The study door clicks shut with the finality of a vault sealing. Gustav leans back in his Chesterfield chair, thumb brushing the leather of the armrest as his other hand adjusts platinum cufflinks—a nervous tic hidden as aristocratic gesture. Through the haze of a dying Cuban cigar's smoke, he watches her stand between two floor-to-ceiling bookcases, sunlight from the leaded windows striping her silhouette like a prisoner between bars.

Young. That's the first unbidden thought. Not the coltish insecurity of youth—no, this is the dangerous kind. The sort that makes men his age write bad poetry and ruin family dynasties. Her legs catch his attention first—smooth lines disappearing under a department store skirt two inches too long for current fashion. We'll need to remedy that. The mental note comes crisp as a ledger entry.

"Miss," he says, the name rolling out in that deep baritone perfected at boardroom negotiations. His gaze travels upward with deliberate slowness—cashmere-sweatered curves promising softness, a neck that would bruise beautifully under teeth, lips untouched by the collagen injections his usual social set favors. When their eyes finally meet, he feels the faintest hitch in his breathing. Eyes like storm fronts. That's what snags him—the way they hold lightning behind lowered lashes. Not the skittish downcast of debtors' daughters, but something hotter. Wilder. The kind of gaze that could either ignite empires or burn them to ash. Christ.

He rises, the movement calculated to show power restrained—broad shoulders rolling beneath a tailored Tom Ford suit as he rounds the desk. Her scent hits him three steps away—vanilla shampoo and nervous sweat beneath synthetic fabric. We'll fix that too. The list grows: personal shopper from Bergdorf's, etiquette coach, maybe that French vocal tutor who fixed Tatiana's grating Long Island vowels.

"Your father..." Gustav lets the sentence dangle, watching her flinch at the word. His signet ring clinks against the crystal decanter as he pours two fingers of 30-year Macallun. "Played a remarkably poor hand of Texas Hold'em." The ice cracks like breaking bones when he drops it in. "But then, desperation makes fools of us all."

His hand drifts to the humidor, selecting a Cohiba with ritual slowness. Guillotine snips punctuate the silence. Her mouth opens—a flash of pink tongue he immediately imagines elsewhere—but he continues speaking. "The south wing's being prepared. Closets larger than your father's entire apartment, I'd wager. You'll find it stocked by noon. These... clothes you're wearing won't do." The cigar tip flares to life, cherry glow reflecting in his spectacles. "And before you protest—" smoke wreaths his smile, all white enamel and calculated warmth "—consider it an investment. Hard to host the Guggenheim trustees when you're dressed like a middle manager's mistress."

The silence stretches—a tactic honed during hostile takeovers. His tongue presses to the roof of his mouth. Childbearing hips. The phrase surfaces unbidden, clinical and primal. He imagines her swollen with his heir, that narrow waist rounding under his palm, those legs—spread across Egyptian cotton.

"Education," he continues suddenly, pushing off the desk to pace behind her. "Will be prioritized. French, of course. Art history. Oenology." Each word punctuated by the click of Oxfords on herringbone parquet. "The gala season opens in September. You'll need to be society ready by then, obviously."

He stops abruptly, catching their reflection in the mullioned window—his broad shoulders framing her slenderness. Like a falcon perched above a sparrow. The image tightens his groin.

"The rest..." The whiskey glass finds its way to his lips. He swallows slow, watching her throat move in his peripheral vision. "...we'll discuss as circumstances evolve. But know you'll want for nothing. Art tutors. Pianists. That absurd puppy-eyed philanthropy work society women use to stave off boredom between pregnancies."

A beat. Two. There. The slightest hitch in her breathing at the last word.

"Questions?" The word comes softer now, intimate as a hand on the small of her back. His thumb brushes the glass rim—imagination supplying the feel of her pulse beneath his fingers. So much to teach. To mold. The fantasy unfolds in vivid snapshots—her belly rounded beneath silk maternity gowns, small hands clutching heirs with his stormcloud eyes.

He sets the empty tumbler down with precise control. "You need only ask," velvet voice dropping to a rumble. "Anything. Everything." A banker's smile—all warmth and hidden clauses. "Within reason, of course."

Outside, a maid's laughter floats up from the courtyard. Gustav doesn't hear it. His entire world has narrowed to the way her lower lip trembles—not in fear, he thinks. Anticipation.

Soon.