The soft overhead light cast a warm glow over the bathroom, reflecting off the polished chrome fixtures and the antique clawfoot tub at its center. The space was luxurious, with white tiled walls and marble countertops that held an array of plush towels and various other supplies. The air was filled with the soothing scent of lavender and chamomile, mingling with the faint aroma of soap.

“You must admit,” Klaus mused, his voice low, “it’s nice to be alone.”

Charlotte leaned back in the tub, her wet hair clinging to her shoulders. “But we’re not.” She splashed the water, feeling discouraged at her useless state. “Heidi is right above us.”

Heidi, the cook, lived in the servant’s quarters on the third floor along with the housekeeper, Ida, who did most of what needed doing. Charlotte didn’t know how to act around these friends who were also strangers. She felt like she was on stage, even in her most private moments.

Like, for example, being naked in the tub.

“My parents have dozens of servants,” Klaus pointed out, massaging shampoo into her hair.

“They’re coming back, soon,” she replied, staring at a bubble. Part of her missed the awkwardness and hassle of their well-meaning, if constant, intrusion. Hearing other voices in the house had been comforting, even those belonging to characters as strange as Ingrid and Adolf. Her father, Oma Jeanette, Constance—everyone was gone, and sometimes the silence in her heart was deafening. Klaus’s family, on the other hand, was alive and very much present. It was heartening to see their closeness, the way they supported each other. Yet, there was a part of her that felt like an outsider, unsure how to fully belong.

“This time,” Klaus reminded her, “for a much shorter visit.”

Adolf would be representing the Führer at Bill Smith’s execution. Charlotte felt a pang of anxiety at the thought. How could she ever get used to such a world? She couldn’t imagine attending what amounted to a public murder, let alone the politics surrounding it. “I don’t know if I’ll ever adapt to this,” she confessed, unable to quite hide her trepidation.

Klaus’s chuckle was a soft, understated sound. “Then life with me will be unbearable.”

Despite herself, she giggled.

Klaus worked his fingers into her scalp, the sensation both soothing and intimate.

“This is embarrassing,” she complained, her cheeks flushing.

“Does it feel good?” he asked, his voice gentle.

“Yes,” she admitted, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips. It felt amazing.

“When I was seventeen,” he shared, his tone lightening, “Joseph was a newborn.” Joseph, of course, was the youngest of Klaus’s five brothers. “Ingrid forced me to help her with him, despite his having a nursemaid. She insisted that the experience would be character-building.”

Charlotte grimaced, scrunching up her nose. “This isn’t helping!”

With another expression of amusement, he began rinsing her hair. “At least you’re not vomiting into my mouth.”

“I am not an infant!” she retorted, playfully swatting at him.

“No,” he agreed, his eyes sparkling with a rare glimpse of humor, “but I like taking care of you. And, thanks to Ingrid, I know how.” He applied conditioner and began combing it in with slow, deliberate strokes. “I also like knowing that you can’t escape,” he added, his voice dropping. “I have you entirely at my mercy, right now. A situation which, I assure you, I find quite alluring.”

She shivered slightly, the mix of his words and touch sending a thrill through her. “I don’t understand you, sometimes,” she admitted quietly, feeling suddenly cold and vulnerable in the chilling water.

His expression clouded. “I am, I believe, more afraid of being understood than of being misunderstood.”

Leaning back, she looked up at him, her eyes searching his. “Even by me?”

He rinsed her hair a second time, his hands still gentle. “No. Sometimes I almost like the idea,” he murmured, his lips brushing her temple.

After, he helped her out of the tub and into her robe. The softness of the fabric was a small comfort against the constant ache in her body. He brushed her hair in long, slow strokes, the repetitive motion soothing and grounding. As he touched her neck and leaned down to kiss her cheek, she felt a pang of frustration. In defiance of her lingering pain, all she wanted was to feel closer to him. Living in this grand manor, which still felt foreign and overwhelming, had only heightened her sense of isolation. The staff were kind, but strangers; her days were spent mostly alone, confined to bed rest. Klaus had been her constant companion, but more nursemaid than partner; while she cherished his care, it also made her yearn for more.

She wanted to bridge the gap between them, to turn this house into a home filled with shared moments and mutual understanding. The desire for physical closeness stemmed from a deeper need to feel connected, to remind herself that in spite of everything, they were building something real together. But for now, the limitations of her recovery left her feeling helpless and frustrated, longing for the day she could fully express her love for him.

In their room once more, she sat down on the edge of the bed, the cool sheets a welcome relief in her suddenly exhausted state. Klaus started unbuttoning his shirt, which was soaking from the bath. “What are you thinking about?” he asked, his voice soft and curious.

Watching him, she clasped her hands in her lap, trying to find the right words. “That I couldn’t have imagined this future.”

Turning to face her, he frowned slightly. “No?”

She shook her head, amazed at her own admission. “I never thought I’d willingly speak to you, let alone fall in love with you.” The irony of their journey wasn’t lost on her—how a man who’d upended her world, who’d terrorized her, had become her greatest and sometimes only ally.

Klaus put on his pajamas, then leaned into the closet for his robe. “I did.” His statement was matter of fact, although it held the echo of something deeper.

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“What do you think Cambridge will be like,” she prompted, changing the subject to something that felt safer, “next spring?”

He paused, considering her question before responding with a quip. “A better place to find a housekeeper.”

He helped her get under the covers, next, arranging them with care. As she settled in, her mind drifted back to her old life. Sometimes she missed living above her studio, eating when and what she wanted, and keeping her own schedule. Her freedom, even amidst the chaos of the siege, was something she’d cherished deeply. She’d had her art, her space, and her independence.

Her new studio was almost complete, a glorious temple to natural light at the far end of the back garden. Most artists dreamed their whole lives of working in such a space. Klaus had picked the design, a gesture that showed his support for her work, but also highlighted the subtle expectations inherent in their new roles. This studio, as magnificent as it was, symbolized a shift in her life.

She stared up at the ceiling, the faint hum of the house filling the quiet. The grandeur of the new studio couldn’t replace the intimacy of her old one. There, amidst the clatter of the city and the comforting disarray of her belongings, she’d felt free. Here, she was surrounded by perfection, a reflection of Klaus himself—structured, orderly, and, at times, suffocating.

Glancing at him, now standing at the window, she felt a pang of something she couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t regret, but a profound sense of change. Love for him pulsed through her, deep and unwavering, yet it carried the weight of her sacrifices. In moments like these, still so awkward and self-conscious, the change in her life settled over her like a second skin. Uncomfortable and tight, it felt like a costume—and one that hid her from herself, as much as from other people.

No one understood what she saw in Klaus, not even her sister, with whom she’d always been so close. To Zelda, she was dancing with a devil as alien as the world he inhabited. Klaus’s world was a labyrinth of expectations, patriarchal norms woven into the very fabric of their existence. Though he tried to make space for her, she often felt like an interloper in her own story. Choice was now a distant memory, replaced by a new set of norms that demanded adaptation and resilience. Her autonomy, her independence, she’d given it all up and for what? For love, for a chance at a future, but the cost was overwhelming and often felt unbearable.

She turned onto her side, facing him. The softness of the pillow did little to cushion the hard truths pressing against her heart. He was her soulmate, but the path they were on was fraught with challenges. She had to find a way to navigate this new life, balancing her love for him with a need to be her own person that no one—including him—seemed to realize she still had.

Exhaustion overcoming her internal conflict, she stifled a yawn. This problem wasn’t going away, and certainly not tonight. “Your parents must be happy, being home.”

Klaus joined her, his eyes softening. “My brothers, however, are all jealous. They want to meet you, too.”

She raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “How are your brothers?”

Expression growing somewhat rueful, he shook his head. “Kurt is in some significant trouble,” he confessed. “Ingrid caught him practicing his archery skills on Paul.”

Charlotte’s eyes widened in shock. “Wait—with real arrows?”

Klaus shrugged, completely unperturbed. “At the apple on his head.”

She gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. “Oh, no!”

His expression grew serious, as he studied her. “You never talk about your childhood.”

“There’s not much to talk about,” she demurred, her fingers tracing the pattern on the coverlet.

“I don’t believe that,” he responded softly, his eyes searching hers.

She studied the coverlet more intently, trying to avoid his gaze. “I was under so much pressure,” she conceded finally, her voice little more than a whisper. “All the time. Whenever anyone was cruel to me, which was often, I was always to blame somehow. If only I’d been sweeter, it, whatever it was, wouldn’t have happened. Or my expectations were too high. My classmates wouldn’t call me silly or stupid if I weren’t so silly or stupid! And, of course, I was supposed to be more like them and fit in, for once, while at the same time being nothing like them.”

Klaus nodded slowly. “Pressure, at least, I can appreciate.”

“My friends, even Constance, resented me for being good at everything.” She stumbled over the words, face burning. “I didn’t want to be. Zelda seems to be going through a…difficult time right now, but life was no easier for her.” She sighed deeply. “This all sounds so self-involved.”

“No,” he assured her firmly, his hand resting gently on hers.

She barked a short, hollow laugh. “Some people have real problems.”

“Others’ opinions,” he pronounced, his tone resolute, “are irrelevant.”

To him, she knew, they were.

His expression darkened abruptly, like a storm cloud passing over the sun. His gaze, usually so cool and composed, burned with an intense, smoldering hatred. “I want to raze the house across the street, Lottie,” he snapped, his voice tight with barely restrained fury.

She placed a hand on his arm, trying to calm him. “And replace it with what?” she queried gently, trying to calm him.

He didn’t answer for a long time, and at first she thought he wouldn’t. But she’d caught him, before, glaring through the window at the home that’d once been her sanctuary and had nearly become her tomb. The memories of her suffering there gnawed at him, a constant reminder of her fragility and the pain she endured. The thought of her in any kind of distress was unbearable, his powerlessness to help her even more so. “Anything,” he all but spat. “Something better. Something that won’t remind me that….”

That he’d almost lost her, came the unspoken end to his sentence, hanging in the air between them.

“I am restrained in my imaginings,” he continued, his voice still tinged with frustration, “by the unfortunate fact that whatever I’d build would be something I’d have to look at.” His tone grew even more heated as he all but spat the words, his eyes flashing. “I know you don’t want to be character building, although you are. Not because I have to pretend that I’m a decent man around you, although I do and that’s exhausting, but because a part of me is only there when you are.” He squeezed her hand, his grip firm yet gentle. “I know you want me to do this at some restaurant, but I don’t care.” His voice softened, eyes locked onto hers with a sincerity she rarely saw. “I don’t want to wait. I want you to marry me, Lottie. I want to call myself your husband.”

Her breath caught in her throat as she blinked, absorbing the abrupt change in subject. “Yes,” she managed, her voice quavering. “Yes.”

As though proposing to her in that moment were the most normal thing in the world, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a small box. In sharp contrast to his words, the movement was calm and practiced. “The stone belonged to my grandmother,” he explained. “I had it reset.”

Extending her hand, she accepted the offering. Nestled into a bed of white satin was a stone the size of her thumbnail and the same impossible blue as a mountain lake. She’d seen diamonds like this before, in museums, but up close its depth was striking. Smaller diamonds flanked it to either side, in twin rows of six. That this was happening at all didn’t seem real; when he slipped the bauble onto her finger, she felt like she was watching someone else. It fit perfectly, too; the realization that Zelda must’ve given him her ring size only added to her sense of unreality.

“Wear it on the left hand now,” he explained. “Then, after the wedding, you can switch it to your right.”

She tried to lighten the mood. “This doesn’t mean I have to go to bride school, right?”

“No,” he reassured her. “One advantage of marrying me is that our family is above such things.”

“That’s not the only advantage,” she assured him, her eyes meeting his with a mixture of warmth and determination.

He tucked an escaped tendril of hair behind her ear. “It might turn out to be.”