The gates of the Vane Estate did not creak; they slid open with the silent, oiled precision of a guillotine.
Linnea Song sat in the back of the black armored sedan, her hands folded neatly over a silk-covered lap. To the driver—a man with the thick neck and scarred knuckles of a career soldier—she looked like a sacrificial lamb, another high-born daughter sold off to satisfy a blood debt. Her head was bowed, her gaze fixed on the floorboards, portraying the perfect image of a woman whose world had just ended.
Inside her mind, however, it was a different story.
Three security cameras at the perimeter. Blind spot at the 10 o'clock position behind the oak tree. The gate mechanism uses a localized frequency—standard military grade. Easily bypassed.
She adjusted her earring, a delicate pearl that felt heavy against her lobe. It wasn't a jewel; it was a bone-conduction receiver. A faint, rhythmic static hummed against her skull—the sound of the Imperial encrypted network.
"We are here, Madam," the driver said, his voice devoid of warmth. "The Commander is in the North Study. He does not like to be kept waiting."
"Thank you," Linnea whispered, her voice trembling just enough to be convincing.
As she stepped out of the car, the mountain air of the Northern Federation hit her like a physical blow. The Vane Estate wasn't a home; it was a fortress of glass and black basalt, perched on a cliffside like a hawk waiting to strike. This was the lair of Caspian Vane, the "Iron Hand" of the Empire—the youngest Commander in history and a man who had reportedly forgotten how to bleed.
The interior was worse. It was hollow, echoing, and smelled of expensive floor wax and cold gunpowder. There were no family photos, no soft rugs, no signs of life—only weapons on display and maps projected in shimmering blue holograms against the walls.
She was led to the North Study. The double doors were three inches of solid mahogany. The driver knocked once, then stepped aside, signaling her to enter alone.
Linnea took a breath, smoothed her skirts, and stepped into the lion's den.
The room was bathed in the orange glow of a dying sunset. Caspian Vane sat behind a desk carved from a single piece of dark stone. He didn't look up. He was reviewing a casualty report, his fountain pen scratching across the paper with aggressive, precise strokes.
The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. Linnea stood perfectly still. Most women would have fidgeted, or perhaps let out a soft sob to garner sympathy. Linnea simply stood, her heart rate a steady sixty beats per minute.
Finally, he looked up.
Caspian's eyes were the color of a winter sea—stormy, gray, and dangerously deep. He was younger than the newspapers portrayed, but his face was marked by the exhaustion of a man who carried the weight of a nation's defense. He didn't look at her face; he looked at her as if he were scanning a map for vulnerabilities.
"Linnea Song," he said. His voice was a low, resonant baritone that vibrated in her chest.
"Yes, Commander."
"You are here because your father's shipping company failed and the Imperial Bank called in his markers. I bought those markers. In exchange, I required a wife to appease the Council's 'family stability' mandate." He stood up, towering over her. He was broad-shouldered, his black uniform crisp and intimidating. "I did not buy a partner. I did not buy a lover. I bought a legal technicality."
He walked around the desk, stopping just inches from her. The scent of cedarwood and cold air clung to him.
"You will stay in the West Wing," he continued, his tone clinical. "You will have a staff to attend to your needs. You will receive an allowance that would make a Duchess blush. You may buy whatever jewelry, clothes, or nonsense you desire. But you will not enter my study. You will not ask questions about my work. And you will not, under any circumstances, expect my time."
He reached out, his gloved fingers catching her chin, forcing her to look up. He expected to see tears. Instead, he saw eyes that were eerily calm.
"Do you understand the terms of your... gilded cage?"
Linnea lowered her lashes, playing the part of the broken doll. "I understand perfectly, Commander. I am to be a ghost in your house."
"Precisely," he said, releasing her. "Now, go. My butler will show you to your quarters. I have a war to manage."
Linnea bowed, her movements fluid and humble. She turned and walked out of the room, her footsteps silent on the cold marble.
An hour later, Linnea was alone in the West Wing. It was a suite of rooms that cost more than her father's entire estate. Silk sheets, crystal chandeliers, and a walk-in closet filled with designer gowns she had no intention of wearing.
She sat at the vanity, looking at her reflection in the mirror. She reached behind her neck and unzipped the hidden compartment in the lining of her travel dress. Out came a device no larger than a coin—a micro-transmitter.
She tapped the pearl earring twice. The static cleared.
"Ghost reporting," she whispered, her voice no longer trembling, but sharp and cold. "I'm inside the Vane Fortress. The Commander is arrogant, distracted, and exactly as cold as the reports suggested. He thinks he's bought a pet."
She looked at the heavy door to her suite, knowing Caspian Vane was just a few hallways away, thinking he was the one in control.
"Target confirmed," she said, a small, dangerous smile tugging at her lips. "He doesn't realize he just invited the greatest security threat in the Empire to sleep under his roof. Initiate Phase Two."
Outside, the wind howled against the glass, but inside, the "fragile" wife was already beginning to dismantle the Commander's world, one secret at a time.