THE GAME BENEATH THE VOWS.

Anais stood in front of her mirror longer than usual the next morning.

She wasn’t studying her reflection the way she used to—searching for flaws or trying to make herself softer, prettier, more tolerable.

No, today she was looking for something else.

Proof that she was still here. That the woman staring back at her wasn’t the girl who used to flinch at silence or explain herself to cold eyes and clipped words.

Her robe hung open at the front as she stood in just her underthings—lace and bone-white satin, elegant but quiet. The air in the room was cool, goosebumps rising across her skin, but she didn’t reach for the robe yet.

She noticed the way her collarbone looked sharper, her eyes darker. Not from makeup—she hadn’t touched her face yet.

It was just something that had shifted.

Subtle. Internal. But it showed.

Her hair was loosely pinned up, with soft strands slipping around her face, and she let them fall. There was something about letting it all down now that felt intentional. She wasn’t dressing for warmth, or approval, or Cassian’s gaze.

She was dressing for clarity.

For armor.

She chose a navy-blue blouse—silk, with buttons that she left open just far enough to let the line of her throat breathe. She paired it with black tailored slacks, sharp at the waist, and heels that made no sound against the marble floors.

And then she walked out like she wasn’t walking into her marriage.

But a negotiation.

Cassian was already in the dining room. Of course he was.

He always woke early, but today, he looked like he hadn’t slept at all.

His black shirt was wrinkled at the elbows, cufflinks forgotten. His tie lay undone on the table beside him. And there was a tension in his posture—his back too straight, his jaw stiff as if it had locked up in the night.

His coffee sat in front of him, untouched.

Anais entered without announcing herself.

She didn’t wait for him to glance up. She just walked to the counter, poured herself her own coffee, and leaned against the marble, facing him.

Cassian finally looked at her.

His gaze lingered—not in that possessive way she was used to, but with a slow, silent hesitation.

As if he couldn’t quite read what she’d become overnight.

“You look different,” he said.

Her lips curled slightly, but not in a smile. “Maybe I am.”

He held her gaze for a second longer. Then nodded to the chair opposite him.

“Sit. Please.”

She did—but not in the way she used to, not folded small or careful. She crossed her legs, rested her coffee lightly in her hand, and tilted her chin in quiet expectation.

Like a woman waiting to be told something she already half-knew.

Cassian’s fingers tapped the side of his mug once.

Then again.

A pause.

“I think we’re being watched,” he said flatly.

Anais didn’t blink. “By who?”

“I don’t know.”

Her jaw tightened slightly. “You think it’s the board?”

“No. It’s personal.”

She waited.

Cassian leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.

“There are people in my past who would love to see me fall,” he said. “But they’re cowards. Whoever’s leaking this information—they’re close. Closer than they should be.”

Anais tilted her head, voice cool. “Are you accusing me?”

His expression didn’t change. “Should I be?”

Her breath caught—but not from fear. From the sheer gall of it.

She let her voice drop to a calm whisper.

“You lied about Lina. You buried Southbridge. You locked a goodbye letter behind a painting before you even let me back in your life.”

Her nails tapped the porcelain edge of her cup.

“And I’m the one under suspicion?”

Cassian’s eyes darkened. Not with rage. With shame.

He didn’t answer.

She stood, slow and steady, gathering herself with a quiet grace that somehow made the room feel smaller around him.

“I’ve played the role you wrote for me long enough,” she said. “If you want to find the leak, Cassian—try looking in the mirror.”

And then she left the room.

Anais didn’t cry. Not that morning. Not that afternoon.

Instead, she called the only person who might tell her the truth without trying to control the outcome.

Irene.

They met at a discreet café on the edge of Midtown. Somewhere old, quiet, with creaky floors and too many chandeliers.

Irene wore her usual neutral tones—beige blouse, fitted trousers, gold watch that caught the light like a blade. But today, her hair was pinned tighter than usual. Her lipstick darker. And when she sat down, she didn’t offer a smile.

“You said it was urgent,” she said.

Anais didn’t waste time. She slid a small USB across the table.

It contained copies of every leak, every anonymous message, and even a quiet screen recording of the message about Southbridge.

“I want to know who’s doing this,” Anais said.

Irene studied the USB.

Then her eyes lifted, slow and deliberate.

“Are you asking for help?” she said.

“No. I’m asking for the truth.”

Irene leaned back, one brow lifting slightly.

“There’s a difference now,” she murmured. “Before, you came to me with apologies. With fear.”

Anais said nothing.

“You’re not afraid anymore,” Irene said, not as a compliment—more as a challenge.

“I’m not,” Anais replied quietly.

Irene took the USB, slipped it into her purse, and picked up her tea.

“Good,” she said. “Because that’s the only way you’re going to survive in this house.”

Back home, Anais changed again—this time into something simpler.

A loose cream sweater. Black leggings. Her hair down around her shoulders, brushed soft, unstyled. She looked… approachable.

But beneath the softness was steel.

She walked into Cassian’s office without knocking.

He was on the phone. Voice clipped. Irritated.

“No, I want it off the table by Monday—no exceptions.”

He paused when he saw her.

Lowered the phone.

“I’ll call you back,” he said, and hung up.

Anais didn’t wait for him to speak.

She placed her phone on his desk and tapped the screen.

A video began to play.

A man in a hallway. Suited. Familiar.

Julien.

He was speaking to someone off-screen.

“You think she’s just some emotional placeholder? Cassian’s got more secrets than she’s got shoes. She’ll crack. Just give it time.”

Anais’s face didn’t move.

But Cassian’s jaw clenched hard enough to twitch.

“Where did you get this?” he asked.

“I have people now,” she said simply.

He stared at her.

Like he was seeing her for the first time.

And maybe he was.

She leaned forward slightly, her tone steady.

“If you want to keep me out of the fire, Cassian, stop lying. I need to know everything.”

His mouth opened—then closed again.

His eyes dropped to her phone.

Then slowly back to her.

“There’s one more thing,” he said.

She froze.

“Then say it.”

He hesitated.

Then stood, walked to the back of the office, and pulled out a narrow drawer beneath a locked file cabinet.

Inside: a small black folder. No label.

He handed it to her.

Inside—

A contract.

Between Vale Industries and ThorneTech, signed a year ago. A shell company.

Under the project name: Fallpoint.

Anais read the first page.

Then the second.

Her hands went cold.

“Cassian…”

“It’s an offshore account. Used to fund quiet operations. Legal on paper. But what it’s really for…”

Anais met his eyes. “What is it for?”

He swallowed.

“To buy silence.”

Her face went blank.

No tears. No gasps.

Just quiet devastation.

He looked down.

“I didn’t want it to touch you. But now it’s circling.”

“Who else knows?”

“Julien. A few old board members. Maybe more. Someone’s playing the long game.”

Anais nodded once.

Then turned and left.

She walked back to her room, closed the door, locked it.

Then sat on the bed, folder still in hand.

She opened her laptop.

And wrote a single sentence in her private file.

“When you love a man who builds his empire on silence, your voice becomes the biggest threat he’s ever known.”