Chapter 5: The Price of Curiosity
The air in the study turned to ice.
Dream's mind went blank, then raced. Denial was useless. She held the evidence in her trembling hands. She slowly placed the tablet back on the desk, the click of it touching the wood echoing in the silent room.
"I couldn't sleep," she said, her voice surprisingly steady. "I came in for a book." The lie was pathetic, and they both knew it.
Tom didn't move from the doorway, but his presence seemed to fill the entire space, pressing in on her. The soft light from the hallway carved his sharp features into a mask of dangerous calm. "You expect me to believe you mistook my tablet for a copy of Pride and Prejudice?"
"I was curious." It was the closest to the truth she dared.
"Curiosity," he repeated, stepping into the room. The door sighed shut behind him, enclosing them in the moonlit tomb. "In our arrangement, curiosity is a luxury you cannot afford. It is a breach. Clause 10.1."
The threat hung between them. Her mother's treatment. Her father's attorney.
"I saw something," she blurted out, changing tactics, grasping for any defense. "On the tablet. Lip gloss. Celeste Moreau's shade." She lifted her chin, meeting his furious gaze. "You lecture me on betrayal and boundaries, yet your business with your rival seems… personally conducted."
A muscle ticked in his jaw. For a second, she saw it—a flash of something that wasn't anger. It was too complex, too quick to decipher. Then it was gone, buried under a wave of cold contempt.
"You are auditing my personal effects for traces of other women?" His voice was low, dripping with disdain. "How very wifely of you. And how misguided. My interactions with Celeste are strategic. Necessary. They are none of your concern."
"She's in our home. On your things. She threatened me at the press conference. Forgive me for feeling it's very much my concern." Dream crossed her arms, a feeble attempt to shield herself. "Or does the 'harmonious partnership' only apply when I'm performing for cameras?"
He closed the distance between them in three strides, stopping just short of touching her. She could smell the faint scent of whiskey on his breath, see the storm in his eyes. "You understand nothing. You are a piece on a board, Dream. Your job is to stay in your assigned square and look pretty. Not to question the player's moves."
"I am not a pawn!" The words exploded from her, fueled by weeks of fear and humiliation. "I am the woman you chained to yourself! I have a right to know who else has a key to this gilded cage!"
His hand shot out, not to strike her, but to grip the edge of the desk on either side of her, caging her in. She was trapped between the hard wood and the harder heat of his body. "You have no rights," he hissed, his face inches from hers. "You have privileges. Granted by me. Revocable by me. The only key you need to worry about is the one you used to sign away your freedom."
Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird. This was different from the practiced touch in the study. This was raw, uncontrolled, and terrifyingly real. The anger between them was a living thing, and underneath it, something else pulsed—a dark, magnetic current that made her breath catch.
"Why her?" Dream whispered, the question escaping before she could stop it. "If it's just business, why her?"
His gaze dropped to her mouth for a heartbeat, then snapped back to her eyes. "Because the Moreaus owe a debt. And Celeste is the instrument of their repayment. She provides… access."
"What kind of access?" The image was visceral, painful.
"Information," he snarled, as if reading her mind and disgusted by it. "Not everything is about the bedroom, Dream. Although," his eyes raked over her, from her lips down to the neckline of her sleep shirt, "your mind seems determined to go there. Is that the real source of your midnight curiosity? Wondering if your husband finds his rival more appealing than his contractual bride?"
The insult was so crude, so deliberately degrading, it burned away her fear, leaving only white-hot rage. "You arrogant bastard. The only thing I find appealing is the thought of being anywhere but here with you."
Something shifted in his expression. The fury cooled, calcifying into something more deliberate, more cruel. "A sentiment I am beginning to share. Your value as a placid, obedient prop is diminishing. Perhaps we need to re-evaluate the terms."
He pushed away from the desk, turning his back on her as he picked up the tablet. He wiped the corner with his thumb, erasing the smudge with a finality that felt like a slap. "Your father's appeal hearing is tomorrow. I was going to attend. To lend the weight of my presence."
Dream's blood ran cold. "What are you saying?"
He turned, his face impassive. "I'm saying your behavior tonight has consequences. I will not be attending. My legal team will still represent him, but the judge will note my absence. It will look like doubt. Like distance. It may very well influence the decision."
He was using her father as a punishment. The cruelty was so precise, so devastating, it stole the air from her lungs. "You can't…"
"I can. And I am." He walked towards the door. "Consider this your first real lesson, Dream. Cross me, question me, spy on me, and the people you love will pay the price. Not you. Them. It's more effective."
He paused at the threshold. "The wedding is in six days. I suggest you spend the time relearning your place. It's either by my side, in silence, or across from me, watching your world burn. The choice, this time, is still yours."
He left, closing the door softly behind him. The quiet was worse than his shouting.
Dream slid down the side of the desk onto the cold floor, wrapping her arms around her knees. She had gambled and lost spectacularly. She had wanted to scratch the surface, to find a weakness, and instead, she'd given him a reason to tighten the chains. Her father might suffer because of her recklessness.
But amid the despair, a new resolve hardened. He'd called her a piece on a board. A pawn. Pawns could be sacrificed. But they could also become queens.
And queens toppled kings.
She stood up, her legs shaky but determined. She went to her room and pulled out the sleek, expensive laptop Tom had provided. It was monitored, she was sure. But he'd expect her to be cowed, weeping, obedient. He wouldn't expect her to work.
She opened a secure, encrypted browser Luna had installed for her on the first day—a ghost in the machine. She typed a message, her fingers flying.
Luna. No go on the tablet. He caught me. But I have a new target. The wedding is in six days at the Blackthorn estate. I need everything you can find on the estate's security, layout, historical records. And dig deeper on the "debt" the Moreaus owe. Tom called Celeste an "instrument of repayment." What does that mean? I need leverage. Real leverage.
She sent it, then erased the history. She stared out at the glittering city, a kingdom he ruled. He thought he'd won tonight. He thought he'd broken her spirit.
But as she touched the cold sapphire on her finger, she didn't see a reminder of his mother's betrayal. She saw a weapon. A symbol she was now forced to wear. A symbol she would learn to wield.
Tom Blackthorn had just made a critical mistake.
He had taught her how he fought. And in doing so, he had shown her where to strike.
Tomorrow, she would play the chastened fiancée. She would be silent, compliant. She would let him think the lesson had taken.
And she would begin, in secret, to learn everything she could about the board, the players, and the king who thought her too insignificant to checkmate him.