Chapter 6 Malcolm's POV

Aiden's office always looked like it was carved out of shadow, with sleek obsidian walls, minimalist décor, and just enough sharp corners to remind you who you were dealing with.

The air reeked of aged whiskey and Cuban tobacco, laced with that ever-present tension that came with empire-building.

I wasn't here for leisure. I was here to talk business. Real business. Not just the numbers or territory talks, but the next House Sitting.

The gathering where heirs were either crowned or crushed. Two weeks from now, it would all begin.

Aiden stood near the monitors, arms crossed, his eyes scanning the security footage with military precision. He didn't speak. He rarely did until it mattered.

I dropped into the black leather chair across from him, the kind that swallowed you whole if you didn't sit with confidence.

My boots were still muddy from the docks, but I propped them up anyway.

The door swung open like it was kicked. Matteo walked in first, twirling one of his knives like he was flirting with death.

Yves followed, dressed like sin in silk and arrogance, heading straight for the bar like he owned it.

"Really, Yves?" Aiden muttered without turning. "You gonna drain my liquor every time you visit?"

Yves grinned. "It's called hospitality, brother. You should try it sometime."

Matteo dropped beside me, knife still dancing between his fingers like it had something to say. "You're early, Slade. Didn't expect you until after your honeymoon phase."

I didn't flinch. "Didn't expect you to still be alive after last week's stunt."

He smirked. "Touché."

Aiden finally turned, arms still crossed. "Two weeks, gentlemen. Then the House Sitting begins. The moment we separate kings from pawns."

"We know who's wearing the crown," Yves said, eyes flicking toward me.

I didn't smile. "Let's not get sentimental. House Sitting has no room for assumptions."

Aiden narrowed his eyes. "And you expect to tell me marrying a girl no one knew was a sound move? Under these conditions?"

"She's not part of the game," I said, voice low. "She's the distraction the board needed."

"Distraction or liability?" Matteo asked. "You sure she won't crumble when the wolves start circling?"

"She signed the contract yesterday. Nicholas is picking her up now. She'll be in the house by noon."

Yves raised an amused brow. "She agreed? Just like that?"

"Ten million buys silence, obedience... and the illusion of love," I replied.

"Must be nice," Matteo said, flipping the knife into his palm. "To have someone pretend to love you for a paycheck."

I didn't respond. Because the truth was, it wasn't nice. It was clean. And clean was all I could afford.

Aiden shifted, gaze slicing through me like a scalpel. "Pretending's the easy part, Malcolm. But the second this starts feeling real, for you or her, that's when you lose your edge."

"I won't," I said flatly.

"And if she does?" Yves asked, cradling his glass of whiskey.

"She'll remember why she signed."

A beat of silence stretched between us, broken only by the hum of the surveillance monitors. Outside the window, the city glittered, indifferent, brutal, beautiful. Just like this life.

"Just be careful," Aiden said, tossing a file onto the table in front of me. "The South's been too quiet. That silence? It's not peace. It's preparation."

I flipped open the file. Photos. Bank transfers. Meetings held in shadows. Everything screamed one thing: the South was moving, and they weren't moving alone.

"They're recruiting inside our walls," Aiden continued. "Bribing soldiers, turning informants. If Iris becomes collateral damage, they'll use it to crush you."

I clenched my jaw. "Then they'll regret it."

Yves smirked. "This is going to be fun. Watching you play house while the South burns."

"It won't be play for long," I said. "The House Sitting will expose everything. Every traitor. Every move. Every mask."

Matteo's smirk turned cruel. "Then let's make sure we're the ones holding the lighter when the fire starts."

I stood, file in hand, already picturing Iris stepping into my world, one carefully rehearsed lie at a time.

Let the game begin.

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The house had never felt this loud in its silence.

I'd lived in quiet my whole life, wrapped myself in it like armor, sharpened it into a weapon. But today, it clung to me differently. It had teeth. It gnawed at the edges of my calm.

I leaned against the tall windows of my study, fingers in pockets, looking out at the gate. The tinted glass muted the world outside to a black-and-white painting.

A storm was gathering, low clouds, heavy sky. Fitting.

Nicholas had called. Ten minutes.

I told myself it did not matter. Iris entering was procedural, like moving a knight on the board to entice a king.

It was something that could be anticipated. Something that could be calculated. But beneath all of that logic, I could not help but believe that something fundamental was going to change.

Not because of her, I told myself.

Because of what this move meant.

Nicholas had left at dawn. Always the professional. To the core, dedicated. If anyone could introduce someone like Iris to this world without destroying it on impact, fragmenting her soul, then it was him.

She packed light. Two suitcases. That realization hung on me. Not because I was expecting more, but because I knew... she didn't have more.

No excess baggage. No attachments. No clutter. No roots.

And she had no idea what she was walking into.

The buzzer rang. Right on time.

I didn't move at first. In the ground-floor hallway, the staff was already mobilizing, doors opening and shutting, coats being slipped off, and trunks being pulled in. Fast, slick, clinical.

Through the glass, I watched the black SUV glide up the driveway, gleaming like a shadow with wheels. Nicholas stepped out, calm as ever, and circled to the rear door.

And then she stepped out.

Even from upstairs, I could sense it. That slight shift in the mood. As if the house sighed after holding its breath too long.

She was wearing black. Not the kind meant to blend in but the kind that required bravery to be seen, thin, subtle, with a contained kind of resolve.

Her hair was pulled back. No adornments. No guarding. Just her and whatever little bit was left of pride.

She didn't belong here. And yet, something about the way she stood there, head held high, back straight, I couldn't help but think maybe the house had just been waiting for her.

I turned away before she looked up. Couldn't let her catch me watching. Couldn't risk what might flash across her face when our eyes met, fear, resentment, uncertainty.

Or worse... trust. This wasn't a game of hearts. This was a game of optics. Leverage. Survival.

The long game. And yet, somehow, I found myself at the top of the grand staircase, waiting.

Footsteps echoed. Nicholas's first. Measured. Then hers, a beat behind. Lighter. Hesitant.

She stepped into the foyer like she was walking onto a stage. The marble gleamed beneath her shoes, the chandelier above catching in her eyes like stars held hostage.

Everything about this place screamed, Look how small you are, but she didn't shrink.

Her fingers curled tighter around the handle of her suitcase.

"You really live here?" she asked Nicholas, voice soft but steady.

He gave her a half-smile. "Welcome to the jungle, Iris."

Then he nodded toward me.

She looked up. Our eyes locked.

Time didn't stop, not really. But the house did. It held its breath again.

She didn't smile. Neither did I. But something passed between us, recognition, maybe. A silent understanding that nothing of this was right, and yet... we were already too deep.

The silence wasn't so deafening anymore. It had been replaced by something else.

Something dangerous. Something alive.