The click of the lock was sharper than the knife that had almost ruined them both.
Evelyn stared at the door for a long moment, hearing the solid slide of the bolt and the echo of Alexander's footsteps retreating down the hall.
It wasn't fear that filled her — not anymore — but something more complicated: the weight of understanding. In this life, he wasn't her jailer. He was a man trying desperately to contain the chaos he thought she carried. And why wouldn't he? In his eyes, she was a wife gone strange overnight — restless, secretive, demanding to leave the house before dawn to meet another man.
He had every reason to think she was planning to run.
And once, she had been.
---
Outside the locked door, Alexander Carter was unraveling behind his mask of composure.
He moved down the corridor with his usual measured stride, but the thoughts behind his calm face burned like coals. He had spent half the night piecing together what his investigators had told him — whispered reports, inconsistencies, the name Oliver appearing where it shouldn't.
Now, his wife — beautiful, stubborn Evelyn — had woken early, packed a small case, and demanded to leave the estate without explanation.
She hadn't even denied who she was meeting.
Oliver. His nephew. His heir. The man he had raised and trusted.
And she had looked at him with that same fire in her eyes — the fire that once made him fall in love with her, the same fire that now burned holes through his trust.
It infuriated him that she could still make him feel both love and betrayal in the same breath.
He told himself it was a trap. A test. That she wanted him to loosen the leash, to let her out of the mansion and out of his sight. Then she would run. Straight into Oliver's arms.
The thought made his fists tighten.
He turned to the maid waiting at the end of the hall. "Clean the study," he ordered, voice clipped. "Every trace."
"Yes, sir."
"And make sure Mrs. Carter eats," he added after a pause. "Then have her bathed and dressed. She is not to leave that room without my permission. Not a step."
The maid bowed, startled by the sharpness in his tone. "Of course, Mr. Carter."
Alexander hesitated — just long enough for the mask to slip — then turned away.
The anger sat heavy in his chest, but beneath it was something far worse.
Doubt.
She had looked… different. Not the way she usually did when defying him. Her voice hadn't carried the sharp, self-righteous tone he'd grown used to. There had been fear — yes — but not of him. Something deeper, older.
And when she'd dropped the knife, her eyes had been wet.
She had whispered, You're right.
Words Evelyn Carter had never spoken in her life.
He couldn't trust that.
Not yet.
He ran a hand through his hair and exhaled slowly. "What are you doing, Evie?" he muttered under his breath. "What game is this?"
But part of him, the part he kept buried behind iron discipline, was afraid she wasn't playing a game at all.
---
Inside the locked room, Evelyn sat by the window, staring out at the pale garden beyond. She could see the guards — the same men who had once obeyed Oliver's orders in another lifetime — posted along the gates.
Her breakfast sat untouched on the tray beside her.
The maid, nervous and sympathetic, had tried to coax her to eat, but Evelyn couldn't.
She was reliving too much.
The way this morning had gone before — how she had screamed, fought, and then done the one thing that would destroy her forever.
How she had stabbed Alexander in anger, and how that moment had set off the domino chain that ended in both their deaths.
This time, the knife was still on the desk. Unused.
This time, he was alive.
This time, she could fix it.
But she also knew him.
Alexander wasn't a man who forgave easily.
He would be watching her now, waiting for her next move, expecting deceit.
She smiled faintly — a tired, bitter smile. "You still think I'm the enemy, don't you?" she whispered. "You'll see soon enough, Alex. The real enemies are inside your walls."
Her gaze drifted to the family photograph on the shelf — herself, Alexander, and their three little girls. Lily, with her mother's dark hair. Emma, shy and gentle, clinging to her father's sleeve. And Grace, a baby in his arms, barely two months old in this time.
Her throat tightened.
She'd buried all three once.
She would die before she let that happen again.
Outside, she heard the faint murmur of Alexander's voice giving orders to the staff. Calm. Precise.
He was angry, yes — but also uneasy. That was something she could use.
If she was careful, if she played her part just right, she could make him believe her again. Win his trust back piece by piece.
And when the moment came — when Oliver and the others began their game — she would be ready.
This time, she would be the one holding the knife.