togetherness

Arthur embraced her, his usual deportment making him subject to fold from the embarrassment of their public display… But he reminded himself that these other people were mere strangers, only minorly inconvenienced by their long-winded show of affection. The paperwork could wait just a moment longer while he expressed his honest enthusiasm, and shared in the revelry of their unification. 

Her teasing never did cease, but foundational to their relationship he found himself to be ribbing in response. “Perhaps I’m terrified because my wife happens to be a terrifying woman.” Arthur retorted, smiling in one last embrace before taking up the offered pen and signing their certificate. His signature was a hallmark, characterized by his cursive penmanship and peculiar way of running the middle line of his ‘A’ through the remaining letters of his first name, and the same practice performed on the ‘M’ of his surname. Once finished, he handed the pen off to Cornelia. 

His eyes traced the movements of her pen as she signed. It was done. Her heart had been resting unsuspectingly in his palm for many months, but only then was he able to close his fingers around it,  and finally secure his fist in his pocket. She belonged entirely to him now, and the pulse of their living passions would forever be felt in his possession of her. 

The clerk took the official document and ran it through a scanner, pressed a stamp that read [KOPIE] onto the newly printed paper, and returned the original document to the newly wedded. She then asked for the next in line, passively dismissing both Melbournes while maintaining her completely unmoved disposition. 

Arthur held the document responsibly. He admittedly did not trust Neeltje with legal documents, but he supposed that in her newfound publishing career, he might owe her the benefit of the doubt. Even though she was hopelessly disorganized.

As they walked away from the desk together and out into the bright, sunshiney afternoon, Arthur felt reborn. “You’re my wife.” He said with awe, squeezing her hand before ditching it in favor of pulling her closer by her waist. Careful not to wrinkle the evidence of their matrimony, he pulled her in for another kiss—this time, without the eyes of innocent patrons and government employees. They demonstrated their love in the openness, entertaining the idea that they were normal people, as if the rest of the natural world had been caught in hell-flames… In how many ways could a poet write ‘I love you’, he wondered. This challenge intrigued him, and Cornelia drove the curiosity. 

Pulling gently from the kiss, his eyes bonded with hers before he winced them shut, recalling the pain it took to get to the current moment. He would take a thousand lashes again and again, in the end, it had all been worth every last, bleeding sting. 

Without looking up from her looping script, she offered a faint, knowing tilt of her head. “A terrifying woman?” she answered, her voice low enough to belong to the space between, bypassing the indifferent glares of the hallway. "To live a life with a woman whose true purpose is to torture you, forever." She teased with a playful smile or at least, she tried "What a tragedy for you.”

She finished with a deliberate pause. Even with the sterile thud of the clerk’s rubber stamp that followed. The finality of it had settled deep in her quest. She knew how his mind worked, how he viewed her life in a meticulous order, while she simply lived it in. Even now, with her identity legally bound to his, she felt no sudden urge to soften or back down. Marriage wasn’t an invitation to be tamed, and she had no intention of softening the sharp edges he loved her for.  What was the point of marriage, if he did not love her for who she truly was? Neeltje chose not to not ponder it any further. 

Out in the open, the heat of the pavement radiated through the soles of her shoes. The thoughts that flooded her mind were silenced with each passing kiss Arthur gave her. She was beyond happy to provide him with more, forever. In that second, she was the wife of an author. How niche. She wondered if she could bring her interest in writing back with Arthur now by her side, musing her and inspiring her. Neeltje turned her head to look at him as he suddenly went rigid, his mind visibly snagging on the missing rings. 

When she spoke of her being dangerous with a bare finger, the amusement in her eyes quieted. She looked down at her hand, her finger bare and flat against the warm air. It was only a fraction of a second, but the hesitation was there - a sudden awareness of the empty space where a symbol of eternity belonged, a fragile reminder of their time to get here. They had paid for this day in many heartbreaks, and the sudden absence of the ring made victory feel…almost…precarious. 

But it was their wedding day! And she had no intention of allowing such a statement to shadow it. “Dangerous-" Neeltje repeated the word, sounding like silk on her tongue. Her expression perfectly composed, yet laced with a subtle, mocking challenge in understanding his joke.

"And here I thought modesty was my redeeming quality! But if it keeps you from an early grave, my love” she said, her tone light as she leaned her shoulders into his. She tried to play it off as lighthearted, but the sharpness of her tongue always found a way to slip out! "Just make sure it's fitting. I, unfortunately, have very delicate taste." Still, she gave his arm a playful nudge. “And please stop staring at my hand like I’m holding an unpinned grenade. Besides, you’re going to choke the life out of that paperwork if you grip it any tighter…”

The entire decision was hugely risky. It was not secret knowledge that hasty marriages like this were frowned upon by society. Arthur also was hit with the shame of their age difference! Cornelia was an entire ten years his junior. Would he be denounced as a predator? She was a fully grown woman, but even he was more accustomed to mingling with women closer to his own age. Now, all of a sudden, he was marrying a twenty-something year old while he was only a year away from being forty. They already had eyes on them from all angles being in the lime-light… Say what they will, shallow as they are! They couldn’t begin to understand the love they shared. 

There was very much to consider which had not been—they had never truly lived together, they did not know the private habits of the other… They had just barely familiarized themselves with each other’s bodies, and in all actuality, there was still so much they did not know. This was what made their love for one another all the more irrational, but there was a science to their madness. He was convinced of this. 

Arthur, who was chronically on the verge of tears, had managed to keep himself collected despite being very touched by the ever passing time. He tried to be effortless in his appreciation for the moment, not letting it slip through his fingers like sand. Marriage, after all, was ideally only done once in a lifetime. 

But with the passing of time grew a catalogue of memories with his future wife. The thousands of mornings he hoped to wake beside her, the endless arguments he looked forward to having, her eventual death—his breath hitched at this thought, knowing that the decision before him was so much more important than anything else in existence. They were only temporarily on this earth, and he intended to spend the one chance he had with her. 

“I do, I do!” He said, quickly brushing away a single tear with his hand—oh, he had done too much crying today! But this was a tear of joy. There was no chance he would have oppressed the feeling had he tried. Arthur had a rare sensitivity that inflicted him, much more significant and debilitating than most other men (most other people) he knew, and while at times he felt it a burden, he took comfort knowing that he was feeling everything in life in the most amplified way possible. 

The same vows were repeated back to Neeltje, and Arthur gripped both of her hands with anxious enthusiasm. The adrenaline of the incoming words festered in all of his senses. He was now her husband, and she was about to be his wife. Life had never been so good to him.

Nothing else mattered than him. The world that they have lived on with its expectations, its judgment, and cruelties - she could not give a damn. Let the society they left behind frown upon their haste; let them gossip about their ten-year gap. They were now blissed in their private sanctuary and nothing can break them from it. 

Yet, beneath her strong defiance, a quiet vulnerability stirred. Despite being so confident, there was always a lingering inkling that she may disappoint him. She knew that the creature he created in his mind might fall the moment she loses her mystery as they settled into the mundane, unglamorous realities of daily life together. It should stun her, it should worry her to be held against such a fragile ideal. 

Yet, she was ready to take that risk. Even if they had some doubts, even if she was stepping blinding onto the pedestal he had built for her, she chose to meet his gaze with absolute certainty. 

“Yes!" Her voice is sharp and clear, breaking through the heavy silence of the room. She reached out, her fingers catching the cheap, ill-fitting substitute ring resting on her finger, and squeezed his hands tightly to his trembling wrists. "I mean- I do!" she embarrassedly answered, too eager to finally commit herself to him.

Immediately, she stepped into his space and closed the distance between them, planting a tender kiss -  though the clerk was getting to the part. She let out a shaky breath of her own, fighting back the gloss of her own tears, betraying her as they streamed down her cheeks, before smiling brightly.

“If we are mad for doing then, then let us be mad.” she laughed as her thumb gently wiping away the very last trace of wetness from his cheek. “But I am now, Mrs. Melbourne.” She sang in excitement, just to hear it become true. Mrs. Cornelia Melbourne - what a sophisticated name! 

Whatever cool demeanor she had, vanished. She did little jumps in the drab hallway, her heels clicking excitedly against the linoleum, a burst of giddiness that left the flowers in her hand shaking. The small arrangement dropped a few stray petals on the floor. “Now please, take that terrified look off your face, dear husband. ”

She was uncharacteristically quiet, and they both remained this way for a long time. It was a comfortable silence, and it struck him as virginal in their otherwise very loud relationship. The constant arguments, back-handed criticism, and undertone of irritability that colored their working partnership had suddenly faded into the background. The project remained a work-in-progress, but all of these professional pursuits fell by the wayside simultaneously as they fell in love. 

When she addressed him, he had just barely parted his eyes from her to finish buttoning his shirt. Returning his devoted attention to her soft voice, her verbalization of their intended vow washed over him with warm anticipation . He failed to sense any doubt, and he searched every cell to find something that would dissuade him, and yet he could not. His love for her was so tiresome in soul and body. Even if it were to end in disaster—their relationship succumbing to divorce, infidelity, or some other tragedy that he dare not imagine—it wouldn’t matter. He would love her the worse she treated him, and as fearful as he felt to lay his power at her feet, there was nothing stopping him any more. Arthur had a taste of something so dangerously life-altering; she was a revolutionary figure in his theology of love, now forever changed by her subversive, destabilizing ways. 

“As soon as you let me.” He finally said with a gentle longing, the pleading vibration of his voice extending from across the room. “Yesterday wasn’t soon enough.” 

—

Naturally there was time allowed for special preparation before they dove headfirst into the commitment together. But from his arrival in Belgium to the time they arrived at the courthouse seeking a marriage license, only four hours had passed. It was immature, not well-thought out, and completely unlike him to be so impulsive, but Neeltje made him this way. Her influence over him was mammoth, no other woman had the unquestioned force to bring out his fanciful romanticism quite like Neeltje. 

Upon arrival at the courthouse, Arthur felt the indefinite weight of the situation settle over him. It was a luxury to have any sense of reason, for he was so gladly living in a state of illusion since stepping on Belgian soil—this was an entirely uncouth practice that was unravelling moment by moment, but it was a welcome one. Albeit stressful, but welcome. He wondered if the receptionist could sense their total preoccupation with each other, their recklessness having guided them here on an especially impetuous quest. 

There was no doubt in her mind that her life with Arthur would be anything less than martial bliss. Of course, they were opposites; their respective eccentricities bringing out challenges between them, but she was certain that whenever midnight struck, they would find themselves entirely enamored by one another. She knew she was cared for (even if she still had to buckle her belt every once in a while). 

“If we're already so late,” she said, shifting upright the moment he finished his romantic prose. A joy blooming within her. “Let's not waste another second.” Her voice was soft, melodic, but carried the weight of absolute writ. 

. 

Admittedly, this was a far cry from the grand affair she imagined since childhood. But this was enough. To claim someone completely, forever, was a luxury in itself. She had done her best to assemble a bride from what was at hand: choosing the creamiest silk dress in her wardrobe, and gathering white garden roses from the kitchen vase (ones that she had carefully tended since Arthur’s first arrival to Belgium). She made sure to pin one to his lapel. Then had come the frantic, thirty-minute scramble for legal documentation, the two of them huddled over a screen to settle the marriage fees. Who knew the state made eternity such a bureaucratic trifle? 

The quiet of the courthouse rattled her bones. Looking around, she realized they were not alone in their haste; other couples lined behind them waiting their turn. Out of necessity, she had to ask a passing clerk to act as their witness. It was all so beautifully rushed. It comforted her to see the others, though she suspected those couples had their engagement longer than four hours. Four hours was hardly a lifetime, but it was theirs. She squeezed Arthur’s hand, offering a silent comfort. “It’s going to be okay,” she whispered, resting her head against his arm. The rhythmic clatter of plastic keyboards being their first wedding march, and Neeltje found herself smiling. 

Ah, the rings. 

She looked up, catching the faint, puzzled expression on Arthur’s face. She laughed softly, glancing at the clerk. Arthur was English, and though he hardly knew a syllable of Flemish, one would think de ringen could be deduced by context clues alone. As the two women shared a knowing, amused look at the Englishman’s expense, Cornelia dug into her purse. She produced two metal keyrings - one from her duplex, the other from her pepper spray. 

“There,” she whispered, taking Arthur’s hand and pressing the cold metal into his palm. “We must do with what we have.” A small joke to lightened the gravity of the room before they bound their souls. 

The clerk began the required legal jargon. Cornelia took care to translate the heavy words into English for Arthur, her voice steady. The manic rush of their early afternoon suddenly slowed, stretching out to stillness. An impatience seized her, she wanted the preamble over with! She so desperately wanted to be his wife. 

What an imbecile he was to believe that he could convince her of his overnight transformation, that he had somehow become the epitome of masculinity when she had known him as nothing more than a diffident yes-man. A metamorphosis so vast was completely implausible; he succumbed to his own embarrassment now. Arthur felt the bubbling frustration within him boil into his throat, but out of his mouth came nothing but an audible moan as she leaned in closer to him. The all consuming look that donned his face said it all, he had been reduced to a simple pawn in her wicked game. The attractant perfume she wore paired deliciously with her natural pheromones, and as if a switch flipped, he was no longer a man at all. His entire body felt as if engulfed in flames.

Arthur’s head hung low and defeated by the end of her monologue, and he was growing sicker with sensitivity by the minute. Did she truly know the extent of his love for her? Had she not witnessed his complete surrender? And finally, did she even care what he felt? The trembling sensation travelled from his hands to his core, and as fragile as a leaf, he shook under her seductive and injurious glare. This woman’s wrath was only enabled by his desire to possess her, but he willingly fed the beast despite knowing he would agonize under her foot. He would be blissfully crushed by her and still smile as death overtook him, eyes bright with ecstacy.

Her heart was a void. He had no ability to enchant her as she did him, and this left Arthur with an immense hopelessness that consumed his entire being. His love for her exceeded expectations of reciprocation, for it didn’t matter if she loved him any more. What he wanted (no, needed) to know was to what extremes he would undergo this heartache. He was prepared to submit his entire existence to her, his limits were no longer applicable when it was her he wanted. No promises were required of her, no demands would he make of her. He was gifting himself to her as if he were an insignificant toy which she could find some small amusement in whenever she so pleased.

“Tell me, please.” Arthur said in a quaking whisper, “Speak to me honestly, and be as brutal as you need to. But I must know—” A deep breath kept back the tears that threatened to flow, his last sliver of control used to hold them in. 

“Do you love me as I love you?” His hands came to his chest, as he felt his heart may jump out through his ribcage. 

Do you love me as I love you? If she could have collapsed the distance between them further, she would have. To hear him announce his love for her, stirred a flame in her chest that finally, for once, tamed her. She had to remind herself that they were sitting in a crowded room, yet the world had dissolved until it felt as though they were completely alone. While she rarely cared for the opinions of society, she possessed enough pedigree to maintain decorum. Her fingers drifted across the table, brushing against his hands as the eyes that had once flashed with disdain softened to a heavy longing, trembling, with a breathless vulnerability. It was a surrender that bared her soul completely, leaving her soft. Oh, how he adored her. And how she wanted to consume him entirely, to possess the very center of his being. 

“I love you,” she breathed, leaning across the small space as her hands rose to cradle his cheek, her fingers brushing softly against his skin. She moved in closer to press a gentle, lingering kiss to his lips. It wasn't an admission of defeat, but a sweet, unmistakable promise that she was completely, beautifully lost in him.

“Every step you take away tears at my own chest,” she trembling whispers, “You have managed to completely disrupt my world, and I do mind the chaos of it all, because it makes me love you so much more.” Her voice softened to a sweet, breathless promise. “My heart is entirely yours, Arthur.”

Arthur had been practicing his self-restraint, but in the presence of Peitho herself, even he felt the euphoric effects of her unmatched physical form. Like a complete sap, his eyes went to all the areas she intended for them to; her hips were an unholy exhibition of her fertility, her bare collarbone left him breathless, and the faultlessness of her waist could drive any man insane. But her face—oh, that face—that was what broke him. But there was nothing more important than keeping his sanity at this moment! His composure was everything in convincing Cornelia that his binding covenant to her had since dissolved, and he was a changed man. 

“Ms. Peeters.” He replied, and they sat mutually across from one another. Arthur did not speak for a long time, the sound of pastry being lacerated by her manicured fingers filled the silence between them. The licking of her own lips sent an aggressive shudder flowing through his spine. This feeling, he decided, was sheer terror. She was the most breathtaking manifestation of woman that this world would ever know, and he had been afflicted by her powers in a way that only the servant of a goddess might. His undying loyalty to her had yet to bring any rewards, and it was this reminder that kept him focused. 

Although neither were making special efforts to be conversational, everything was being clearly communicated with the glances they offered one another. Their eyes transcended language. His jaw clenched slightly as a symptom of self-discipline, he brought the coffee to his lips to mask the impossible casualness that he was attempting to perform. But he knew she could see straight through him, he could feel the arrows shooting him down with precision. 

Even though he had spent the last month preparing his detailed presentation of work, he immediately felt that his confidence began to waver when she finally had presented the subject. He could feel his tongue become flaccid and he was horrified that she might see the fear in his eyes as he desperately attempted to save himself from this internal turmoil. There was no deceiving a deity such as herself, and it was in this moment that he pondered the reality of his own free-will. Had his efforts to part from her been for nothing when she herself had the means to manipulate his agency, had she pre-destined him to this bleak life of emotional slavery? She set him free just to watch the dogs retrieve him, dragging his body back to her feet with his fingers clawing into the dirt, and how she would laugh at his fruitless attempts to part from her!

How exhausting it must be to build an entire fortress to survive an afternoon coffee, she thought. He wanted so desperately to project the image of a changed, unyielding man, yet every tense line of his presence betrayed him. He wasn’t fighting her; he was fighting his own submission, treating his desire as a trap, rather than what it truly was - a choice he craved to make. 

More than anything, it was his own writing, that had completely stripped him bare to her. Every bleeding line of prose, every supposedly objective observation about “man’s natural adherence” was nothing more than an intimate roadmap of his own obsession. He had bound his own wrist with his words and handed her the key. 

She met his piercing stare with a calm, unblinking serenity. Slowly, she leaned forward, deliberately narrowing the space between them. Her posture was effortless, her voice dropping to a low murmur that vibrated against his defenses. 

“A particularly cruel woman, Mr. Melbourne?” She tilted her head, a slow lazy smile playing at the corners of her lips as her eyes dropped briefly to his mouth before locking back onto his gaze. “What an immense amount of energy you spend painting yourself as a victim of a tragedy you authored.” 

She looked down at the shattered remains of her pasty on her plate. Her manicured fingers reach out, deliberately tracing the rim of her coffee cup before sliding across the linen to lightly brush against the sleeve of his coat. Let him call it emotional slavery if it protects his pride, but the truth is far simpler. He wanted to be ruined and was so terrified by how easily she could do it. 

“You speak of misandrist rulings as if you have been denied a choice,” She whispered, leaning in just a fraction closer so the intoxicating warmth of her scent would fill his senses. “Yet, here you sit, holding your breath, waiting to see if your grand declaration has moved me. If you truly possessed the freedom you claim to seek, my dear, you would not find it necessary to perform your discipline so fiercely just to survive my presence.” 

They emerged from the wooded sanctuary, the canopy’s protection from the sun's light now several steps behind them. The two continued to progress towards the priory without the burden of further exchange in dialogue. Arthur had become mute following his thoughts about the restrained lamb, but his eyes had not become blinded, so he watched the subtleties of her womanly shape move beneath the fabric of her garment. He indulged just a moment too long in the sexual temptation, he would surely have to confess to many more by the time they arrived. 

The curiosity tormented him. Had she already made the three commitments? Arthur had his entire boyhood to study the regimented schedule, behavior, and culture of the nuns… He determined that Cornelia was only a novice. At least this was what he selfishly hoped, as any unmarried man would after happening upon her beauty. 

As their bodies moved closer to the convent, Arthur drew slightly closer to her and said, “I must draw back now, I cannot be the reason you are disciplined. I pray that God will be merciful and allow me to look upon you just once more.” He said this timidly as both of his hands shook with disquieted wanting. Just as he said, he began to slow behind her until the scene was an unsuspecting one. He watched from a distance as Cornelia made her entry into the grounds, and several minutes passed before he did the same. 

“May the Lord hear your prayers,” she responded. As she turned to enter the building, her fingers brushed deliberately, if fleetingly, against his trembling hand. 

Once inside, Cornelia slipped into the rare line of sisters returning from their silent devotion. Almost immediately, the Mother Superior descended upon her, a lecture visibly brewing over Cornelia’s prolonged absence - one so lengthy even the morning rooster seemed to have forgotten its duty. But as Cornelia braced herself for the impending discipline, the ambient chatter of the room suddenly faded to a distant him. Arthur had made his entrance. The sisters erupted into a flurry of excited, affectionate greetings. Watching them, Cornelia was reminded of her place, as the youngest girl in the convent, she was an outsider to a bond decades in the making. He was the darling of the abbey. A cold prickle of doubt pierced her chest - had she merely fallen for his lie outside. 

Before she could dwell on the thought, the Mother Superior gripped Cornelia’s arm and steered her firmly to the front of the room, positioning her directly before Arthur. “Arthur, do allow me to introduce Cornelia. She arrived only recently, and we remain hopeful she will soon embrace the order,” the Mother Superior announced.  Cornelia’s eyes widened. She had never agreed to take any vows, let alone join the order permanently. 

“She will be assisting you in preparing your chambers,” the Mother Superior continued smoothly, paying no mind to Cornelia’s silent panic. “I suspect you are weary from your travels. Cornelia is a capable girl, but do mind yourself, Arthur…she is a sneaky creature, particularly around gentlemen. It is always the quiet and young ones, you see.” 

A few of the older sisters offered polite, knowing chuckles, treating the comment as a harmless piece of maternal wit. But to Cornelia, it was a public execution. She wished the stone floor would crack open and swallow her whole. A hot, mortifying crimson flooded her cheeks, burning all the way down to her neck. She had always known the Mother superior to be brutally blunt, but this has crossed into pure cruelty! 

She parted her lips to defend herself, to voice a dignified protest, but no sound came. Cornelia finally hazarded a glance at Arthur. She looked for any signs of mockery, or worse, pity in his expression. Her cheeks still burned a violent crimson as she whispered, barely audible. “If you will excuse me, I shall attend the linens.”

Even with their distance, he was still convinced that she used his fragile emotions for the kindling of a fire, a fire she used to warm her frigid heart, that which had now grown pale and yellow from bloodlessness. There were no longer any devout men committed to the burden of keeping this fire aglow and without that he knew Neeltje would grow restless and bored. Arthur was convinced of this: it was only out of mere necessity that she bothered to respond at all, but another underlying reason being that she had become starved of validation. These men that she mingled with could not satiate her hunger, her manipulative ways, her propensity to emotional warfare. Only a very sad man like himself could fill such a role. She was incredibly high-maintenance, and he doubted that this had changed in the insignificant time they had spent apart.

But as he read on, he found himself facing a serious quandary. Was he truly so sick, so lacking in self-control that he would comply with this fatal request? She again was asking that he disrupt his entire life for her! Her audaciousness always left him speechless, just as their initial email correspondences had so many months ago; and as offended as he was, piercing nostalgia penetrated him with force. He was not even slightly convinced by her attempts to paint this as a business endeavor. Business matters could be accomplished over a Zoom meeting, and often did not include two former flames.

His frustrated hand gripped the letter as his eyes glided over the final sentence. Both his hands came to the top of the page, threatening to tear it in two, but he could not bring himself to do it. He had become so pitiful, and the thought made him laugh. He was still in the palm of her hand, and if she closed her fingers around him then so be it. He would be hers once more.

With deep regret, he began to write a response expressing his acceptance of the offer. Pretending that this was at all a mutual agreement felt false and exuded an unintentional deference of his true feelings, for he never felt that he had any choice in the matter despite the illusion that he had been given one. Because of this, he could only muster a simple message. Despite being ultra minimal, the integrity of his true feelings were preserved. It maintained the dynamic that he felt dominated their entire relationship.

Ms. Peeters,

At your will.

When he felt the daring provocation possess him, he sent the letter and waited. In the meantime, and with fate entirely in the hands of Cornelia, he had become motivated to aggressively pursue his physical excellence as a way of both secreting his frustrations and to satisfy the subconscious need to impress her—despite it being an entirely false narrative that he had been prioritizing his health in any capacity. So, he found any excuse to make bodily use of himself. He ran for miles in the morning, he did yard work for his neighbors, he rearranged heavy furniture, and experimented with weight lifting for the very first time in his life.

He had lost all the weight previously gained when with Cornelia; she was always pushing sweets onto his plate, encouraging him to taste every dish before posting to the blog, and constantly wanting to pair every meal with wine. Not only had he shed the fat, but he built the weight back in muscle. At last, he could feel a smidge of confidence in her presence… though he was still feeble in comparison to Holger.

She let a full week pass before granting him a reply, waiting until her calendar could gracefully accommodate him. 

The Novel. 13:15. 05/XX/202X  C. Peeters 

Yet, the days leading up to their appointment unraveled her usual composure. Cornelia had never been one to fret over her appearance; compliments on her beauty had been consistent since her youth. This time, however, her presentation required strategy. She endured hours of shopping, an activity she traditionally loathed, to curate an immaculate facade. Her hair was precisely trimmed, her nails manicured to a neat, polished length, and her intimates replaced with flawless silk. She remembered Arthur’s suffocating perfectionism, and she fully intended to mirror it. 

When the morning finally arrived, she awoke to a restless, quickened pulse. The early hours of the office passed in a blur of tedious meetings she couldn’t bring herself to follow, proposals she had no intention of accepting, and professional pleasantries she refused to entertain. A glance at the clock stirred a sudden urge to be punctual, but she checked herself. She could not give the impression that she had been altered by his return. She hadn’t changed; she had simply learned how to master the game. 

She arrived at the cafe ahead of schedule, but rather than waiting inside, she stepped onto the terrace to light a cigarette. Leaning against the railing with her legs crossed, she watched the pale smoke dissolve into the afternoon sky. Turning her head slightly towards the approach, she caught a familiar silhouette across the street. Arthur. He was, as always, meticulously on time. She glanced at her watch, noting his punctuality, but remained entirely still, determined to finish her cigarette down to the ash.

Seeing Arthur Melbourne again struck Cornelia with a sudden, suffocating wave of nostalgia. Months of distance had done nothing to dull the memory of his exhausting perfectionism, or the turbulent wake he always left behind. Yet, as she looked at him, he was undeniably changed. The boyish fragility she remembered had given way to a more imposing, masculine presence; his frame was noticeable broader, his shoulders filling out his tailored suit with a new, muscular definition. He looked sharper, more formidable, and entirely put together.

An ache stirred in her chest - a mixture of deep-seated fondness of the man he used to be, and a sharp, protective anxiety for Cornelia. Watching Arthur enter, so perfectly composed, Cornelia caught her breathe, her fingers tightening against the railing as she braced herself for the storm that was inevitably about to unfold.

Only when she was finished did she step away from the railing, smoothing down the lines of her dress. Her attire today was a study in calculated precision. The fabric clung elegantly, buttoned low, commanding a neckline that framed her collarbone, while the material contouring her silhouette hugged her waist and outlined her curves in a manner that once made her self-conscious. Yet today, it served a distinct purpose. Her entire body moved with an effortless grave, entirely free of stiffness, offering only a subtle, tantalizing suggestion to the imagination of what lay beneath. 

Entering the cafe, she maintained her detached demeanor. This was a deliberate choreography - a slow testing of his patience, an unspoken assertion of dominance. She was territorial, and she wanted him to understand precisely whose domain he had entered. At the counter, she selected a few sweets and a cup of coffee, exactly to his taste. 

The sharp cadence of her heel announced her approach long before she reached his table. Settling the tray between them, Cornelia took a pastry, deliberately breaking it into delicate pieces. She tasted one, her gaze locking onto his as her tongue swept a trace of glaze from her upper lip. She was more assured, more demanding, her every movement heavy with intent.