The sunlight that filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the East Wing was too bright, too clinical. It didn't feel like a new day; it felt like a spotlight on a crime scene. Evelyn stirred, her body aching from the lingering tension of the previous night's encounter. The silk sheets, though worth more than her entire childhood bedroom, felt like cold, wet skin against her bare arms. She sat up, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders in a tangled mess, and for a long moment, the silence of the Nightwood Estate was deafening. It was a heavy, suffocating kind of quiet, the kind that reminded her that despite the luxury, she was a prisoner in a gilded cage.
She reached under her pillow, her fingers brushing against the small, encrypted USB drive she had hidden there. It was her only anchor to the real world—the world where she was "V," a ghost who moved billions with a keystroke. Here, she was just a debt payment. A sacrificial lamb in a designer gown.
Then, the clock chimed eight. A sharp, rhythmic knock sounded at the door. It wasn't a polite tap; it was the heavy, authoritative strike of someone who didn't care if they were interrupting her sleep or her sanity.
"Enter," Evelyn said, her voice raspy but steady. She pulled the silk robe tighter around her chest, masking the wildfire burning in her eyes with a facade of weary submission.
Marcus Thorne stepped inside. He was a man carved from granite, his charcoal suit without a single wrinkle despite the early hour. He didn't look at her with lust or even curiosity; to him, she was simply a high-maintenance asset that needed to be managed. He placed a thick, leather-bound folder on the vanity with a heavy, deliberate thud.
"Good morning, Mrs. Nightwood," Marcus said, his voice devoid of any warmth. "Mr. Nightwood has requested your presence for breakfast in ten minutes. In the West Wing. I suggest you don't keep him waiting. He is not a man who handles tardiness with grace."
Evelyn glanced at the folder, the gold-embossed Nightwood crest mocking her from the cover. "And this? Is this my morning reading?"
"The Household Code," Marcus replied. "Fifty-two pages of protocols regarding your conduct, your movements, and your communications. It stipulates everything from the visitors you are forbidden to see—which is everyone—to the specific ways you are to address Mr. Nightwood in public. I suggest you memorize it. Section twelve is particularly relevant today: A Nightwood wife does not speak unless spoken to in the presence of guests."
Evelyn pulled the folder toward her, her fingers tracing the cold leather. "Fifty-two pages of rules. Tell me, Marcus, does Silas have a protocol for how many breaths I'm allowed per minute? Or is that left to my own discretion for now?"
Marcus's jaw tightened, a microscopic crack in his stoic mask. "Sarcasm is not a trait Mr. Nightwood admires. He bought a wife, Evelyn, not a comedian. Ten minutes. Wear something... appropriate."
He turned and left, the click of the door sounding like the locking of a vault. Evelyn stared at her reflection. She looked pale, her blue eyes too large for her face, but there was a sharpness in them that hadn't been there before. She wasn't just going to read his rules; she was going to find the loopholes in them.
The walk to the West Wing felt like a journey through a museum of cold power. The walls were lined with oil paintings of grim-faced ancestors, men who had built empires on the bones of their enemies. The air grew colder as she approached Silas's private quarters, smelling less of lemon wax and more of expensive bourbon and old, leather-bound books.
The dining room was an obsidian nightmare. A long, black marble table sat in the center, lit by a minimalist chandelier that cast long, jagged shadows against the walls. Silas was already there, sitting at the head of the table. He wasn't in his wheelchair this time; he was perched in a high-backed leather chair, his legs hidden beneath the table. He was reading a physical newspaper, the crisp snap of the pages the only sound in the room.
"You're three minutes late," Silas said, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that vibrated in Evelyn's chest. He didn't look up from the financial section.
"I had to decide which of the fifty-two pages of rules I wanted to break first," Evelyn replied, taking the seat to his right. A server appeared from the shadows, placing a plate of poached eggs and avocado before her. The food looked like art; it tasted like ash in her mouth.
Silas lowered the paper, his dark eyes scanning her face with a predatory intensity. He looked tired, but it was a dangerous kind of exhaustion—the kind that made a man volatile. "The rules are there to keep you alive, Evelyn. This house has more secrets than you have brain cells. If you wander into the wrong room, Marcus won't be the one to find you. The security system will."
"I've always been a fast learner," she said, meeting his gaze. She didn't flinch. She wanted him to see the fire. She wanted him to know that while he might own her body by contract, he didn't own the ghost in the machine.
Silas leaned back, his powerful chest straining against the buttons of his white dress shirt. "We'll see. Today is a test. Your father, Arthur Vance, is hosting the annual Vance International Gala tonight. He's celebrating the merger that my money made possible."
Evelyn's grip on her silver fork tightened until her knuckles turned white. The Vance Manor. The place where her father had stood in the foyer and told her she was no longer his daughter. The place where her sister, Victoria, had laughed as Evelyn's belongings were tossed into the rain.
"I'm not going back there," Evelyn whispered, the words catching in her throat.
"You are going," Silas commanded, his voice dropping into a register that brook no argument. "You are going as the Mrs. Silas Nightwood. You will wear the Nightwood diamonds, you will walk into that ballroom on my arm, and you will show every person who whispered about your 'fall' that you have climbed higher than they could ever dream."
"Why?" Evelyn asked, her eyes narrowing. "Why do you care about my revenge?"
Silas reached across the table. His hand was large, his fingers calloused and warm. He didn't grab her; he simply rested his hand near hers, but the heat radiating from him was overwhelming. "Because you are my property now. And I don't like it when people think my property is 'damaged goods.' I want them to see that I've taken the girl they threw away and turned her into a queen they can't touch."
He slid a heavy, cream-colored envelope toward her. The Vance crest was embossed in gold. It felt like a threat.
"Go to the city with Marcus at noon," Silas said, picking up his coffee. "He has a list of boutiques. Pick a dress that looks like a weapon. And Evelyn?"
She looked up, caught in the gravity of his gaze.
"If you try to run, or if you try to contact anyone from your 'other' life... I will find out. And the rules in that folder? They will be the least of your worries."
Evelyn looked at the invitation, then at the man who had just bought her a front-row seat to her own nightmare. She realized then that Silas Nightwood wasn't just a monster. He was a master strategist. He wasn't just giving her revenge; he was tying her to him through it.
"I'll be ready," she said, her voice dropping into a lethal, quiet calm. "Just make sure you can handle the woman I become when I walk back into that house."
Silas's lips curled into a smirk that was pure, dark sin. "That, little wildfire, is exactly what I'm counting on."
The drive to Manhattan was a blur of gray highway and mounting dread. Marcus drove in silence, his eyes fixed on the road, while Evelyn stared out the window. She felt like a soldier being prepped for the front lines.
They didn't go to a standard department store. Marcus pulled the Rolls-Royce up to a discreet, unmarked brownstone on the Upper East Side. Inside, the air smelled of lilies and expensive perfume. Three stylists were already waiting, their expressions a mix of awe and terror as they looked at the woman who was now the wife of the most feared man in the state.
"Mr. Nightwood wants something that commands the room," Marcus told the head stylist. "No lace. No pastels. Something that looks like it was forged in a furnace."
Evelyn stood on the pedestal for hours. They draped her in silks that felt like water and satins that shone like liquid metal. But it wasn't until she saw the midnight blue velvet that she knew she had found her armor.
The dress was a masterpiece of dark elegance. It hugged her curves, the deep V-neckline teasing the edges of propriety, while a slit up the left leg promised a dangerous freedom of movement. It wasn't the dress of a victim. It was the dress of a woman who was coming back to claim what was hers.
"It's perfect," the stylist whispered, pinning the hem. "You look... lethal, Mrs. Nightwood."
"Good," Evelyn replied, staring at her reflection. "That's exactly the point."
As they drove back to the estate, the sun began to set, casting long, bloody streaks across the sky. Evelyn felt the USB drive in her hidden pocket. Tonight wasn't just about showing off a dress. It was about getting close enough to her father's private office to finish what she had started three years ago.
She was the disgraced heiress. She was the contract wife. But tonight, she was going to be the storm that broke the Vance family for good.