The scent of white jasmine hung heavily in the air, lacing the grand Lancaster estate with a false serenity. Beneath the glittering chandeliers and polished mahogany floors, Sierra Vaughn sat in silence, her posture pristine, her gaze lowered—every inch the perfect young madam. The world saw her as Xavier Lancaster's obedient wife, refined by wealth and softened by privilege.
But beneath the silk of her pale ivory dress, a thin scar ran across her ribcage. A souvenir from a life no one dared suspect.
"Serve Mr. Lancaster his tea," barked Mrs. Chen, the housekeeper, casting a sideways glance as though Sierra were one of the servants rather than the mistress of the estate.
Sierra rose without protest, her movements fluid, quiet. She approached the long marble table where Xavier sat reviewing a stack of documents, his tailored black suit fitting him like a second skin. He didn't look up as she placed the cup before him.
"Thank you," he muttered, almost absently.
Their eyes met for the briefest moment—his, cold and calculating; hers, unreadable. It was always like this between them. Distant. Controlled. The image of a powerful couple carefully choreographed for society's approval.
But Sierra was not born for silence. She had once moved in the shadows of warlords and smugglers. Her fingers had once held a dagger with the same ease they now held a porcelain teacup.
"Do you need anything else?" she asked politely.
Xavier barely glanced at her. "No. You're dismissed."
She nodded, gliding away without another word.
As soon as she reached her private suite, Sierra shut the door and turned the lock. Her elegant demeanor faded like mist in the sun. She slipped off her shoes, then her earrings, placing each item on the dresser with mechanical precision. Walking to the vanity mirror, she stared at her own reflection.
She barely recognized the woman staring back.
Gone was Viper—the code name that had once terrified international cartels and intelligence officers alike. Now, she was Sierra Lancaster, wife to a man who didn't love her and heiress to a fortune she could never claim as her own.
She opened a hidden compartment beneath the floorboards, revealing a weathered leather case. Inside lay two throwing knives, a silver-plated pistol, and a folded photo—yellowing at the edges—of her real family. The ones who'd died for her to escape.
Her fingers brushed the hilt of the dagger. It still felt familiar. Alive.
But she had buried that part of herself. Hadn't she?
A sharp knock shattered her thoughts.
"Sierra?" came Xavier's voice, smooth but commanding.
She closed the panel in an instant and composed herself before unlocking the door.
"Yes?"
He stepped in, his presence dominating the room. His storm-grey eyes swept over her, calculating, assessing.
"I have a charity dinner next week," he said. "You'll attend. Wear something blue."
A command, not a request.
"Of course," she said, her voice even.
He lingered, his gaze narrowing. "You've been... quiet lately."
Sierra offered a demure smile. "Isn't that what you prefer?"
There was a pause. A flicker of something crossed his face—surprise, perhaps? Curiosity? But it was gone as quickly as it came.
"Don't try me, Sierra. Whatever mask you wear, remember who you belong to now."
She held his gaze, resisting the urge to laugh. Belong? If only he knew.
Once he left, she sat by the window and let the moonlight bathe her face. Her heart beat steadily—too steadily.
Something was changing.
Earlier that morning, an unmarked envelope had been slipped beneath her door. Inside, a single photograph: a man she thought long dead. A message written in Cyrillic beneath it read: He lives. And he knows.
She stared into the darkness outside. The past she had buried was clawing its way back to the surface. And this time, she wouldn't run.
Let them come.
The obedient bride was only a mask.
The assassin was waking up.
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