Three days passed, and the tension in the Knight mansion was no longer silent—it pulsed. Staff moved quieter, security was doubled, and Alexander's phone never stopped ringing.
But Emily?
She moved with purpose now.
She read everything. The files Alexander once kept from her. Names, dates, offshore holdings. She asked questions. Took notes. Showed up to meetings uninvited. And no one dared stop her.
That morning, a red envelope arrived. Hand-delivered. Embossed with a gold seal: the Ashthorne family crest.
Alexander opened it at the head of the breakfast table, brow furrowing as he read.
"Ashthorne?" Emily asked.
He hesitated. "My father's oldest rival. Benedict Ashthorne. A name we don't say lightly."
She reached for the card. The invitation was calligraphed in perfect ink:
> "You and your bride are cordially invited to the Ashthorne Winter Masquerade. Attendance is not optional."
Emily raised an eyebrow. "Sounds more like a threat than an invitation."
"It is," Alexander said. "They want to see you up close. Judge you. Test your weaknesses."
Emily stood. "Then let them."
---
The following night, she descended the stairs in a black velvet gown, masked, regal, and silent. Her face was hidden, but her posture said everything.
Alexander watched her from the base of the staircase—no mask, no armour. Just awe. For a brief moment, he saw a woman who'd stopped being a pawn and started becoming something more dangerous.
At the Ashthorne estate, the gala was decadent and cold, like a ritual wrapped in diamonds. Everyone wore masks. But Emily could feel their eyes on her—their whispers, their judgments.
"Knight married a lamb," one voice murmured behind a crystal flute.
"She doesn't look like a lamb," said another.
Benedict Ashthorne finally greeted them beneath an arch of frosted roses. Silver-haired and smiling like a viper.
"So this is the girl who made Alexander bend," he said, lifting Emily's hand.
She didn't flinch. "And you must be the man who keeps testing how far he can stretch before he snaps."
The men around him chuckled.
Benedict's smile didn't falter, but his eyes sharpened.
Alexander stepped forward. "Careful, Benedict. She bites."
Ashthorne leaned in. "I look forward to it."
---
Later, as violins played and champagne flowed, Emily wandered into the gallery—alone. Marble floors. Gilt frames. A hundred painted eyes watching her.
She wasn't surprised when Lucien appeared at her side.
"You wore power well tonight," he said.
"I'm not wearing it," she replied. "I'm wielding it."
He chuckled. "You're learning fast."
"I have to," she said quietly. "Or I'll drown."
Lucien stepped closer. "If Knight ever stops protecting you, I can show you how to swim."
She turned to face him. "If Knight ever stops protecting me, I'll already know how to fly."
---
Back in the ballroom, Alexander watched her re-enter with calm precision. The room parted slightly—subtly—but it parted. She was no longer just the wife.
She was becoming the storm.