Emily woke to the sound of distant thunder and the faint aroma of coffee drifting through the corridor. It was early—too early for servants to be bustling or for the mansion's silence to be disturbed. But her mind wouldn't rest. The file. The conversation outside the office. The way Alexander had looked at her last night.
Nothing about her life was ordinary anymore.
She dressed simply—jeans, a soft blouse, her hair pulled into a loose bun. For once, no stylists, no gowns, no performance. She needed clarity, not couture.
The estate's library became her refuge. Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined the walls, filled with dusty volumes and secrets long buried. Emily ran her fingers across the spines absently, thinking. Her thoughts tangled like the storm clouds outside. She no longer doubted she was part of something bigger—something dangerous.
But the question haunted her: Why her?
As she reached for a worn leather-bound journal, the door creaked open. Miranda stepped inside, elegant as ever, holding a porcelain cup.
"You're up early," she said, placing the cup on a nearby table. "I thought you might need this."
Emily eyed her warily. "What do you want, Miranda?"
Miranda gave a tight smile. "To keep you alive."
There was no warmth in her voice—just an eerie calm.
"You think I'm a threat to him?" Emily asked.
"I think you're a threat to many things," Miranda replied. "Some admire Alexander's unpredictability. Others see it as a crack in the armor. You're part of that crack."
Emily crossed her arms. "So what now? Are you warning me?"
"I'm advising you. Learn to play the game… or you'll be taken off the board."
Before Emily could reply, Miranda turned and walked out, leaving only the faint scent of roses and tension behind.
---
Later that day, a parcel arrived for Emily—unmarked, left on her bedroom table. Inside, she found a necklace. A delicate chain with a small pendant carved into the shape of a rose. No note. No explanation.
Her first instinct was suspicion. But something about it felt… personal.
That night, curiosity drove her to Alexander's private garden. The air was crisp, the moon low. She found him there, seated near a marble fountain, shirt sleeves rolled, staring into the water as if it held answers.
"You sent the necklace?" she asked softly.
He didn't turn. "My mother wore one just like it. She died when I was twelve."
Emily blinked, caught off guard. "Why give it to me?"
"Because," he said, finally meeting her gaze, "you remind me of the kind of strength she had. Quiet, unyielding, dangerous when pushed."
She clutched the pendant unconsciously.
"I don't want to become someone else," she whispered. "I want to hold on to who I was."
"Then carve that person into this world," he replied. "Don't let it erase you."
It was the closest thing to tenderness she had seen in him. And it unnerved her more than his silence ever had.
---
But as dawn neared, so did danger.
In the shadows outside the estate, a figure watched from the treeline. Phone in hand. Camera raised. A whisper carried over the wind.
"She's in."
Somewhere in London, a deal was being made.
And Emily Knight—wife, woman, pawn, storm—was now at the center of it.