The mansion was silent when they returned.
Too silent.
The kind that echoes.
Alexander walked ahead of her through the grand foyer, blood dried along his jawline, coat still smelling of fire and cordite.
He said nothing.
Neither did she.
Their footsteps filled the space like thunder in an empty church.
Upstairs, Isabella peeled the ruined dress from her body, her skin marked with bruises and scrapes. She looked in the mirror. Not at her face — but at her eyes.
They were no longer the eyes of a girl who waited to be rescued.
The door creaked behind her.
She didn't flinch.
Alexander leaned against the frame, silent. Watching.
"You disobeyed me," he said, low.
"I saved your life," she shot back.
He tilted his head. "And almost got yourself killed."
"Would that have bothered you?" she whispered.
He took a step closer. "It would have changed everything."
She turned to face him. "Why? Because I'm your wife on paper? A pawn you still need alive?"
He didn't answer. Not at first.
Then—
"You think too small, Isabella."
Her breath caught.
Alexander walked toward her, slow and sure. "You are not a pawn. And you never were."
She stared at him, heart a knot. "Then what am I to you?"
He stopped just in front of her. So close.
One breath, and she would've touched his chest.
But he didn't reach for her.
He leaned in, lips near her ear.
"Everything I built, everything I own — I would burn it all again… if you asked."
The words were gasoline.
Her silence was the spark.
Their mouths met like violence.
Raw. Needy. Confused.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't sweet.
But it was honest.
She clawed at him. He held her like she'd vanish. Every touch said everything they didn't dare speak.
But when morning came, Isabella rose first.
The sun painted the room in gold and bruises.
She slipped from the bed, wrapped in a sheet, and stepped onto the balcony.
From here, she could see the city—still unaware that its power balance had shifted in the night.
Behind her, Alexander stirred.
"You're leaving already?" he asked, voice still thick with sleep.
"I have things to arrange," she said. "And enemies to finish."
Later that day, in the ruins of a once-rival estate, Isabella met with three men in expensive suits.
She wore black. No makeup. No smile.
They expected Alexander.
They got her.
"We agreed to meet with Mr. Dusk," one of them said.
Isabella sat, legs crossed, gaze flat.
"Then you agreed to meet with me. I speak for the house now."
They exchanged glances.
One leaned in. "You're not him."
She smiled, slow.
"No. I'm worse."
And as she unrolled the new contract—marked with her seal—they realized:
The Dusk family had a new face.
And it smiled with teeth.
Far away, in a darkened chapel surrounded by thorns, Katerina kneeled before a woman older, colder, and infinitely more dangerous.
"You lost," the woman said, pouring wine into a black goblet.
Katerina didn't flinch. "Temporarily."
The woman smirked. "And this girl… Isabella. She beat you?"
"She surprised me," Katerina corrected. "She's not a girl anymore."
The woman handed her the goblet.
"Then it's time we make her bleed like a woman."