“Sounds grand,” I said, rising to my feet. “Come tomorrow. Seven sharp. I’ll have the cook prepare a feast fit for kings. We’ll dine... and dream of futures.”
Malik stood and clasped my hand in both his, warm and unknowing.
“You’ll see, Balthazar,” he beamed. “This plan—it will work.”
I met his gaze and smiled. Broad. Bright. Deceitful.
“I look forward to it,” I said smoothly.
But in my heart, I was already counting the ways I would kill them both.
At precisely seven o’clock the following evening, Malik and Layla arrived at the estate—punctual to the second, as expected.
They looked every inch the enviable couple.
Malik wore a tailored black wool tailcoat with silk lapels, matching trousers, and a deep-blue silk waistcoat fastened with delicate mother-of-pearl buttons. A crisp white shirt and a neatly knotted cravat completed the look, giving him the polished air of nobility. At his side, Layla radiated grace in a long sapphire gown, the bodice embroidered with intricate silver beading that caught the light with every step. Her raven-dark hair had been swept into an elaborate updo, soft ringlets cascading to frame her delicately heart-shaped face.
Alina watched her like a hawk sizing up a field mouse—and I nearly choked on my own amusement.
With a smooth gesture, I handed off their coats to the maid and beckoned them into the formal living room.
The room was a feast for the senses—curated, refined, and exuding wealth. Dark mahogany furnishings matched the moody elegance of the Persian carpets beneath our feet. A grand piano gleamed in the corner by the window, its lacquered lid catching the last threads of sunset. Velvet curtains in a deep forest-green framed the wide glass panes, and above us, a chandelier of cut crystal shimmered with fractured light. The grand and commanding fireplace roared with a crackling blaze beneath a gilded oil painting of a hunting party on horseback. The scent of wax, firewood, andsomething sweeter—perhaps perfumed oils—lingered in the air like memory.
The credit belonged to Alina. While I was away, she had poured herself into this room—into every gilded frame and polished edge—turning it into something meant to impress... and disarm.
As we gathered by the table and drinks were poured, Alina and I exchanged a glance, unspoken plans flickering between us. This evening was a performance, and our stage had been set with deadly precision.
Alina led Layla toward the fireplace with practiced charm, gesturing gracefully to one of the tufted chairs.
“I’d love to get to know you,” she said sweetly, her voice all honey and silken interest. “Balthazar has told me so much about you.”
Malik and I took the easy chairs by the fireplace—close enough to hear the women’s conversation, but far enough to carry on our own if we wished.
As we sipped our Madeira, I overheard Alina say with casual delight, “Iadoreyour gown, Layla. You must tell me who designed it.”
Layla’s cheeks turned the soft pink of flattery. “Actually, I made it myself,” she replied modestly. “I’m rather fond of needle and thread.”
“She’s being humble,” Malik interjected with a proud smile. “She made my ensemble as well. She often fills her days stitching when I’m away—it’s become an art form for her.”
The warmth in his gaze could’ve ignited the fire a second time.
“How remarkable,” Alina gushed. “I fear I’d look like a rag doll if I dared to sew my own clothes.”
“Nonsense,” Layla said brightly. “Anyone can sew! I’d be happy to show you sometime, if you’d like.”
“Oh, that would belovely,” Alina replied brightly. “We could have so muchfuntogether.”
I had to stifle a laugh behind my glass. Alina would slice off her own toes before threading a needle in earnest. She wielded charm like a blade, never domestic tools.
Turning toward Malik, I engaged him in light conversation—parliamentary motions, foreign policy shifts, whispers from thecontinent. But my attention remained half on the women by the fire, their words slipping between the crackle of flames.
Alina tilted her head, her smirk curling like smoke.
“So, tell me, Layla… what’s this I hear about ancient daggers?” Her tone was light, sweet—toosweet. “Balthazar mentioned quite a tale. Relics. Redemption. I’m simplydyingto hear it from you.”
Layla’s gaze flicked to me, then quickly away.
“It’s… thrilling, really,” she said softly. “They’re more than just weapons. They can change the very nature of darkness to silence the cravings. To offer peace.”
