Seraphina maintained perfect composure until the office door closed behind her.
Then she allowed herself exactly thirty seconds in the hallway to process what she'd witnessed. Marcus's hands framing Evelyne's face. The unused charm brooch catching afternoon light like a monument to strategic failure. Her cousin's triumphant smile.
Thirty seconds. No more.
Then she walked away with the measured pace of a duchess making social calls, each step calculated to project casual purpose rather than strategic retreat.
The performance didn't end until she reached her carriage.
Evelyne remained pressed against Marcus long after Seraphina's footsteps faded. Not from lingering passion, but to gauge the depth of her magical influence. His pulse was elevated, breathing shallow, classic signs of charm magic taking hold.
"That went well," she murmured against his ear, testing his response.
"Seraphina seemed... surprised." His voice carried that soft, distracted quality she'd learned to recognize in influenced subjects. Perfect.
"Poor cousin. She works so hard at those charitable projects." Evelyne stepped back enough to study his expression. "Tell me about your business partnerships. I'm curious about the people in your professional circle."
Marcus blinked slowly, that dreamy compliance settling over his features. "Several promising ventures. The mining operation has been particularly profitable."
"Mining?" She kept her tone light, interested rather than predatory. "How fascinating. Who advises you on such complex investments?"
"I have... consultants. People with expertise I lack." His answer came easier now, defenses lowering under magical pressure.
"Any women among these advisors?"
A pause. Brief hesitation that made Evelyne's pulse quicken with hunter's instinct.
"There's a merchant I work with. Intelligent. Confident. Not like other women I've known."
Interesting. "More beautiful than me?"
The charm magic seized that question immediately. "No one compares to you."
Evelyne smiled, but her mind was working. The merchant. She'd heard whispers about Marcus's mysterious business partner, someone who'd appeared from nowhere and outbid established houses for prime opportunities.
"This merchant of yours," she pressed gently. "Describe her."
"She has... confident hands. Speaks like someone accustomed to getting what she wants." Marcus's eyes grew distant. "We meet in the evenings, usually. Private discussions about opportunities."
Evening meetings. Private discussions. Evelyne felt that familiar thrill of uncovering secrets. But when she tried to probe deeper, asking for names, specific locations, detailed descriptions, Marcus deflected.
"Professional discretion, you understand."
Even clouded by magic, he defaults to business protocol. The realization was both fascinating and infuriating. Years of merchant training didn't simply dissolve under charm work. Those professional walls, that careful discretion, they were buried in bone, blood, and business honor.
This wasn't a single evening's work. Marcus Branthorne wasn't built in a day, and he wouldn't be broken in one either. She would need access. Repeated proximity. Private meetings disguised as romantic pursuits that slowly eroded his professional boundaries until nothing remained but compliance.
Other men crumbled under an evening's attention. Marcus would require cultivation. Patience. The kind of delicate work that transformed iron will into malleable clay.
How thoroughly satisfying.
"Perhaps we could discuss business more often," she suggested, trailing her fingers down his chest. "I find commerce so much more interesting when explained by someone knowledgeable."
"I'd enjoy that." His response carried genuine warmth now, magic and natural attraction blending seamlessly.
"Excellent." Evelyne retrieved her gloves from his desk, the gesture casual but calculated. She needed him anticipating future encounters, craving the attention she would carefully ration. "Until next time, then."
She left him standing there, still dazed and wanting more.
Perfect.
Alaric's Chambers - Late Afternoon
Alaric stood at his window, watching the courtyard where Seraphina had walked earlier that morning. The memory of her stride, confident, purposeful, utterly transformed, sent heat coursing through him.
When had she become this?
Not the broken duchess he'd married. Not the compliant wife who'd once flinched from his touch. This woman who moved like she owned secrets. Who spoke like she'd found her voice. Who looked at him with something that wasn't quite fear anymore.
It made him hungry.
Every night for weeks, he'd planned to claim what was his. To remind her exactly where power lay in their marriage. But every time, every single time, something interrupted. Emergency court sessions. Evelyne's demands. Business crises that required his immediate attention.
Coincidence?
His jaw tightened as the pattern became clear. Too convenient. Too perfectly timed.
She was managing him. Somehow, his transformed wife had learned to orchestrate circumstances that kept him at arm's length. The realization should have enraged him.
Instead, it aroused him beyond reason.
Clever girl. But not clever enough.
He moved to his desk, pulling out parchment and quill. Strategic planning had always been his strength. If Seraphina thought she could evade him through careful timing and convenient distractions, she would learn otherwise.
This required a different approach. More thorough preparation. Absolute certainty that nothing, no emergency, no crisis, no convenient interruption, could interfere with his plans.
His pen scratched across the paper as he began to write. Names. Schedules. Contingencies. Every possible variable that could disrupt his intentions, carefully accounted for and neutralized in advance.
When he was finished, he would have her full attention. Her complete vulnerability. Hours of uninterrupted time to remind her exactly who held the power in this marriage.
The anticipation alone made his blood sing.
He folded the completed plans and locked them away, a smile playing at his lips.
Soon.
Seraphina found Caelan in the east wing study, maps spread across mahogany like battle plans. She told him about Marcus, briefly, clinically, the way one reports necessary casualties in an ongoing war.
He listened without interruption. Asked the questions that mattered. Made the adjustments that needed making.
By dawn, new arrangements were in motion.
"Three properties meet our requirements," Caelan said, unrolling architectural plans across the desk between them. "Each with different advantages."
Seraphina moved closer to study the drawings, her shoulder brushing his as she leaned over the parchment. The contact felt deliberate, calculated or instinctive, impossible to distinguish.
"This one." She pointed to the northernmost estate, her finger tracing entrance routes. "Multiple exits. Soundproof wine cellars that could serve as meeting rooms. And look, " Her hand covered his briefly as she indicated the grounds. "Gardens that block sightlines from neighboring properties."
"Practical." His voice carried approval that felt deeper than strategy. "The seller is discrete. Transactions could be handled through intermediaries."
"How quickly could we secure it?"
"A week. Maybe less if we expedite through ducal channels." He studied her profile as she examined the floor plans. "Seraphina."
She looked up, suddenly aware of how close they were standing. Close enough to see the gold flecks in his eyes. Close enough that stepping back would feel like retreat.
"Yes?"
"This isn't just about having a secure meeting place."
The statement hung between them, weighted with implications neither quite dared name. Safe house. Sanctuary. Somewhere they could drop every pretense except the ones they chose to maintain with each other.
"No," she agreed quietly. "It isn't."
His thumb traced across the architectural plans, or perhaps across her knuckles where her hand still rested on the parchment. "Private chambers. For extended... planning sessions."
"How practical."
"I thought so."
The air between them carried the promise of unguarded conversations. Of strategy sessions that might become something else entirely. Of a place where the distance they carefully maintained could finally close.
"The estate has a library," Caelan added, voice rougher than architectural discussions warranted. "Floor-to-ceiling windows. Natural light for detailed work."
"And fireplaces?"
"Three. Including one in the master study."
Her breath caught slightly. Master study. As though they were planning a shared future rather than a temporary operational base.
"When do we tour the property?"
"Tomorrow. Late afternoon, when staff are dismissed for the evening."
Alone. Of course.
"Perfect," she said, and neither of them were discussing real estate anymore.
A sharp knock shattered the charged atmosphere between them.
"Enter," Caelan called, his hand still covering hers on the architectural plans.
A figure slipped through the door, weathered, travel-stained, moving with the careful precision of someone who lived in shadows. Seraphina recognized the type: one of Caelan's intelligence operatives. The kind who disappeared for months and returned with secrets that changed everything.
"My lord," the spy said, gaze flickering between them before settling on military protocol. "The investigation is complete."
Seraphina felt Caelan's fingers tighten against hers. Investigation? When had he,
"Case file designation?" Caelan's voice carried careful neutrality.
The spy hesitated, his weathered face carrying reluctance. "House of Fire, sir." He paused, meeting Caelan's eyes directly. "I should warn you, my lord. You're not going to like what we found."
Caelan went completely still. His hand remained steady on hers, but something shifted in the air around him, a tension that spoke of terrible knowledge about to be confirmed.
His gaze flicked to Seraphina, then back to the spy, and she caught something that looked almost like dread crossing his features.
"I see," he said quietly.
But beneath that controlled response, one thought echoed with crystal clarity:
She's not going to like it either.