The Trévér manor, once draped in the proud banners of Alina's dominion, lay quiet under a thin veil of moonlight. The echoes of mourning still clung to its halls—lamps burned low, servants whispered behind doors, and portraits seemed to watch with accusing eyes. Outside, carriages had long since departed after the funeral rites, leaving behind the silence of absence.
But not everyone in the manor was grieving.
Inside the private drawing room, Maximilian Voclain stood by the fire, its glow painting the sharp angles of his face in restless light. A glass of brandy swirled in his hand, but he hadn't touched it. His gaze was fixed on the flames as if he were reading strategy in their dance. The fire's warmth did nothing to soften him—it only seemed to sharpen his focus.
Behind him, Sophie Trévér entered barefoot, her silk night-robe brushing against the carpet. Her blond hair tumbled over her shoulders, undone from the funeral's restraint, her eyes catching the firelight with feline sharpness. Unlike the other mourners, her lips curved in a secret smile.
"You haven't sat all night," she said softly, crossing the room toward him. "Even the dead sleep easier than you."
Maximilian turned, finally drinking in her figure, then set the brandy aside. "There is no time for sleep," he replied, voice low and heavy. "Not when the world is already shifting beneath our feet."
Sophie moved closer until her hand rested on his chest. "You mean now that my dear mother Alina is dead," she whispered. Her words carried no grief—only a strange satisfaction.
Maximilian's eyes glinted. "Exactly that. Her death has left a vacuum, Sophie. One your cousins will claw over like starving wolves. They will bicker, posture, and spill each other's blood if left unchecked. But you—" he took her hand, pressing it against his heart—"you can be the one to seize it. This is your chance to lead the Trévér family just like we planned."
Her lips parted in a quiet laugh, smooth as velvet. "To think… after all these years of being pushed aside, looked at as nothing more than a pretty ornament, I will finally hold their leash. It almost feels like a dream."
Maximilian drew her into his arms, his lips brushing her temple. "Not a dream. A destiny. And I will make sure no one robs you of it. If any cousin of yours dares to move against you, if any uncle or aunt whispers that you are unfit—I will end them before their words take root. Quietly, decisively. Assassination, if need be."
Sophie tilted her head back, eyes gleaming like cold sapphires. "Assassination," she repeated, tasting the word. A smile stretched across her lips. "How deliciously final. To think, Maximilian, you would stain your hands for me."
He kissed her then, deep and certain, pulling her tight against him. When their lips parted, he whispered into her ear: "For us. Not for you alone. Because when you sit upon the throne of the Trévér family, and I strengthen the Voclain name, it will not be two houses—it will be one. Bound by us. Ruled by us."
Sophie's nails grazed his jaw as she smiled, wicked and radiant. "The greatest family in all of Europe."
Maximilian nodded, his voice a vow. "The greatest family in the world."
They stood there a moment, bodies pressed close, until Sophie pulled back slightly, her gaze sharp with thought. "But surely, love, you know power never lies unchallenged. Who will dare stand in our way?"
Maximilian's expression darkened. He returned to the fire, staring into it as though it whispered truths only he could hear. "One name, one shadow looms over everything we are about to build. My sister. Isabella."
Sophie stilled, watching him. "Isabella Voclain." She tasted the name like poison on her tongue. "She is clever, ambitious. And a minister, no less. But she has not shown her face these last days. She hides from her duty while Paris talks of her absence."
"Yes," Maximilian murmured, "and yet she is not weak. Do not mistake her silence for surrender. My sister has long prepared herself for the game of power. She carries the Voclain name with calculation, and unlike Alina, she knows when to strike and when to wait. She is not a flame that burns brightly and dies—she is ice, patient and merciless."
Sophie's lips curved in a slow smirk. "Then shall we kill her, my darling? Strike first, strike clean, and leave no rival to haunt us?"
He turned sharply, his eyes flashing. "No."
Her brows arched in surprise. "No?"
Maximilian stepped closer, lowering his voice as though walls might eavesdrop. "Killing Isabella would be foolish. It would fracture the Voclain name, split it between sympathizers and opportunists. It would reek of desperation. No… Isabella must be contained, neutralized by means other than death. I will break her influence, strip her authority, make her irrelevant in her own authority. And when she realizes her throne is gone, her power stolen, she will beg for our mercy."
"She is very close to the White family, so that's the extent of what I can do to her."
Sophie's laugh rang like a crystal bell in the dim chamber. "You are crueler than I thought."
"Cruelty is a kindness when it builds empires," Maximilian said evenly.
Silence lingered, only the fire crackling between their words. Finally, Sophie tilted her head, her smile fading into a calculating line. "And what of Eira White?"
At that name, Maximilian paused. The White family was not one to ignore. Eira herself—still young, yet had managed to twist the politics of France in ways no one predicted.
"She is clever," Sophie pressed, "cleverer than her age suggests. She is loved by the pure-bloods, feared by the Ministry, and she carries her grandfather's legacy like a banner. Do not dismiss her."
Maximilian shook his head slowly. "I do not dismiss her. But she is not yet close enough to strike at us. The White family remains an island, distant and untouchable. Their influence stretches, yes, but it does not root itself here, not yet. When we have cemented both Trévér and Voclain under our hands, then—and only then—will we decide how to deal with her. For now, she is beyond reach."
Sophie studied him, then gave a feline smile. "You speak as if she is nothing. But I have seen the way people speak her name. She may be distant, but her shadow lengthens quickly."
Maximilian crossed the space between them, cupping her face in his hand. "Do not worry, my love. When the time comes, I will crush her shadow too. For now, our focus is here. France trembles. The families are uncertain. And in uncertainty, we thrive."
Sophie leaned into his palm, eyes glittering. "Yes. France is ours to claim."
Maximilian said with an amused smile, "I'd better get going. If your family catches me here, it could ruin our plans. A Voclain in the house of Trévér on the night of the funeral, with their daughter? That would be quite the scandal."
Sophie placed her hand on his dick, her voice low and urgent. "I don't care about the scandal. I want you tonight, Maximilian. Make me forget everything—make me scream. Let's celebrate her death together, just you and me. No one else needs to know. Come on."
Maximilian grinned, his eyes glinting with mischief. "You really can't hold back when you're this wet, can you? Alright, Sophie, let me give you the most unforgettable night of your life."
They kissed again, fierce and hungry, sealing their bodies while helping each other to undress themselves in the quiet night. The fire roared, casting their shadows high against the wall—two figures merging into one, stretching long, dark, and inevitable.