed myself, Raphael."
"I'm aware. I'm also aware you're a flight risk," he said, not unkindly, just as a fact. "So I'll be sitting here, ensuring all 'stress-eliminating' protocols are followed. Eat."
She picked up the spoon. The custard was... fine. It tasted like warm, wet air. She ate in silence, acutely aware of his gaze.
He wasn't looking at her, not at her face, anyway. He was watching the heart monitor, as if it were a stock ticker that was about to crash.
Beep... beep... beep.
"So this is my life now?" she asked, setting the spoon down. "You're going to watch me eat beige food three times a day?"
"Six," he corrected, "Six times. Smaller portions. And yes. I'm moving my office into the adjoining library. I'll be here."
"What about the company?"
"The company can run without me in the building for a few months... Arthur can handle it." He took the tray from her. "You need something? Books? Music?"
"I want my phone," she said.
He paused. "Why?"
"Because I'm a prisoner, but I'd like to at least read the news. Or is that too 'stressful' for the heir's incubator?"
His jaw tightened. "I'll have a nurse bring it."
He left. Esme leaned back against the mountain of pillows. This was worse than their old, hateful dynamic. This cold, clinical, obsessive doting was a new kind of cruelty.
A nurse, a kind-looking older woman, brought her phone an hour later.
"Mr. King asked me to remind you that the doctor recommended 'low-stimulation' activities, dear," the nurse said gently.
"Thank you," Esme murmured. The moment the nurse left, she unlocked the screen.
Her fingers were trembling. She was almost afraid to look. The gala collapse... it had to be a massive scandal.
She opened a browser.
The headlines were explosive, just as she'd feared.
"KING HEIR'S FRAIL WIFE COLLAPSES AT GALA!"
"HEALTH SCARE OR MARITAL STRIFE? INSIDE THE KING'S MARRIAGE."
"Sienna Vance Seen at Gala—Was She the Cause of Esme Lee's Collapse?"
Esme's heart did a familiar, painful lurch. The monitor beeped in protest.
So the world knew. Everyone knew he'd invited his ex. Everyone knew she was a "frail" fool who couldn't even handle her own husband.
The humiliation burned, hot and acidic.
She typed in "Sienna Vance," expecting to see gloating selfies or paparazzi shots of her meeting with Raphael.
Instead, she saw the real headline. A formal press release from the King conglomerate, issued less than twelve hours after the gala.
"KING CONGLOMERATE TERMINATES VANCE INDUSTRIES PARTNERSHIP, EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY."
Esme just... stared.
That was a ten-year, multi-billion dollar contract. Raphael wouldn't just terminate that. Not over a "frail" wife's fit. It was corporate suicide.
She scrolled, finding another, more recent article.
"Sienna Vance, in Tears, Ejected from King Medical Center After 'Attempting to Visit' Esme Lee. Father, Pundits Call Raphael King 'Erratic' and 'Out of Control.'"
Esme's phone slipped from her fingers.
He hadn't just told her he wasn't cheating.
He had financially and publicly destroyed the woman at the center of the rumor. This wasn't just a "face-slap"—it was a corporate execution.
Her mind reeled.
He did this... to protect me? The thought was small, hopeful, and immediately crushed.
No.
He did this to "eliminate stress."
This wasn't an act of love. This was an act of asset protection. He was cleaning up his own mess to protect the heir, and he'd just shown the world he was willing to burn his own empire to the ground to do it.
The door clicked open. Raphael was back, holding a bottle of water.
He looked at her, then at the beep-beeping monitor.
"What did you read?" he demanded, his voice dangerously calm.
Esme just looked at him, at this stranger who was her husband.
"You... you fired Sienna."
"She was a stressor," he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I eliminate stressors. Now drink your water."
And for the first time, she wondered which of them was really sick.