The morning started with silence.
Not peace. Not calm.
The kind of silence that wrapped around your lungs and made it hard to breathe.
I dressed before sunrise, choosing the plainest outfit I could find—black slacks, white blouse, hair pulled into a tight bun. My skin still ached from yesterday's sun, my feet still bore the ache of hours standing behind Cassia's heels.
But I didn't complain. I didn't dare.
By seven, I was downstairs.
Cassia wasn't there this time.
Only a maid with dead eyes and a clipboard.
She handed it to me with a nod. "Mr. Lancaster's meeting begins at eight. You're expected to greet the guests, pour drinks, and remain standing unless otherwise instructed. No eye contact. No interruptions."
I swallowed hard and took it.
By eight, the front hall had transformed.
Glass doors opened into a grand salon, velvet chairs arranged in a semi-circle, trays of crystal glasses set on marble side tables. Everything gleamed.
And then… they arrived.
Men in tailored suits. Women with practiced smiles and diamond wrists. Their eyes skimmed over me like I was nothing more than the help.
I kept my head down, repeating names as I'd been told, offering drinks with quiet hands and lowered eyes. Each time the door opened, I tensed, half-expecting Cassia's cruel smirk or Damien's cold indifference.
But when he entered, everything shifted.
Damien wore black on black, crisp and lethal. His presence devoured the room—every head turned, every conversation paused. He didn't look at me as he passed. Didn't acknowledge me at all.
And somehow, that was worse.
I stood in the corner near the bar, clipboard pressed to my chest like armor, pretending not to listen as they spoke of mergers, stock crashes, and lawsuits.
But something caught my attention.
A man leaned in, whispering behind a tumbler of whiskey.
"—if Lancaster doesn't neutralize that last Marshall contract, the entire deal falls apart."
Another nodded. "Still shocked he went as far as marrying the girl. But hey, whatever keeps the board calm."
"It's not about calm," the first replied. "It's about leverage. The second her father defaults again, Damien takes full control."
I froze.
My fingers went numb around the clipboard.
So that's what I was.
Collateral. Not just revenge. A legal noose.
Every breath I took after that tasted different. Bitter. Metallic.
But I kept standing. Kept serving. Kept pretending I hadn't just heard the beginning of my family's funeral being casually discussed over scotch.
When the meeting ended, Damien didn't call me.
He didn't scold. Didn't praise.
He simply walked past me like I wasn't there.
Like I hadn't just spent three hours proving I could obey.
But someone else noticed.
One of the men—tall, unfamiliar, too young for this room—paused near me at the exit. His gaze flicked to my clipboard, then my eyes.
"You're the wife."
It wasn't a question.
I didn't answer.
He smiled faintly. "You look like you want to scream."
And then he walked out, just like that.
I stood frozen in the doorway, heart pounding.
Was he mocking me? Or… warning me?
I wasn't sure.
But for the first time in days, I felt something spark under my skin.
Not fear.
Curiosity.
Later that night, when I returned to my room, the same clipboard sat on my desk—now updated with a new schedule. My name was typed at the top like I was part of the staff.
But I wasn't.
I was the wife.
The pawn.
The weapon.
And now… the liability.
Because Damien thought I was dumb. Powerless. Broken.
But he'd left me too close to the truth.
And I wasn't going to forget what I'd heard.
If he wanted to keep me in the dark, he should have locked the door.
Now it was too late.
Because I was listening.
Watching.
And quietly, I was starting to plan.