The morning after the wedding began in eerie silence.
Emma sat curled on the edge of her bed, wearing the same silk robe from the night before. Her hair was still pinned, and her makeup smudged beneath her tired eyes. The events of the past twenty-four hours had twisted her world into something unrecognizable.
She clutched her phone, staring at the last message she received: The wedding was a move. You're just a piece. Who was sending them? What did they mean by "a move"? Her stomach twisted. If she was a pawn, then who were the players?
A knock at the door startled her. She leapt to her feet, heart pounding.
"Emma?" came Mara's soft voice. "It's me."
Emma cracked the door open just enough to peek out. Mara's face was concerned, makeup-free, holding a tray of breakfast.
"I thought you might want something to eat."
Emma opened the door wider and allowed her in. The tray smelled of croissants and strong coffee, but Emma's appetite was nowhere to be found.
"I heard there was... an incident at dinner," Mara said gently, setting the tray down.
"You could call it that," Emma muttered, sitting on the edge of the bed again.
"She's back, isn't she?" Mara asked. "Isabella."
Emma's gaze snapped to hers. "You knew about her?"
Mara hesitated. "Everyone knows about Isabella. The only thing more famous than Alexander Blackwood's fortune is the scandal surrounding her disappearance."
"Disappearance?"
"She was engaged to him. A year ago. She vanished before the wedding. Some say she ran. Others say... she didn't have a choice."
Emma's blood ran cold.
"And now she's back?"
Mara nodded. "Which means you're walking into the fire, Emma. Whatever you think this is—it's bigger, and darker, than you've been told."
Emma gritted her teeth. "I didn't have a choice either."
---
Later that day, Alexander summoned her to his study.
It was a towering room lined with antique books and dark wood paneling. Massive windows framed the grey sea beyond. He sat behind a grand desk, looking every inch the billionaire monarch.
"You look like you haven't slept," he said.
Emma crossed her arms. "That tends to happen when you overhear your new husband plotting behind your back."
He looked up slowly. "So, you heard?"
She nodded. "You said I wasn't like the others. Who were the others, Alexander? And what happened to them?"
He stood and walked around the desk until he was only inches away.
"This marriage is built on a contract. One that protects both of us. But protection comes at a price. And you don't get to ask certain questions—not yet."
"I'm not a toy," she snapped.
"No," he agreed, "you're not. You're leverage."
Emma stared at him, stunned.
Alexander ran a hand through his dark hair, frustration flickering in his eyes.
"I never wanted to involve you in this," he said. "But I needed someone who looked innocent. Someone who could draw attention away from what's really happening."
Emma took a step back. "What is happening?"
He looked away. "There's a war coming, Emma. And every empire has enemies."
Her heart thundered. "You mean this whole marriage—this wedding—was just for show?"
"Partly."
Emma turned, her voice trembling. "You used me."
"You agreed to the contract."
"I didn't agree to be a pawn in a war I don't understand!"
His jaw clenched. "Then start understanding, Emma. Because there's no going back now."
---
That night, she roamed the halls again, unable to bear the thought of sleeping beside him.
She ended up in the east wing, where the air was colder and the lights dimmer. The hallway was lined with portraits—Blackwoods of generations past. Each one seemed to watch her as she passed.
She reached a door with a heavy brass handle. Something compelled her to try it.
It creaked open.
Inside was a small room, unused and dusty. A vanity sat in the corner, its mirror cracked. On it lay a silver hairbrush... and a single blood-red rose.
Emma stepped forward and picked it up.
A whisper echoed in her ear.
She screamed right here.
She froze.
You won't leave either.
Emma spun around. No one was there.
Her breath came in shallow gasps.
Suddenly, the door slammed shut behind her.
She rushed to it—locked.
Panic surged through her.
She banged on the door. "Let me out! Someone!"
Footsteps approached.
The door opened.
It was the man in black. The one from the conservatory. The one who had called her "Mrs. Blackwood" like it was a warning.
"Who are you?" she demanded.
He didn't answer. Instead, he tossed something at her feet.
A photograph.
Emma picked it up. It was a picture of Isabella, in the same room, same vanity.
And behind her—standing in the mirror—was Alexander.
But his face looked different. Cold. Empty.
Not the man she had met. Not even the man she thought she feared.
She looked up, but the man in black was already gone.
The message was clear: Alexander had a past soaked in secrets. And she was living inside it now.
---
Emma sank to the floor, clutching the photograph as if it were a lifeline.
Her phone buzzed.
Another message.
Trust no one. Especially him.
Her breath hitched.
Was there anyone she could trust?
Outside the window, a storm began to brew—lightning splitting the sky.
The tempest outside seemed to mirror the one inside her heart.