My bedroom 24

 

What it cost being Mrs.Wndsor 

Julian’s POV 

I did not ask her to meet because I was uncertain. I asked her to meet because I needed clarity. 

There is a difference. 

When she called to say she would accept the arrangement, her voice carried a tremor she tried to disguise as resolve, and I already knew then that she had not truly understood what she was agreeing to at The Velvet Ember the first time, because people often mistake opportunity for power when in reality opportunity can be the most elegant form of submission. 

I told her I would send a car, and I chose the location carefully, not out of sentiment but control. The Velvet Ember is neutral territory, intimate enough for private negotiations and discreet enough that no one asks questions when doors close and conversations turn transactional. 

When I arrived, I ensured the private dining room was sealed, no waiters hovering, no interruptions, no accidental witnesses, because I dislike repeating myself and I refuse to negotiate terms twice. 

She entered dressed to impress, posture straight, chin lifted, ambition shining in her eyes so brightly that it almost distracted from the nervousness beneath it, and for a moment I studied her the way I study a contract before signing it – not for beauty, not for charm, but for liability. 

“Sit,” I told her, and she obeyed. 

I placed the document in front of her without theatrics, because theatrics suggest emotion and I had 

none to offer. 

“This,” I said evenly, “is the full outline of what you are agreeing to.” 

She hesitated before touching it, as though the paper itself might burn her fingers, and when she finally opened the folder and saw the thickness of it, her composure shifted just slightly, the way it does when someone realizes they are no longer in control of the room. 

“You will read every page,” I continued, leaning back in my chair, watching her carefully. “And you will understand that this is not a marriage proposal. It is a structural agreement.” 

She began turning the pages slowly, her eyes scanning the clauses, and I watched the progression of her expression move from confidence to confusion, from confusion to disbelief, and from disbelief to something dangerously close to humiliation. 

Her fingers tightened when she reached the first major clause. 

“No media interviews regarding the personal life of Julian Windsor or the Windsor family without written approval from legal counsel,” she read softly, and then she looked up at me as if waiting for clarification. 

“You will not speak to the press about this wedding beyond what is prepared for you,” I explained calmly. “You will not give personal anecdotes. You will not fabricate romance. You will not imply intimacy.” 

1/4 

She swallowed and continued reading. 

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Clause after clause dismantled whatever fantasy she had constructed in her mind about what becoming Mrs. Windsor might mean. 

“You will maintain separate residential quarters within the estate,” she read next, her voice thinning. 

“Yes,” I said. “We will not share a bedroom.” 

Her eyes flicked to mine, searching for hesitation, but I gave her none. 

“You will not attempt physical intimacy,” she continued reading, the words sounding heavier now. “You will not expect marital relations.” 

She stopped there and looked up fully, disbelief replacing composure. 

“What kind of marriage is this?” she asked, her tone wavering between outrage and panic. 

“The only kind I am willing to offer you,” I replied, without raising my voice and without breaking eye 

contact. 

She went back to the document, almost defensively, as if the answers might soften further down the page, but they did not. 

“You may engage in personal relationships outside this marriage provided discretion is maintained and public scandal is avoided,” she read, and her cheeks flushed slightly. 

“You are free to sleep with whoever you choose,” I clarified. “Your personal life will not concern me.” 

“And yours?” she asked. 

“My personal life,” I said evenly, “is none of your business.” 

} 

She looked as though she wanted to protest, and I could see the argument forming behind her eyes before she even spoke it. 

“You expect me to live in your house, carry your name, attend your events, smile beside you, and yet you 

will never even-” 

“You will not be carrying my name, there is an actual wife who is carrying my name not you. You do not have the right to protest,” I interrupted, my tone still calm but firm enough that the air in the room shifted instantly. Her mouth closed. “I do not want this marriage,” I continued, leaning forward slightly so there could be no misinterpretation. “I am not interested in you, Delia. I am not interested in building a life with you, sharing a bed with you, or creating an illusion of romance for your benefit. I am doing this for my grandmother.” 

The words landed exactly as intended. 

Her face paled, but I did not look away. 

“The sooner you understand that, the better this will be for you,” I added. 

2/4 

Being Mir Windso 

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She stared at me, wounded pride warring with ambition, and I watched the internal calculation happening in real time. 

“You are marrying me for my sister,” she said slowly, as if trying to reconstruct the logic from memory. 

“Yes.” 

“And she knows nothing about this.” 

“No.” 

“And she doesn’t know you’re already married.” 

“No.” 

That was the only truth I was unwilling to elaborate on. She turned another page, and her fingers trembled when she reached the clause regarding children. 

“No heirs shall be produced within this arrangement,” she read, her voice nearly a whisper. “Any pregnancy shall be terminated immediately or legally separated from the Windsor name and inheritance structure.” 

She looked up sharply. “You can’t be serious.” 

“I am always serious,” I replied. 

“You’re asking me to give up-” 

“I am asking you to choose, as I said before, you can fuck whoever you want to fuck, Hell, you can fuck my guards I wouldn’t care but if you get pregnant, you will terminate the pregnancy.” I corrected her.” Status or sentiment. Access or affection. Security or illusion.” 

She stared down at the paper again, and for the first time the weight of the Windsor name seemed to press down on her rather than lift her. 

“You will relocate after the wedding,” I continued, because clarity prevents future rebellion. “You will 

attend family functions as my wife. You will represent the Windsor foundation when necessary. You will not interfere with business decisions. You will not question my whereabouts. You will not attempt to leverage my grandmother emotionally. You will not involve your parents in internal matters. And you will not under any circumstances speak of this arrangement to anyone.” 

“And if I do?” she asked, her voice smaller now. 

“If you do,” I said calmly, “you will find that being a Windsor can be significantly more difficult than marrying one.” 

I did not threaten loudly. I did not need to. 

Silence filled the space between us, thick and suffocating. 

She read the final page slowly, her eyes lingering on the signature line longer than necessary. 

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You don’t even plan to divorce your wife,” she said quietly, almost to herself 

No 

“And I’m supposed to accept that.” 

“Yes” 

Her jaw tightened, and for a brief second she looked like she might tear the contract in half out of pride alone, but she did not because pride does not compete well against power. 

“You’re humillating me,” she said finally. 

“No,” I corrected her. “I am being honest with you.” 

She exhaled sharply, closing the folder halfway before reopening it again as though she needed to confirm the clauses had not rearranged themselves into something kinder. 

“This is not what I imagined,” she admitted. 

“That is not my responsibility.” 

The room felt smaller now, and I could see the moment she understood that this was not a negotiation but an offer with defined edges. 

“You will have until tomorrow at noon to sign,” I said, standing slowly. “If you decline, the engagement 

ends quietly and permanently.” 

“And my family?” she asked. 

“Will be informed that we were incompatible.” 

She searched my face one last time for warmth, for hesitation, for a crack in the armor she might exploit. 

She found none. 

As I reached the door, I paused and turned back just slightly. 

“You wanted to be Mrs. Windsor,” I said evenly. “Now you understand what that costs.” 

Then I left her alone with the contract, the silence, and the realization that she had mistaken proximity to power for partnership. 

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