I didn't see Damien for the next two days.
But Cassie?
She made herself visible at every turn—like a shadow glued to sunlight.
She waited by the staircase when I came down for breakfast, stretched out on the velvet chaise like a trophy wife in training.
She followed me into the gardens, humming under her breath, always trailing a little too close behind.
And when Claiborne came to guide me through more etiquette drills in the west wing parlor, Cassie joined uninvited. Smiling. Watching. Dissecting.
"Your spine is too straight," she commented during posture practice. "You look like you're trying too hard."
Claiborne didn't flinch.
She turned to her with a blank stare. "She's learning. Something you stopped doing long ago."
Cassie's smirk faltered for a fraction of a second.
Then it returned sharper.
"Is that why he picked her?" she said, drawing closer. "Because she listens better?"
Claiborne straightened, one hand resting on her hip. "No. He picked her because she's dangerous. Just like him. She just doesn't know it yet."
I froze.
Dangerous?
Me?
Cassie laughed lightly, but I saw it—the twitch in her fingers. The way she pressed her lips too tightly.
"You're flattering the poor thing," she whispered. "She still cries behind locked doors."
I didn't answer.
Because she wasn't wrong.
But I wouldn't always.
Not forever.
**
That night, Claiborne slipped into my room without knocking.
She carried a dark green velvet box and set it gently on my vanity.
"What's that?" I asked.
She opened it.
Inside was a choker—black satin, thin and elegant, with a ruby the size of a raindrop at the center.
"From Damien?" I asked carefully.
She nodded. "You're wearing it to tonight's tea ceremony."
I blinked. "Tea?"
She smiled faintly. "Yes. We hold traditional rituals every few weeks when high-ranking guests visit. You will kneel. Pour. Serve. And be perfect. Or pay."
I didn't need to ask what 'pay' meant.
Her fingers adjusted the ribbon around my neck, her voice lower.
"Cassie will be there too. She's going to try and provoke you."
"Why does she hate me?" I asked softly.
"She doesn't," Claiborne replied. "She fears you."
I looked at my reflection—the choker sharp against my throat. My eyes darker now. My posture firmer. I no longer looked like the crying girl in a bridal gown.
But I didn't look like a queen either.
Not yet.
**
The tea room was a vision of elegance.
Low tables. Silk floor cushions. Gold-rimmed china arranged in exact symmetry. Everything screamed luxury—but beneath the perfume and polished silver, I could feel it:
Tension. Invisible. Thick. Waiting to bleed.
Damien sat at the head, dressed in a suit darker than night, his eyes hidden behind shadowed lashes.
Cassie was already kneeling at his left.
I knelt at his right, my movements fluid from hours of Claiborne's training.
The ceremony began.
Pouring.
Serving.
Smiling.
Speaking only when spoken to.
Every move was watched by a room of powerful strangers—businessmen, enforcers, foreign partners with unreadable faces.
And Damien.
Always Damien.
Cassie leaned forward as I refilled one of the teacups, her voice just loud enough for him to hear.
"She's trying so hard to be pretty. It's almost sweet."
I didn't look at her.
I smiled.
"She must be worried," I said softly, "that trying is all she has left."
Damien's hand twitched against the tablecloth.
Cassie's eyes flashed.
The next part of the ceremony was symbolic: the offering of flavor.
Each woman was expected to select a tea blend and explain its meaning before pouring it for her husband.
Cassie went first.
"I chose hibiscus," she said smoothly. "For passion. For desire. For… heat."
She poured it into Damien's cup with a wink he didn't return.
Then it was my turn.
I reached for the jasmine blend.
"I chose this," I said, "for quiet strength. The kind that survives under pressure. The kind that blooms at night, even when no one is watching."
A murmur swept the room.
Damien looked at me fully for the first time that night.
And then, with cruel grace, he shattered it.
He took Cassie's cup first.
Drank.
Slowly.
Silently.
Then placed it back on the tray.
Everyone watched.
Then he turned to me.
He picked up the jasmine tea.
But instead of drinking, he held it out toward me.
"Drink it," he said.
I blinked. "What?"
"If you believe in what you serve, drink it first."
The air thinned.
Cassie's grin widened.
A test.
If I drank, I humiliated myself. Submitting like a servant, not a wife.
If I refused, I disrespected the ceremony—and him.
I took the cup.
Held it to my lips.
And drank.
But I didn't stop there.
I took the empty cup, placed it down, and refilled it for him—smooth, without blinking.
Then I looked him dead in the eye.
"You don't have to believe in me, Damien," I said quietly. "I'll do it for both of us."
The room fell silent.
He stared at me for a long moment.
Then—
He smiled.
Not mockingly.
Not cruelly.
But dangerously.
Cassie looked like she'd swallowed poison.
And maybe she had.
Because for the first time—
I won.