CHAPTER EIGHT:
The mornings were gentle again.
Nicole stirred sugar into Julian's coffee like it meant something.
She kissed his cheek as he walked out the door, tucked a handwritten note into his lunch bag: You've got this.
Two neat slices of green apple. Artisanal cheese. His favorite brand of water. All packed with care.
She hummed while wiping down the kitchen counter, soft and familiar, like the woman he married had returned.
She smelled like vanilla and legacy. Her hair cascaded in soft waves. Her heels clicked without urgency, her eyes never too sharp. Everything about her presence suggested peace.
And Julian?
He didn't question it.
He wanted to believe the calm. He needed it. At work, he smiled more. Bragged about her to his assistant. Said she was healing. "She's being herself again."
And in many ways, she was, not the version he expected.
---
Camille poured her a fresh cup of hibiscus tea one quiet afternoon. They sat in the garden courtyard of a discreet café in the Upper West Side — tucked behind a wrought iron gate, walls laced in ivy.
Camille leaned across the table, her sunglasses pushed up, her gaze sharp. "You're being civil."
Nicole stirred her tea. "I am civil."
"No," Camille said flatly. "You're being surgical."
Nicole sipped slowly. Set her cup down with care.
"Did you know father left a trigger clause in his will?"
Camille paused. "What kind of clause?"
Nicole's eyes lit, just slightly.
"The kind that activates when you're betrayed. And then hand you the entire kingdom back."
Camille stared at her. "Are you actually going to use it?"
Nicole didn't answer. She simply tilted her head — a quiet, elegant movement — and smiled. A beautiful, unreadable thing.
---
The unraveling began with whispers.
Just small shifts at first. Just enough to tip the balance without making a sound.
Devon Stonebridge, one of the original investors behind Blake Industries, suddenly pulled out. No drama. No email trail. Just a brief call from his assistant saying the firm was "realigning interests."
Julian read the message twice, confused.
Devon had backed them through three expansions. Why now?
Then came Ms. Belafonte — a stoic board member known for her conservative strategy and unwavering loyalty to the Blake legacy. She announced her retirement via letter. No exit interviews. No farewell speech. She declined the commemorative plaque.
Julian tried calling her, no answer. Next, the PR firm.
He got the termination notice during a lunch meeting. Subject: Termination of Contractual Agreement Reason: Conflict of Vision
He called the director but there wasn't any answer.
By Thursday, the IT head handed him a strange report: someone had been accessing archived financial data from the early merger years. No breach. But someone with top-level credentials had been in and out of private folders all week.
Julian frowned. "Which credentials?"
The IT head looked nervous. "Yours... and your wife's."
That evening, Nicole tucked herself under his arm on the couch, wine in one hand, watching a slow-burn crime series with eerie precision. She laughed at the right moments. Asked the right questions. She even leaned in to kiss his cheek when the killer was revealed.
"You okay?" she asked, brushing a thumb along his wrist.
"Yeah," he murmured, distracted. "Just... long day. PR teams are being weird. Stonebridge pulled out. One of our board members quit. Something's off."
Nicole looked up with soft concern. "That sounds exhausting."
Julian ran a hand through his hair. "I can't even reach anyone. It's like... people are pulling away."
"Maybe they're just overwhelmed," she offered gently. "Sometimes people outgrow things and don't know how to say it."
He nodded, half-listening, the way men do when they assume they're still in control. Nicole kissed his cheek again.
He didn't see the flicker of satisfaction that passed over her face as she turned back toward the screen.
---
Later that night, Julian fell asleep in his home office — laptop open, tie loosened, face half-pressed to the desk.
Nicole stood in the doorway for a long moment, watching him
Just an observation, then she walked back to the bedroom and picked up her phone.
A new Instagram post had gone up from the Madison Grand Hotel — a high-profile luxury opening.
Julian, in a navy suit, and Kendra, in emerald green. Their smiles are too white. Their bodies are too close.
The caption read:
Power meets polish. A brilliant duo unveils our newest Midtown jewel.
Nicole zoomed in.
Not on the champagne flutes nor on the guest list tagged below,but on his hand.
Resting along Kendra's lower back. The exact same way it used to rest on hers at events, back when she still believed his touch meant something.
She stared for a long time.
Then she whispered, into the quiet of their home: "You really made this too easy."
She closed the app and opened her private message thread with Camille.
N:
Post went up. He's fully public now sis.
Camille: You okay?
N:
Better than okay.
She set the phone down on the nightstand, walked to the mirror, and looked at herself in the reflection.
Same cheekbones. Same eyes.
But now? Her posture was different. Her silence had changed.
Not the silence of surrender.
The silence of strategy.She touched her belly, just for a moment.
The child didn't know what was happening yet. But one day, they would. One day, they would understand what it meant to be Blake-blooded. To protect what's yours. To never allow your name to be borrowed and burned.
Nicole stepped back from the mirror.And she smiled.
Just... Inevitable.