CHAPTER THREE--  The First Morning.

  

      CELESTE

   I woke to sunlight I didn’t ask for. It filtered through tall windows framed in dark velvet curtains, casting gold across the sheets I didn’t remember falling asleep in. The bed was too soft. Too silent. Like a coffin dressed in silk. The silence was so pure, it felt like I’d been buried in it.

No footsteps. No whispers. No sign of the man who’d watched me undress the night before and then slept yards away like a ghost. The bed was too warm, the sheets too perfect. Darius Vale hadn’t touched me- but somehow, he still lingered in the air like smoke after a controlled fire.

The fire had gone out sometime in the night, and the couch where he’d slept was perfectly remade- no sign he’d ever occupied it.

Of course.

   I sat up slowly, wrapping the robe left at the foot of the bed around my body, letting the heavy silk robe slide over my arms. Even the fabric felt expensive. It always amazed me how the rich could make imprisonment so comfortable. It was monogrammed, of course. MV. Not mine, not really. Just another illusion sewn into fabric.

The fire in the hearth had burned to nothing. The antique clock ticked once. Twice. Precisely. Even time here obeyed him.

I moved to the window and opened the curtain slightly. Snow still blanketed the mountain valley, covering everything with sterile beauty. The estate stretched far beyond the glass-stone towers, iron gates, and sharp turns of garden hedges that reminded me more of a labyrinth than a home.

I was in a fortress, not a marriage.

  I went to the vanity, wiped away the remnants of last night’s lipstick, and stared at the woman in the mirror. Mira Lanford. Newly wed. Perfect wife.

She didn’t blink. I did.

A soft knock interrupted my thoughts. Two short, one long. The same pattern as when I’d been getting ready for the wedding reception. Servant pattern. Not military. I was in no danger.

I opened the door to find a maid in a crisp black dress, her gaze dutifully cast downward. She looked young. Trained. Frightened, even.

“Good morning, madam. The master requests your presence on the south terrace for breakfast.”

It was not a question, nor was it a request. It was a polite command. A summons.

“Thank you. I’ll join him shortly.”

She gave a slight bow and retreated, her flats whispering against the marble floors as she hurried down the hallway. I watched her disappear down the corridor, making mental notes. Her path, her speed, the camera above the door frame that she didn’t dare look at.

I took my time dressing. Not because I was uncertain, but because I needed the mirror. I needed to remind myself of who I was behind the role.

Celeste.

Not Mira. Not the soft-spoken senator’s daughter everyone thought had survived a political tragedy.

I tied my hair in a loose knot and chose a cream-colored cashmere dress. Conservative enough for breakfast with political wolves, soft enough to suggest fragility. Men always softened toward what they perceived as breakable. It was something that I’d be thoroughly taught.

 The estate was quieter than I expected for a fortress. The halls of the estate were colder than I remembered, echoing with silent power. Every corridor was elegantly oppressive- lined with portraits of ancestors who stared down with suspicion, judgment, or thinly disguised malice, and I catalogued their expressions like intel files. As well as the subtle camera placements. I counted four blind spots on the way to the terrace. Useful later.

The south terrace opened to glass doors framed with black iron vines. When I stepped outside, a bitter breeze slipped under the hem of my dress- but I didn’t shiver.

I found Darius already seated beneath a vine-covered pergola, a long stone table before him, sipping black coffee like it was a ritual. The view behind him stretched across mist-covered hills. He wore slate grey today, no tie again, and sleeves rolled to his forearms. He was clean-cut and unreadable, making him look less like a groom and more like a ruler.

Two other men flanked him. One I recognised.

Cassian Ward- his legal counsel, strategist, political fixer, rumour-spreader. He was a clever and ruthless man who was rumoured to have bankrupted an entire dynasty with a single forged contract.

He was smiling, too wide and too bright for morning.

The other was harder to read. He had a lean frame, military posture, and quiet eyes that flicked over me like radar. He was likely to be ex-intelligence.

“Good morning,” I said softly.

Darius stood first. “Wife.”

I let him kiss my cheek. It was warm, dry, and perfunctory.

“This is Cassian Ward,” he said, gesturing to the man on his right.

Cassian stood and bowed slightly. “A pleasure, Lady Vale. You look like a poem.”

And you look like a threat with veneers, I thought.

I smiled. “Thank you.”

Darius gestured to the second man. “Lucian Grey, Head of Operations.”

Lucian rose with a quiet nod. “Madam.”

“Mira,” I corrected smoothly.

Cassian’s brows twitched. “You prefer your first name?”

“I prefer what’s real,” I replied, sitting beside Darius. “And calling me Madam is just politics.”

That earned a flicker of amusement in Darius’ eyes.

Breakfast was a muted affair- fresh fruit, eggs, thick toast, smoked salmon, and enough silverware to arm a small nation. I ate neatly, speaking when spoken to, letting the men lead the conversation. Mostly, I listened.

Cassian spoke in riddles. Lucian barely spoke at all. Darius sat like a judge between them.

“I imagine it’s a shift,” Cassian said after a lull. “Waking up in a castle instead of a capital. Do you miss the city?”

I glanced out over the mist-covered hills. “No traffic. No paparazzi. No death threats. It’s a refreshing change.”

Lucian’s eyes sharpened. “But isolation comes with other risks.”

My gaze met his. “I’m not easily intimidated.”

He tilted his head. “You must get that from your father.”

Ah. There it was. The poke.

I set down my cup. “My father believed in loyalty. He just didn't always earn it.”

“A tragic loss,” Cassian said, voice honeyed. “So public. So... explosive. It must be a difficult transition”

It was a test. The feigned sympathy. The veiled blade.

Darius didn’t interrupt. He just watched. Like he wanted to see if I’d bleed.

I smiled gently as I set my cup of tea down.

“Difficult, yes. But not impossible. My father’s legacy prepared me for politics. Even in grief. I am well aware that politics has always had a taste for blood.”

 Cassian raised a brow. “Grace under fire.”

“Always,” I replied.

Cassian chuckled, but Lucian did not share the sentiment.

When the meal ended, the men stood. Cassian excused himself to “review documents.” Lucian followed after a pause, nodding to Darius but saying nothing more.

We were alone.

I waited until they were gone before speaking.

“That wasn’t breakfast,” I said. “That was theatre.”

Darius sipped his coffee. “Everything is theatre. You should know that by now.”

I leaned back in my chair. “So what role do I play? Wife? Trophy? Spy?”

He set his cup down. “You’re not a spy.”

“How can you be sure?”

His eyes met mine- steel, unwavering. “Because you haven’t flinched once since yesterday. Even spies crack a little when the stage lights hit.”

“And wives don’t?”

“Not good ones.”

I laughed, short and quiet. “So that’s what you want? A good wife?”

He stood without answering.

“Walk with me,” he said instead. 

  Again, no hand offered. Just the command.

I followed him back inside, this time down a narrower corridor lined with high windows and thick glass. We strolled through the eastern wing, quiet corridors laced with crystal sconces and heavy drapes. The walls here weren’t decorated with family portraits, but war relics. Medals. Daggers. Black-and-white photos of men in uniform who looked like they’d never smiled in their lives.

“This is the private wing,” he said. “Most of the estate is monitored. Here isn’t.”

“Is that a warning or an invitation?”

He stopped walking. “An observation.”

I turned to face him. “You test everyone, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And how am I doing?” I asked lightly, “Did I pass?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

  “Your friends also seem fond of tests.”

“They’re not my friends.”

I raised a brow. “Then what are they?”

“Loyal, for now.”

I stopped walking. “And me? Am I loyal?”

He turned fully toward me. “I don’t know yet,” he said, stepping closer. “But I will.”

I took a step towards him, folding my hands behind my back. “What happens if I fail?”

His mouth quirked, just slightly. “Then I’ll be the last man you lie to.”

 His hand rose, and I held my breath until he tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, brushing the side of my face with the back of his knuckles. His touch wasn’t possessive; it wasn’t gentle either. It was appalling.

  “Cassian asked about your father,” he murmured. “On purpose.”

“I know.”

“And you answered like a politician.”

I smiled. “Should I have cried?”

“No. I would’ve known you were lying.”

  His proximity was unsettling- not because I feared him, but because I didn’t. And I should have. Every part of me had been trained to avoid attachment, to weaponise beauty, to stay one step ahead.

But Darius Vale wasn’t a man you could outrun.

He was the trap you didn’t realise you’d walked into until the door had already closed.

His hand dropped, and so did my pulse. 

“We’re hosting a small reception this evening. You’ll be expected to charm, but not speak too much.”

“I need to change then”, I said, needing distance.

“Wear the emerald dress in the wardrobe”, he said. “I think it’ll suit you.”

I tilted my head. “And what exactly does emerald say about me?”

“You look expensive. And dangerous.”

I smiled. “Is that what you want on your arm tonight?”

“It’s what I married. Smile. Be silent. Be beautiful.” His mouth twitched. “And observe. You’re good at that, aren’t you?”

Too good.

“See you tonight, husband.”

I walked away first this time. But I could still feel his eyes on my back as if they were hands. And I didn’t look back.