The number haunted her all night. Room 317. It didn't belong to any part of the Knight mansion she was familiar with. She even discreetly questioned Lillian the next morning, who only frowned and said, "There's no such room, ma'am. At least not anymore."
Emily didn't believe her.
The Knights were masters of concealment, and Emily was tired of being steered like a passenger in her own life.
She waited until nightfall when the halls quieted and shadows lengthened across the ornate walls. With the brass key tucked inside her sleeve, she wandered the west wing—one of the oldest parts of the estate. A part rarely visited.
There were no signs on the doors, no numbers. But she noticed one strange hallway—narrower than the others and ending in what looked like a built-over wall.
Emily reached it and ran her fingers along the wallpaper, tapping softly. A hollow echo met her touch.
She pressed harder—and with a soft click, the panel shifted.
Behind it: a door.
Old. Heavy. Dusty with time. But carved into the brass plate was the number: 317.
Her heart thudded.
The key slid into the lock perfectly.
It turned.
The door creaked open to reveal a dim, windowless room—bare except for a desk, a worn leather chair, and a single cabinet bolted to the floor.
A thick smell of aged paper and leather clung to the air.
Emily stepped inside, closing the door softly behind her. Every part of her screamed that she shouldn't be here—but something deeper told her this was exactly where she needed to be.
She pulled open the cabinet.
Inside, files. Dozens. Some are labelled with codenames. Others—names she recognized from dinner parties, headlines, history books.
One folder bore her mother's maiden name: Caroline Foster.
Emily's breath caught as she opened it. Photos of her mother—young, vibrant, standing beside men in tailored suits, often with a youthful Alexander in the background. Reports. Letters. Surveillance.
And a ledger.
It wasn't a financial log—it was a map. A trail. Her mother's escape plan from the Knight family… and the truth she'd uncovered.
There were names. Coordinates. Evidence.
And one entry circled in red ink:
> "If anything happens to me, Emily must find this. She has the right to know who she is. Who they are. And what they took from us."
Emily's hands shook.
Suddenly, a soft click behind her.
The door was no longer ajar.
Someone else was in the room.
"Looking for bedtime stories?" a voice drawled behind her.
She turned sharply.
It was Elias—Alexander's head of security. Loyal. Dangerous.
"You're not supposed to be here, Mrs. Knight," he said, stepping closer. "That room was sealed for a reason."
Emily didn't blink. "Maybe because the truth was locked inside it."
Elias smiled faintly. "Careful. Some truths are heavier than they look."
He took a step forward, and Emily snapped the ledger shut.
"I'm leaving with this."
"No, you're not," he said, pulling something from his coat—a sleek black phone. "But Alexander wants to see you. Now.."
Back in Alexander's private study, the fire was lit, but his expression was ice.
"You went to Room 317," he said flatly.
"I had to," Emily replied. "My mother tried to protect me. From you. From all of this."
Alexander didn't deny it.
"She tried to protect you from a world that doesn't allow exits. You're not in a fairy tale, Emily. You're in a dynasty built on control. On silence. And now, they'll know you opened that room."
She stared at him. "Then you'll have to choose. Them… or me."
The silence that followed was thick. Then Alexander said, almost too softly:
"I already did the moment I married you."
Outside, the fog lifted slightly, revealing the stars above London once more.
But deep within the walls of the Knight empire, the real game had only just begun.
Emily wasn't just uncovering secrets.
She was becoming one.
Emily didn't sleep.
The ledger lay beneath her pillow, its secrets humming in the dark like a second heartbeat. Morning light crept in through the curtains, but it brought no warmth—only more questions.
Alexander had said he chose her. He married her to protect her. But from whom? And at what cost?
By noon, the estate was stirring with unnatural energy. Staff moved briskly. Security doubled. Whispers filled the hallways like static.
Someone knew Room 317 had been opened.
And they were closing in.
Emily found Miranda in the atrium, sipping her usual glass of blood-orange juice like nothing was amiss.
"You knew about my mother," Emily said without preamble.
Miranda didn't flinch. "Of course I did."
Emily stepped closer. "And you didn't think I deserved to know?"
Miranda set down her glass. "Deserve is a tricky word in this family. We all play our roles, Emily. Yours just became... more complicated."
"What was she to you?" Emily pressed.
Miranda's smile thinned. "She was a threat. A brilliant one. She thought she could expose the Knights. Burn down centuries of legacy. She nearly did."
Emily felt the ledger pressing against her ribs, heavy and urgent.
"She was my mother," she said, voice breaking. "Not a threat. Not a role. A person."
Miranda's expression softened—not with kindness, but something closer to respect. "And now you wear her second mask. Careful, dear. The first one nearly choked her."
That evening, Alexander called Emily into the north conservatory.
He stood among the white roses, his shirt sleeves rolled, the collar undone—more human than she'd ever seen him.
"I need to show you something," he said.
He led her down a different path, beneath the mansion into a sublevel that smelled of stone and iron. No art. No pretence.
A vault door stood at the end.
Inside: documents, weapons, encrypted files. But what he handed her wasn't any of that.
It was a small velvet box.
She opened it.
Inside sat a delicate pendant, shaped like a crescent moon with a single sapphire in the centre.
"It was your mother's," Alexander said quietly. "She left it for you. She wanted you to have it when the time was right."
Emily's throat tightened. "Why now?"
"Because," he said, "they've put out the signal. The family council. The ones who think I've gone soft. They're calling for a vote."
"A vote?" she asked, confused.
"To remove me. As head. As protector. And if that happens, you're no longer safe under my name."
Emily closed the box.
"So what do we do?"
Alexander looked at her—not as a symbol, not as a shield, but as a partner.
"We fight back," he said. "Together. If you're still willing."
Emily stared at him, heart pounding.
Then she put on the pendant.
"I've already started."
Outside, the city lights flickered on like stars being lit one by one.
Inside the vault of the Knights, a war for power, for identity, and the truth had begun.
Emily Foster Knight was no longer anyone's pawn.
She was becoming something far more dangerous—
A player with nothing left to lose.