The applause from the tea ceremony hadn't faded, but the aftermath burned deeper than heat.
I returned to my room with trembling hands, my lips still tasting jasmine and humiliation. Claiborne had said I won. But victories in this house were silent, strange, soaked in shadows.
And Damien?
He said nothing.
Not after the ceremony.
Not during dinner.
Not even when he passed me in the corridor and brushed against my shoulder like I was air.
But Cassie?
She didn't stay silent.
She waited for me the next morning—poised on my vanity chair like it belonged to her, her legs crossed and her perfume thick in the air.
"Nice performance," she said, tilting her head. "For a girl still bleeding behind her smile."
I didn't answer.
She rose slowly, her fingers trailing across the edge of my mirror.
"Do you know why he lets me stay?" she whispered. "Why this house has my name stitched into its silk, even after he put a ring on your finger?"
I met her gaze through the reflection. "Because you don't threaten him."
Cassie's eyes flashed, but she laughed. "Wrong. It's because I know him."
She stepped closer.
"I know his appetite. I know what he likes, what he fears, what keeps him pacing at night like a caged animal. And I know how to tame him when he bites."
Her voice was honey-laced venom.
"You think this little power struggle is between you and me?" she hissed. "It's not. It's between you and him. And he always wins."
Then she dropped something on my dresser.
A slip of red silk.
Lace.
Underwear.
Not mine.
"Last night," she said with a smirk. "In his room."
I didn't touch it.
Didn't move.
But something shifted inside me. Cold. Hollow.
Cassie leaned in, her voice a sharp whisper.
"Run, little wife. Or learn to survive in the fire he lights just to watch you burn."
Then she walked out.
And I stood there for minutes—unmoving, expressionless, the silk lying like a bloodstain against my sheets.
**
That night, Damien summoned me.
No knock. No warning. Just Claiborne at my door, her voice unreadable.
"He's waiting."
I followed her down the east wing. My heels echoed across the marble floor like ticking clocks. A countdown to something I couldn't name.
His room was colder than usual. Or maybe it was me.
He sat by the window, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, sipping something dark from a crystal glass.
His head turned when I entered.
"You look pale," he said.
I stayed silent.
He walked closer, his footsteps slow.
"Cassie's been busy, hasn't she?"
I said nothing.
He smirked.
"She's jealous," he said simply. "And jealousy makes women cruel. But not you, right?"
I didn't blink.
"Are you sleeping with her?" I asked.
The words surprised even me.
He tilted his head, amused.
"You're not in a position to ask questions, Diana."
I stepped forward. "But I'm your wife."
"Legally, yes." He took another sip. "Emotionally? You're still a pretty pawn."
I flinched. Just slightly.
He noticed.
"I gave you a choice when we made this arrangement," he continued. "Silence or survival. You chose survival. Don't cry now because it has thorns."
I swallowed. "And what did you choose, Damien?"
His jaw tightened.
I didn't wait for his answer.
I turned to leave.
But his voice stopped me.
"You'll be given a new schedule tomorrow."
I turned halfway. "What kind of schedule?"
He faced me fully now, the glass in his hand glinting like a threat.
"You'll start managing Cassie's social calendar."
I stared.
He didn't flinch.
"You'll accompany her. Attend events with her. Sit beside her. Smile with her. You'll be her shadow. Her servant. And you'll learn exactly what loyalty looks like in my world."
"You're punishing me."
He walked over, stopped inches away.
"No," he said softly. "I'm preparing you."
Then he handed me the glass he'd been drinking from.
"Finish it."
I looked at it.
Whiskey.
Bitter.
Strong.
Poisoned, maybe.
But I drank.
And handed it back.
He watched me with something unreadable in his eyes—respect or pity or cruel fascination.
And when I turned to leave, he didn't stop me.
But I knew what he'd done.
He'd put me in Cassie's cage.
And only one of us would come out breathing.