The alarm on Evelyn's phone vibrated against the nightstand at 6:00 AM. She was already awake.
She had been lying still in the center of the massive bed for thirty minutes, staring at the intricate plasterwork of the ceiling. It was suffocatingly ornate, much like the man who owned it.
Candidate 4.
The words burned in her mind. Last night, in the dark silence of Adrian's study, she had seen the file. The surveillance photos. The medical receipts for Leo's treatment in Zurich. The timestamps predated their meeting, predated the scandal. He hadn't just stumbled upon a desperate woman at a charity gala. He had been shopping. He had been hunting. And she was the product that met the specifications: desperate enough to sign, competent enough to perform, and compromised enough to be controlled.
Evelyn threw off the heavy duvet. The marble floor was cold beneath her feet. Good. The cold was grounding.
She walked into the bathroom, stripping off her silk pajamas. Under the harsh vanity lights, she examined her reflection. Dark circles bruised the skin under her eyes. There was a tension in her jaw that hadn't released in weeks. She looked like prey.
"Stop it," she whispered to the mirror. Her voice was raspy, but the command was firm.
She splashed freezing water on her face. This wasn't a marriage; it was a high-stakes merger. And in a merger, you didn't cry about due diligence. You proved your valuation.
Her phone buzzed on the counter. A text from the private nurse, Mrs. Gable. Leo had a restless night. Oxygen levels dipped to 94 but stabilized. He's asking for you.
The text hit her harder than the cold water. Evelyn dialed immediately.
"Put him on," she said the moment the line connected.
"Evie?" Leo's voice was small, tinny through the speaker. Fragile. "Where are you?"
"I'm at work, Leo," she lied. The taste of copper filled her mouth. "Big project. Very secret. I'm building a castle, remember?"
"A real castle?"
"With stone walls and everything. I'll come see you tonight, okay? I promise."
"The doctors said... the new treatment starts today."
"It does. Dr. Aris is the best. I checked his credentials personally. He knows how to fix the engine."
"Does it hurt?" Leo asked. The question was terrified.
"A little," Evelyn admitted. She wouldn't lie about that. "But it works. Like armor. It's heavy, and it pinches, but it keeps you safe. You have to wear the armor so you can be strong."
"Okay. I'll wear the armor."
"That's my soldier." She swallowed the lump in her throat. "I have to go, Leo. The castle needs me."
"Love you, Evie."
"Love you too."
She ended the call and gripped the sink until her knuckles turned white. This was why. This was the only reason she was standing in this mausoleum. For the treatments. For the shield of the Sterling name.
She dressed with the precision of a soldier preparing for battle. No soft fabrics. She chose a charcoal pencil skirt that cut a sharp silhouette, a crisp white blouse, and a tailored blazer. Her hair was pulled back into a tight, severe bun. Not a single strand escaped.
She applied her makeup—armor paint. Precise winged liner, matte nude lip. Professional. Impenetrable.
By 6:45 AM, she was ready. She picked up her briefcase—containing Leo's encrypted files—and checked her Cartier tank watch. Adrian had said breakfast was at 7:00 AM sharp. If you are late, you do not eat.
She wouldn't be late.
She stepped into the corridor. The house was silent, a sleeping beast. Evelyn's heels clicked against the hardwood floor. Click. Click. Click.
She wasn't walking to breakfast. She was walking to war.
The dining room was flooded with morning light, but it felt cold. The air was conditioned to a crisp sixty-eight degrees—Adrian's preferred temperature. The long table was set for two, but the distance between the chairs suggested a summit between warring nations.
Adrian was already there. He sat at the head of the table, a tablet propped up, a stylus in hand. He was dressed in a dark grey three-piece suit, immaculate as always. He didn't look up.
The grandfather clock chimed seven times.
"Good morning," Evelyn said. Her voice was level.
Adrian finished highlighting a paragraph before looking at her. His eyes were cool, assessing. He scanned her outfit, her posture. Checking the product for defects.
"Punctual," he noted. "Adequate."
"Precision is a habit, not a virtue," Evelyn replied, pulling out her chair.
Alfred materialized from the shadows with a silver coffee pot. "Coffee, Madam?"
Evelyn held up a hand. "I'll pour it myself, thank you, Alfred."
Alfred paused, looking at Adrian. "It is my duty to serve, Madam."
"And it is my preference to handle my own caffeine intake," Evelyn said smoothly, taking the pot from his hand. Her grip was firm. "I'm particular about the ratio. Too much variable error in human service."
"And what is your ratio?" Adrian asked, his attention shifting.
"Zero milk. Zero sugar. Maximum efficiency."
"A purist," Adrian murmured. "Or a masochist."
"Often the same thing in this tax bracket," Evelyn noted.
She poured her cup—black, steaming—and set the pot down. Alfred's face smoothed into indifference, but there was a flicker of wariness in his eyes. He retreated.
Adrian watched her. "You seem... recalibrated this morning."
"I updated my operating system," Evelyn said, taking a sip. "Emotional interference is inefficient. I deleted the cache."
Adrian's lips twitched. "Indeed. Logic builds empires; emotions squander them." He tapped his tablet. "Since you are focused on logic, explain the volatility in the Asian markets. The Nikkei is down 200 points, yet the tech sector in Shenzhen is rallying. Why?"
A test. He wanted to see if she could read the code of his world.
Evelyn set her cup down. "It's not a rally. It's a dead cat bounce."
"Explain."
"The microchip shortage report from Taiwan," Evelyn said, cutting her toast. "It was leaked an hour early on the dark web. The algorithms picked it up. The market is panic-buying semiconductors. It's artificial; they're hoarding inventory to drive up the Q3 unit price."
"Markets are often irrational," Adrian noted.
"Which is why we exploit them. It will stabilize by noon. If I were you, I'd short the rally."
"What would you do?"
"I'd short the logistics companies that rely on those chips. Specifically, Trident Logistics and Pacific Cargo. They handle sixty percent of the volume. A two-week delay wipes out their quarterly profit. They'll be bleeding by Friday."
"And the upside?"
"Domestic rail. If sea freight stalls, premiums skyrocket. Union Pacific is undervalued. It's an arbitrage opportunity sitting in plain sight."
"You've done your homework," Adrian admitted.
"I always do my homework."
Adrian stared at her. The tapping of his fingers stopped. "You read the report?"
"I read the footnotes," Evelyn corrected. "The devil is in the details, Adrian. Everyone reads the headlines. The value is in the fine print. That's where they hide the bodies."
She held his gaze. Candidate 4 might have been a desperate mother, but Mrs. Sterling was a shark.
"Impressive," Adrian said finally, lifting his cup in a mock salute. "Most of my board members wouldn't have caught that. They look at the graph; they don't look at the engine."
"Most of your board members are probably still asleep," Evelyn said. "I don't have that luxury."
Breakfast arrived—poached eggs on avocado toast. They ate in the companionable silence of mutual competence.
"Your schedule for today," Adrian said, sliding a printed sheet across the mahogany.
Evelyn picked it up.
09:00 - Wardrobe fitting with House Chanel.
11:00 - Etiquette refresher with Mrs. Higgins.
13:00 - Lunch with the Foundation Board.
15:00 - Flower arrangement selection.
She scanned the list, eyebrows climbing. "Is this a joke? Or a hazing ritual?"
"It is a curriculum," Adrian said. "You need to be ready for the Gala. It is your debut. The sharks will be circling."
"I am ready."
"Not for this. You need to look the part. Act the part. You are the consort."
"I already know how to use a salad fork, Adrian. And I don't arrange flowers. I arrange mergers." She pulled her Montblanc pen and drew a thick line through the 'Etiquette' and 'Flowers'. "I have my own schedule. Calls with the press team. Reviewing the guest list for threats. Setting up a secure line for Leo."
Adrian frowned at the scarred itinerary. "The Foundation lunch is mandatory. You are the new face of the charity initiatives."
"I'll do the lunch," Evelyn conceded. "But the rest? No. I am not a doll. Clause 14 of our contract: 'The Party of the Second Part shall maintain professional autonomy.'"
"You memorized the contract?" Adrian asked, amusement flickering.
"I wrote that clause. And I intend to enforce it. I know which fork to use, and I know how to smile while I stab someone with it."
"It's not about the fork," Adrian said, voice dropping. "It's about submission. The Board needs to see a united front. They need to know the hierarchy is intact."
"They will see me standing beside you. Not behind you. A partner protects your blind spot. A subordinate just watches your back."
"I am the CEO," Adrian said. "I set the strategy."
"And I am the COO of this marriage. You set strategy; I execute tactics. Micromanagement is poor leadership. Do you trust your hiring decision or not?"
"I trust results."
"Then let me deliver them."
Adrian leaned forward. "I expect you to be available when I need you."
"And I expect to be effective," Evelyn shot back. "Effectiveness requires autonomy. If you want a trophy wife who spends her day picking out peonies, you hired the wrong candidate. You should have picked Candidate 3. I saw her file too. The blonde from the Hamptons? She would have loved the flowers."
Adrian froze. His eyes narrowed. "What did you say?"
Evelyn didn't blink. She didn't know who Candidate 3 was, but she knew there had been a list. "I said, if you wanted a decoration, you chose poorly. I am structural, Adrian. I bear weight. But I can't hold up the roof if you're constantly chipping away at the foundation."
Adrian held her stare. Then, a slow, cold smile spread across his face. It was the smile of a predator recognizing another predator.
"Very well. Cancel the flowers. But if you embarrass me at the Gala... if you miss a single step..."
"I don't miss," Evelyn said.
Breakfast ended with an armed truce. They moved to the foyer. Alfred handed Adrian his coat.
"We will take separate cars," Adrian said. "I have a meeting uptown. You will go to the Foundation office."
"Fine by me."
Just as Alfred reached for the door, the bell rang. A sharp, insistent chime.
Alfred frowned. "I was not informed of visitors."
He opened the heavy oak door. A woman swept in like a gust of perfumed wind. Blonde, petite, and terrifyingly perfect.
Julianna Blackwood.
Evelyn recognized her from the "Candidate" files. The heiress. The "perfect match."
Julianna walked past Alfred, ignoring Evelyn completely. "Adrian, darling," she cooed, placing a hand on his arm. "I tried calling. Tell me the rumors aren't true. Tell me you didn't marry that... nobody."
Adrian stiffened, peeling her hand off his sleeve. "Julianna. You should have called security."
"Security knows me," she laughed. She finally turned, her gaze sliding over Evelyn like slime. "And who is this? A new assistant? Did you fire Miss Penny?"
Adrian's jaw tightened. He glanced at Evelyn but didn't introduce her. Another test.
Evelyn stepped forward. She didn't smile. "I'm not the assistant."
Julianna blinked. "Oh? The interior decorator then? The drapes are dreadful."
"I'm his wife," Evelyn interrupted.
The silence was absolute. Julianna's smile calcified. She looked from Evelyn to Adrian. "Wife," she repeated, the word tasting like ash. She laughed. "Oh, Adrian. You are funny. This... functionary?"
"Do I look like a concept to you, Miss Blackwood?" Evelyn asked.
"You look like a mistake," Julianna snapped, stepping closer. She smelled of expensive roses and entitlement. "Adrian doesn't marry the help. He uses them. You're a placeholder, darling. A warm body until the scandal blows over."
"Is that from personal experience?" Evelyn asked lightly. "Because from where I'm standing, the seat is filled. And you're the one in the foyer."
Julianna's eyes flashed. "You have no idea who you're talking to. My family built this city."
"And you nearly bankrupted your branch of it," Evelyn replied. "The boutique in Milan? The failed gallery? I read your file, Miss Blackwood. Your ROI is negative. You bleed capital."
"My file?" Julianna sputtered. "Adrian, tell her she's lying!"
Adrian didn't look up from his phone. "Evelyn is thorough. If she says the ROI is negative, it's negative."
Julianna turned back to Evelyn, trembling. "You think a few spreadsheets make you one of us?"
"I don't want to be one of us. I'm better. I'm profitable. You are a sunk cost, Julianna. And in this house, we cut sunk costs."
"So," Julianna whispered. "This is the help?"
"I'm the partner," Evelyn said, voice low. "And you are trespassing. Alfred, show Ms. Blackwood the door. Before I call security and have her escorted out like a common fan."
"You wouldn't dare."
"Try me," Evelyn pulled out her phone. "I have the security chief on speed dial. The tabloids would pay handsomely for a photo of Julianna Blackwood being dragged out. 'The Ex Who Couldn't Let Go.' Catchy."
Julianna gasped, whirling on Adrian. "Are you going to let her talk to me like that?"
Adrian looked at Evelyn. He saw the fire, the steel. And for the first time, his smile reached his eyes. Genuine amusement.
"She gave you an instruction, Julianna," Adrian said coolly. "My wife is very particular about the rules. And technically, she owns half the foyer now."
"Indeed," Alfred murmured, stepping forward. "This way, Miss Blackwood."
Julianna gathered her coat, rage radiating from her. She stopped at the door. "This isn't over. You think you've won, but you've walked into a slaughterhouse. Do you know what happened to his last fiancée?"
"I don't care," Evelyn said. "She's not here. I am."
"Good luck," Julianna spat. "You'll need it."
She stormed out, the door slamming behind her. The silence returned, but it was charged now. The atmosphere of a battlefield after the first volley.
Adrian looked at Evelyn. He didn't applaud, but he nodded slowly.
"You handled that," he said.
"Efficiently," Evelyn replied. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a Foundation lunch to attend. I need to look 'soft' for the cameras."
She walked past him, head high, heels clicking. She felt his eyes on her back, calculating. Let him watch. She was just getting started.