Morning came in a hush of rain. Ann lay awake in the wide bed, eyes open, watching the water slide down the tall windows like tears she refused to shed.
Daniel was gone when she woke — his side of the bed cool, his scent lingering like a phantom pressed into the pillows.
She listened for him — the soft creak of the old wooden floorboards, the quiet click of the study door, the muted hum of his low voice giving orders that would decide who lived, who vanished, who paid.
But the house was silent. She was alone.
Ann sat up slowly, careful not to wake the ache that spread across her ribs and her heart. She pressed her palm to the place on her neck where his lips had rested hours ago — gentle as a ghost, brutal as a promise.
You are mine.
She could still taste those words on her tongue like poison. Or maybe honey — she couldn't tell the difference anymore.
She swung her feet to the cold floor. She didn't shiver this time. She welcomed the chill. It reminded her she was still alive. And alive meant she could fight.
She found the old study by instinct. She'd only been in here once — months ago, when Daniel had shown her the locked drawers, the shelves full of secrets he thought she'd never touch.
The door wasn't locked now. She pushed it open with a steady hand.
Inside, the smell of wood polish and old paper wrapped around her. A single lamp glowed on the massive desk. The papers were stacked in neat piles — contracts, shipping manifests, bank ledgers that hid rivers of dirty money under clean numbers.
She ran her fingers over the edge of the desk — the same desk where he'd once lifted her onto the polished wood, pressed his mouth to her throat, and whispered that he'd burn the world for her.
Burn it, she thought. I'll light the match myself.
She didn't have a plan. Not yet. But she had time. And she knew the cracks in Daniel's walls now. He'd taught her to find them. He'd taught her what power looked like when it slipped out of control for love.
She slid open the top drawer. His spare phone lay there — heavy, black, a second number for conversations that never made it to his official line. She powered it on with shaking fingers.
No password. Of course not — who would dare steal from the king in his own den?
She found the list she needed — names, coded initials, a network of men and money that made Daniel's empire untouchable. She didn't know what half the codes meant. But she didn't have to.
She snapped pictures. Quiet. Quick. She tucked the phone back exactly where it had been.
When she turned, she found herself staring at a portrait on the wall. A painting she'd never really seen — Daniel's father. The original monster. The man who taught him how to rule with fear and love twisted into iron.
Ann stared into the painted eyes. Her breath fogged in the cold air.
He killed you, didn't he? she thought. You raised him to be a monster, and he devoured you first.
A sound behind her snapped her out of it. A floorboard creaked.
Daniel's shadow filled the doorway, tall and terrible. But when she turned to face him, her hands were steady. Her eyes didn't drop.
He studied her for a heartbeat — those dark eyes flicking to the open drawer, to the lamp, to her hands.
"What are you doing in here, sweetheart?" His voice was velvet over razors.
Ann lifted her chin. "I couldn't sleep."
He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. The sound made her stomach twist — not with fear, but with something sharper. Resolve.
He crossed to her in three slow strides. He didn't touch her — not yet. He just hovered, so close she could taste the mint on his breath.
"You shouldn't be in here," he murmured. His hand brushed her cheek — a mockery of tenderness. "This room is mine."
Her pulse thundered. "So is everything else, isn't it?"
His mouth twitched. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
She smiled — small, sharp. Let him think it's submission, she told herself. Let him keep believing.
She tilted her head into his touch. His eyes darkened — he was so easy to read when he thought he'd won.
"Will you punish me for being here?" she asked softly. Her voice was silk wrapped around a blade.
Daniel's thumb traced her lower lip. He leaned in, lips brushing hers — too soft for a king, too raw for a monster.
"No," he breathed. "You're too tired for punishment tonight. And too beautiful when you surrender."
She almost laughed. Instead, she pressed her mouth to his — slow, deliberate. She let him think she was yielding. Let him taste the lie.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested on hers. "Sleep, Ann," he murmured. "You'll feel safer in the morning."
She smiled against his mouth. "Of course, Daniel. I always feel safe with you."
He led her back to their bedroom like a prize he'd caught again. He wrapped her in blankets like silk chains, kissed her forehead like a brand.
When he turned out the lamp, when his breathing deepened beside her, Ann lay awake staring at the ceiling.
She didn't tremble anymore. She didn't cry.
She remembered every name she'd seen. Every bank code. Every secret he thought she'd never dare touch.
And for the first time, she didn't wonder if she'd leave.
She wondered how much of his kingdom she'd burn when she did.