Chapter 2 Knives behind the smile

Sleep never came.

By the time morning light spilled through the heavy drapes, Celeste had already showered, dressed, and fixed her face into something unreadable. Her body moved on autopilot, the way it had for years-graceful, precise, practiced. But inside, every nerve was on edge.

She stepped into the hallway, the estate strangely quiet, the kind of quiet that felt planned. She passed rows of oil paintings, marble statues, and floral arrangements that probably cost more than her entire childhood home. None of it impressed her. This house wasn't a home. It was a throne built on bones.

Downstairs, she found Jace already seated at the breakfast table. Black shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, forearms dusted with ink she hadn't noticed before. He looked like the kind of man who'd been born into wealth but never wore it comfortably. His gaze lifted as she entered, sharp and unreadable.

He didn't say good morning. He didn't smile.

She liked that about him.

"I have meetings today," he said, voice low. "My father wants you to visit the tailor in the city. Wedding preparations."

The word wedding sat like lead between them. Neither of them flinched.

Celeste nodded and poured herself a cup of coffee, the silence between them strangely intimate. Jace didn't press her with questions, didn't pretend they were anything more than strangers forced into the same cage.

After a few minutes, he spoke again. "My father doesn't like surprises. He expects obedience."

Celeste stirred her coffee slowly. "Then he shouldn't have chosen me."

That made him pause.

"I don't want to be your enemy," he said, finally.

She looked at him, calm and steady. "Then don't be."

He studied her for a moment, something shifting behind his eyes. It wasn't trust-not yet. But it wasn't indifference anymore either.

By the time she left for the city, escorted by two silent guards in tailored suits, Celeste had memorized the layout of the estate. Three exits. Four cameras. One blind spot near the east wing garden where she'd seen a staff door slightly ajar. She wasn't just planning a marriage.

She was planning a takedown.

As the car pulled out through the wrought iron gates, her reflection in the tinted window stared back with quiet determination.

She would play the obedient bride. Smile when they expected it. Dress in their silk. Drink their wine.

And when the time came, she'd burn it all down from the inside.

Starting with the man who ruined her family.

And maybe, just maybe... saving the one he raised in his image.

The city blurred past in streaks of gray and silver, the kind of clean, glittering skyline built on blood money and backroom deals. Celeste sat in silence, her eyes fixed on the window, but her mind was ten steps ahead-calculating, circling names, dates, habits.

The guards didn't speak. Just watched her through the mirror, stiff and unreadable. They weren't for her protection. They were there to remind her she belonged to the Ryker name now.

She didn't. Not really.

The tailor's shop was hidden in plain sight-discreet, expensive, the kind of place that didn't take walk-ins and never advertised. Inside, the air smelled like cashmere and old power. An older woman with thin spectacles approached her with a warm, practiced smile.

"Miss Monroe. We've been expecting you."

The fitting was swift and clinical. Lace, satin, silks that clung too perfectly. Dresses that belonged in a magazine spread, not on a woman who knew how to hold a knife between her ribs without bleeding.

Celeste posed when asked, turned when told, nodded when necessary. The perfect bride. The perfect Ryker woman.

But while the tailor measured inches, Celeste listened.

To the whispers from the back room. The name "Ryker" muttered like reverence. The hush of security details passed between assistants like state secrets. She caught mention of an upcoming gala-three nights from now. Political guests. International names. High security.

Exactly the kind of event Victor Ryker loved.

Exactly the kind of event she could use.

By the time she returned to the estate, the sun had started to dip behind the trees. Golden light pooled across the marble floors like spilled honey. The house was quieter than usual. Too quiet.

She walked up the steps, heels echoing, and nearly collided with Jace at the top landing. He didn't look surprised to see her.

"How was the city?" he asked, arms crossed.

"Shiny. Hollow."

He almost smiled at that. "You looked like you belonged there."

"I don't," she said. "And neither do you."

Something in his expression darkened, just slightly. But before he could reply, a voice called from the hallway.

"Jace."

Victor.

His presence filled the space like a storm cloud. Hands behind his back, eyes sharp and cold. Celeste straightened, not out of fear-but because that's what he expected. She played her part.

"We'll have a family dinner tonight," he said smoothly. "It's important the two of you are seen. United."

Celeste nodded once. "Of course."

As Victor disappeared down the hall, Jace looked at her. "He's testing you."

"I know."

"Then be careful."

"I always am."

She stepped past him, heart steady. The walls were closing in. The wedding was being planned like a royal event. Her name was being etched in gold.

But they didn't know she was the storm in their house of cards.

And when she brought it all crashing down-she wouldn't flinch.

Dinner felt like a performance.

A long oak table stretched between them, lined with crystal glasses and gold-rimmed plates. Staff moved silently along the edges of the room, serving food that looked more like art than nourishment. Celeste sat to Jace's right, Victor at the head, as if ruling over a kingdom made of glass and secrets.

He watched everything-every glance between her and his son, every pause in conversation, every clink of silverware. Victor Ryker didn't just run an empire. He monitored it.

"I trust the fitting went well," he said, slicing into his lamb with mechanical precision.

Celeste nodded politely. "Your tailor is efficient."

"Of course. We don't tolerate anything less."

Jace sat stiffly beside her, jaw locked, a glass of wine untouched before him. He hadn't said much since Victor arrived, which told her more than words ever could.

Victor's gaze turned to his son. "You'll be accompanying Celeste to the gala."

A statement, not a question.

Jace didn't hesitate. "I know."

Victor smiled, thin and cold. "Good. There are people coming who will need to see this alliance for what it is-unchallenged."

Celeste kept her expression unreadable. Unchallenged. That's what this dinner was. What the wedding would be. A display. A claim.

"Celeste," Victor continued, turning to her, "I assume you understand the weight of your role now. This family requires more than just obedience. It requires loyalty."

She met his eyes, calm. "Loyalty isn't given. It's earned."

A pause. Brief. Tense.

Victor tilted his head slightly. "I look forward to earning yours, then."

It was a lie, of course. He didn't earn anything. He bought it. Controlled it. Forced it.

Dinner ended without fanfare. Jace walked her to the stairs, steps quiet. She could feel the tension in his shoulders, the frustration just beneath the surface.

"Why don't you speak up around him?" she asked quietly.

He looked at her, tired. "Because you don't raise your voice to a man who sees silence as loyalty."

Celeste studied him, the cracks in his armor showing more each day. He wasn't like Victor. Not completely. But he was close enough that she had to remind herself of the goal.

They weren't friends. They were a means to an end.

Still, she hesitated at the top of the stairs. "You should sleep with your door locked."

Jace blinked. "Are you threatening me?"

"No," she said, voice soft but firm. "I'm warning you."

And then she walked away.

Because if he wasn't careful, he might find himself caught between her vengeance-and the father who made her a weapon.

The hallway felt colder as she walked away, the silence pressing in like a second skin. The Ryker estate didn't just hum with secrets-it suffocated with them. Every mirror was a mouth. Every wall had ears.

In her room, Celeste shed the dress like armor. She stared at herself in the mirror-painted lips, eyes lined like daggers, skin flawless and lying. She didn't look like a girl who'd lost everything. She looked like a woman who knew how to take it back.

And she would.

She opened the drawer under the antique vanity and reached for the folded paper hidden beneath the velvet lining. A list. Ten names. One was already crossed out.

Each belonged to a man who had played a part in her family's fall.

Each would answer for what they did.

A knock interrupted her thoughts. Not loud. Careful. Measured.

She opened the door a fraction-just enough to see Jace. He stood with one hand on the frame, the other in his pocket, eyes darker than she remembered them.

"I'm not here to fight," he said quietly.

"Then why are you here?"

"To understand."

She raised a brow. "Understand what?"

"You," he said. "You walk like you're waiting for a war. You smile like it's a knife trick. And you look at my father like you already know how he dies."

Celeste held his gaze for a long moment.

"I'm not your enemy," he added.

"No," she said. "But you're his son."

That truth hung in the air, heavy and unmoving.

Jace didn't deny it. He just nodded once, slowly, and stepped back. "Goodnight, Celeste."

She closed the door, the click of the latch sounding louder than it should have.

She didn't trust him. Not yet. But he'd seen something. And that was dangerous.

The game was shifting.

And if Jace was starting to guess her intentions, then she'd need to move faster. Strike harder. Hide deeper.

Because if he saw too much too soon...

He might not live long enough to pick a side.

The hallway felt colder as she walked away, the silence pressing in like a second skin. The Ryker estate didn't just hum with secrets-it suffocated with them. Every mirror was a mouth. Every wall had ears.

In her room, Celeste shed the dress like armor. She stared at herself in the mirror-painted lips, eyes lined like daggers, skin flawless and lying. She didn't look like a girl who'd lost everything. She looked like a woman who knew how to take it back.

And she would.

She opened the drawer under the antique vanity and reached for the folded paper hidden beneath the velvet lining. A list. Ten names. One was already crossed out.

Each belonged to a man who had played a part in her family's fall.

Each would answer for what they did.

A knock interrupted her thoughts. Not loud. Careful. Measured.

She opened the door a fraction-just enough to see Jace. He stood with one hand on the frame, the other in his pocket, eyes darker than she remembered them.

"I'm not here to fight," he said quietly.

"Then why are you here?"

"To understand."

She raised a brow. "Understand what?"

"You," he said. "You walk like you're waiting for a war. You smile like it's a knife trick. And you look at my father like you already know how he dies."

Celeste held his gaze for a long moment.

"I'm not your enemy," he added.

"No," she said. "But you're his son."

That truth hung in the air, heavy and unmoving.

Jace didn't deny it. He just nodded once, slowly, and stepped back. "Goodnight, Celeste."

She closed the door, the click of the latch sounding louder than it should have.

She didn't trust him. Not yet. But he'd seen something. And that was dangerous.

The game was shifting.

And if Jace was starting to guess her intentions, then she'd need to move faster. Strike harder. Hide deeper.

Because if he saw too much too soon...

He might not live long enough to pick a side.