Emily woke to the sound of distant thunder and the faint aroma of coffee drifting through the corridor. It was early—too early for servants to be bustling or for the mansion's silence to be disturbed. But her mind wouldn't rest. The file. The conversation outside the office. The way Alexander had looked at her last night.
Nothing about her life was ordinary anymore.
She dressed simply—jeans, a soft blouse, her hair pulled into a loose bun. For once, no stylists, no gowns, no performance. She needed clarity, not couture.
The estate's library became her refuge. Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined the walls, filled with dusty volumes and secrets long buried. Emily ran her fingers across the spines absently, thinking. Her thoughts tangled like the storm clouds outside. She no longer doubted she was part of something bigger—something dangerous.
But the question haunted her: Why her?
As she reached for a worn leather-bound journal, the door creaked open. Miranda stepped inside, elegant as ever, holding a porcelain cup.
"You're up early," she said, placing the cup on a nearby table. "I thought you might need this."
Emily eyed her warily. "What do you want, Miranda?"
Miranda gave a tight smile. "To keep you alive."
There was no warmth in her voice—just an eerie calm.
"You think I'm a threat to him?" Emily asked.
"I think you're a threat to many things," Miranda replied. "Some admire Alexander's unpredictability. Others see it as a crack in the armor. You're part of that crack."
Emily crossed her arms. "So what now? Are you warning me?"
"I'm advising you. Learn to play the game… or you'll be taken off the board."
Before Emily could reply, Miranda turned and walked out, leaving only the faint scent of roses and tension behind.
---
Later that day, a parcel arrived for Emily—unmarked, left on her bedroom table. Inside, she found a necklace. A delicate chain with a small pendant carved into the shape of a rose. No note. No explanation.
Her first instinct was suspicion. But something about it felt… personal.
That night, curiosity drove her to Alexander's private garden. The air was crisp, the moon low. She found him there, seated near a marble fountain, shirt sleeves rolled, staring into the water as if it held answers.
"You sent the necklace?" she asked softly.
He didn't turn. "My mother wore one just like it. She died when I was twelve."
Emily blinked, caught off guard. "Why give it to me?"
"Because," he said, finally meeting her gaze, "you remind me of the kind of strength she had. Quiet, unyielding, dangerous when pushed."
She clutched the pendant unconsciously.
"I don't want to become someone else," she whispered. "I want to hold on to who I was."
"Then carve that person into this world," he replied. "Don't let it erase you."
It was the closest thing to tenderness she had seen in him. And it unnerved her more than his silence ever had.
But as dawn neared, so did danger.
In the shadows outside the estate, a figure watched from the treeline. Phone in hand. Camera raised. A whisper carried over the wind.
"She's in."
Somewhere in London, a deal was being made.
And Emily Knight—wife, woman, pawn, storm—was now at the center of it.
The next morning brought an eerie stillness. The fog had crept in overnight, blanketing the Knight's estate in a pale shroud. Emily stood at her window, the pendant Alexander had given her resting against her collarbone. She hadn't taken it off. Not because she trusted him—but because she needed an anchor. Something real.
A knock at her door startled her.
It was Lillian, the only maid who didn't treat her like glass.
"Ma'am, a visitor," she said with a slight bow. "A woman. Says she's your aunt."
Emily frowned. "I don't have any—"
But then she remembered. Her mother's cousin, Ruth. They hadn't spoken since her mother's funeral. How would she have known where to find her?
Still, something in Lillian's eyes made her trust it.
"Where is she?"
"In the east conservatory."
Emily slipped into flats and made her way through the winding halls. The east conservatory was rarely used, full of overgrown orchids and old sunlight. When she entered, she spotted the woman instantly—slim, mid-fifties, wrapped in a deep plum shawl. She turned at the sound of footsteps.
"Emily," the woman said with a tired smile. "You look like your mother."
Emily's heart beat faster. "You're Ruth?"
Ruth nodded, stepping forward to hug her. It felt stiff, unsure, but sincere.
"I had to see you," Ruth said. "Before they silence me."
Emily pulled back. "What do you mean?"
Ruth's voice dropped. "This family—Alexander's family—do you even know who they are? You're not just some wife plucked from obscurity. You're part of a legacy now. One with enemies older than you can imagine."
Emily shook her head. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because your mother knew them. Once. Long before she met your father."
Emily's breath caught.
"What?"
"She tried to leave that world behind, Emily. She tried to protect you from it. But the moment you married into the Knights, the past came crawling back. And not all of it will stay buried."
Emily took a shaky step backwards. "You need to tell me everything."
But before Ruth could answer, a voice rang out behind them.
"That won't be necessary."
Alexander.
He stood at the entrance, suit immaculate, eyes glinting with restrained fury.
"Ruth," he said coldly. "You've overstepped."
Ruth turned slowly. "You're making the same mistakes your father made, Alexander. You can't control everything."
"I can control enough," he snapped.
Emily stepped between them. "Stop. Both of you. I'm tired of being spoken around. Someone tell me the truth."
Alexander's jaw flexed. "Later."
"No. Now."
But Ruth was already walking away, brushing past Alexander with a whisper meant only for Emily.
"Find the ledger. Your mother left it for you."
And then she was gone.
That night, Emily couldn't sleep. She searched every drawer, every wardrobe, even the marble pedestal she'd bumped days ago. Nothing.
But in her mother's old jewellery box—something she'd carried with her from flat to flat over the years—Emily found a hidden compartment.
Inside it, a single brass key.
No note. No explanation. Just a number etched on its side: Room 317.
She didn't know what it opened yet.
But she intended to find out.