A set of double doors stands ajar, serpentine handles forged in silver, emerald eyes glinting with awareness. I edge closer. The glimpse beyond reveals leather-bound books and what must be Alexander’s private study. My heart races at the thought of all that knowledge,all those secrets, but I force myself to move on. Not yet. I haven’t earned that privilege, but I will.
The wing curves, and the artwork shifts. Here, the pieces carry a more personal weight, though are equally magnificent. A charcoal portrait stills my breath, Alexander, younger but no less commanding. The artist captured every edge of him—the hard line of the jaw, the calculation behind his eyes—and I wonder if their hands shook. If they understood what it meant to be chosen to see that version of him. I would have.
My hand brushes against a small table, its surface gleaming with obsessive upkeep. Yet I haven’t seen a single staff member since entering this wing. The silence isn’t neglect; it’s earned. This space is his true domain. And now, I walk it freely.
The library doors stand open, the scent of aged parchment and enchanted leather spilling into the corridor. I duck beneath a beam of dust-moted light, watching it gild the skin of my palm. Each step on the parquet floor sends soft echoes up into the vaulted ceiling, where carved wooden beams guard centuries of knowledge.
Halfway through the west wing, I find a shelf that halts my momentum, its spines worn with use; illustrated covers softened by age. My nail catches on the embossed title ofThe Dragon Prince’s Quest, and I ease it from its resting place. The paper parts easily, revealing childish handwriting scrawled in the margins. Was this Rowe’s? Or did Alexander once thumb these exact pages, dreaming of magic and adventure?
Silk brushes shelves as my dress shifts, a breath of movement, drawing me toward titles I never expected. Poetry bound in navy velvet. Romance novels edged in gold. My palm flattens against the covers, absorbing their presence. Though the pristine condition suggests they’re preserved rather than cherished.
The magical creatures section draws me in with gravitational pull. Here, finally, are the texts I need. I gather volumes on Sirens and Hollowmaws, their weight satisfying in my arms. If the serum falters, it won’t be for lack of preparation. Not with access this rare.
A shift in pressure drags my focus. At the far end of the library, a sealed gate pulses with latent force. Wards shimmer faintly, old and unyielding, my magic recoils on instinct.
I don’t approach. Not yet. But it’s only a matter of time. Alexander trusted me with the Founding Families’ archives. Soon, he’ll hand me this too.
I leave the library behind and drift toward the conservatory, stepping into a bloom of warmth and humid floral air. Thick ferns arch above, their sweeping fronds casting shifting shadows across my skin. A hidden mist system hums to life, and I tip my head back, letting the cool droplets scatter over my face. Overhead, the glass dome cradles drifting clouds, a canopy suspended above Alexander’s meticulously cultivated gardens.
I slip into an alcove framed by living walls; climbing vines tangled with white blossoms, their petals nodding in some imperceptible rhythm. The leather armchair welcomes me without a whisper, its surface chilled against my bare arms. I arrange the books across the mahogany table, their gilded spines gleaming in the afternoon light. I crack open the first volume on Sirens, breathing in aged paper and sweet jasmine.
“Well, isn’t this cozy?”
The voice slices through my concentration. Vivienne Darkmoor stands poised in the doorway, and my breath snags before I can stop it. Her dark blue dress flatters every inch of her body, casting mine into shadow by comparison. Honey waves fall perfectly around her shoulders, making me suddenly aware of my own untamed hair.
Even the way she leans against the doorframe radiates sophistication that comes from decades of ruling Eclipsera’s elite circles. My pink flowing dress, which had made me feel pretty and feminine this morning, now seems girlish under her perfectly lined eyes.
“Vivienne.” I sit straighter, refusing to shield myself with the book. “I didn’t expect to see you.”
“In my husband’s private wing, you mean?” She steps forward, her heels striking the floor with quiet authority. “Where he keeps his latest investment?”
A cold thread winds down my spine, but I lift my chin. “Alex invited me to stay.”
“Alex.” She savors the name, mockery dancing in her eyes. “How familiar. And I suppose he’s told you all sorts of pretty things? About how special you are? How different from all the others? Or perhaps he’s whispered about your unique potential?”
“Our relationship isn’t what you’re implying.”
“No?” Her laugh drips venom. “Then he hasn’t told you that our marriage is merely political? How he’s waiting for the perfect moment to change things?” She trails her fingers along the leather chair. “He does love this room. Brings all his special friends here. Caroline used to read for hours in this very spot. Such a brilliant researcher. Until she wasn’t. And Rebecca? She preferred the window seat, always dreaming of the future he promised. Emily lasted the longest. Six months. She truly believed she was the one.”
“You’re lying.” But doubt coils in my stomach as memories flash unbidden. The way Alexander’s eyes sometimes drift during our conversations, how his promises always seem just vague enough to mean anything or nothing.
“Did he suggest dinner in the gardens?” Her voice drops, almost fond. “Private. Intimate. Lit by lanterns and promises he never intends to keep.”
My stomach turns. She can’t know. It’s a coincidence. But the amusement in her eyes tells me otherwise. My face has already betrayed me.
“Oh, sweet thing. He’s not even bothering to vary his routine anymore.”
“What we have is different.” My nails press crescents into my palms. “He trusts me with his work, his personal life—”
“He trusted them too. Each one thought she was special, chosen, different from all the others.” She moves closer, her perfume expensiveand suffocating. “And they all accomplished incredible things. Caroline rewrote his drone systems. Rebecca designed three ward protocols. Emily built the entire internal security structure. And now they’re footnotes. While I remain.”
I force steel into my voice, though my hands tremble. “He told me everything about your arrangement. How you haven’t shared a bed in years.”
Please let that be true. Let it be something.
“Did he?” Vivienne’s voice sharpens. “Did he tell you that no matter who warms his bed, he always returns to mine? That no one satisfies his darker compulsions like I do?”
Her pity burns beneath my skin, and I lock my knees to stay upright, even as the words chip away at every fragile certainty I’ve fought to hold onto.
