Chapter 39 – The Woman She’s Trying to Be (Leonidas’ POV)

Leonidas had always been a man of control.

Control over his business, his empire, his emotions.

Over everything.

He had built an empire with calculated precision, never allowing anything to slip through his grasp.

And yet, lately—something was slipping.

At first, he hadn't noticed.

Anastasia had always been quiet, reserved, unsure of herself.

She was not like the other women who filled his world—sharp-tongued, confident, accustomed to power.

She had always been soft, hesitant, uncertain.

But now—now, there was something different.

Something carefully placed, something deliberate.

She was changing.

And not in the way that people naturally did over time.

No—this was something else entirely.

This was intentional.

---

The shift in her behavior had been so gradual, so seamless, that he had almost missed it.

It was the way she sat at breakfast—her posture flawless, too flawless.

Back straight, shoulders poised, hands delicately folded in her lap.

She had never cared about such things before.

She had always been nervous, but natural.

Before, she would fidget slightly when eating, run a hand over the hem of her dress absentmindedly, brush a stray strand of hair from her face.

But now—every movement was controlled.

Every motion placed with precision.

Like she had studied how to be proper.

Like she had practiced it.

And that bothered him.

He wasn't sure why at first.

But when he reached for her hand, testing her, waiting for that slight hesitation she always had, that delicate intake of breath—

It never came.

Instead, she simply let him take her hand.

Not with resistance.

But with acceptance.

As though she had taught herself not to react.

And that—that made his jaw clench.

---

He paid attention after that.

Noticed things.

The way she never stuttered anymore.

The way she spoke more deliberately, never fumbling for words.

She had always been soft-spoken, timid in large gatherings.

Now, she never looked uncertain.

At dinners and social events, she did not shrink back.

She stood with perfect posture, her voice measured, careful.

Too careful.

Too controlled.

And the people around her—they were pleased.

He heard them whisper.

"She's learning."

"She's finally adjusting."

"She looks more like a lady now."

As if she had been lacking before.

As if she had been a problem to be fixed.

Leonidas hated it.

Hated every single word.

They spoke as though she had been broken before.

As though her softness, her hesitations, had been a flaw.

And now, they approved of this version of her.

But Leonidas did not.

Because it was not real.

This was not his Anastasia.

She was trying too hard.

Trying to fit into a world that had never welcomed her.

Trying to become the kind of woman she thought he wanted.

And that realization unnerved him more than anything ever had.

---

The worst part was that he understood why she was doing it.

She thought—somewhere in that quiet, fragile mind of hers—that he expected this.

That this was what he wanted.

That she had to change for him.

And that enraged him.

Because he had never asked her to change.

He had never asked her to perform.

She had been his the moment she walked into his life, small and trembling, wide-eyed and uncertain.

She had belonged to him without needing to prove a damn thing.

So why—why was she doing this?

Why did she think she had to earn her place beside him?

As if she hadn't already been chosen.

As if she hadn't already been his.

He was not a patient man.

But for the first time in his life, he did not know how to fix something.

Because he could not demand the truth from her.

Not this time.

Not when she had already convinced herself he would not want to hear it.

---

That night, as she lay beside him in bed, he watched her.

Her breathing was soft, steady.

Her face was relaxed, free of the mask she had worn all day.

In sleep, she was his Anastasia again.

Not the woman she was trying to become.

Not the woman she thought he wanted.

Just her.

He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek.

His fingers traced the delicate hollow of her throat, the softness of her skin.

She did not wake.

Did not react.

Just breathed.

And for the first time in his life, Leonidas felt something deep in his chest that he did not recognize.

Something unfamiliar.

Something that made him uneasy.

He had fought for many things in his life.

Conquered.

Claimed.

But this—this was different.

Because Anastasia was not something he could force into his world.

Not without breaking her.

And suddenly, for the first time since he had taken her as his wife—

He feared he already had.