Chapter 3 The First Night

Mona stood before the full-length mirror, the warm tones of her palatial bedroom wrapping around her like a luxurious embrace. Nudes and beiges flowed through the room soft velvet curtains, plush carpets, and ornate crown moldings. Her jade green Valentino gown hugged her slender frame perfectly, the silk pooling around her ankles. Gold jewelry glimmered against her skin delicate but expensive, whispering wealth rather than shouting it. She took a final breath and turned.

Dinner awaited.

Downstairs, the estate's dining room gleamed with soft lighting, glass, and gold. The long polished table was already set, rose-gold flatware and crystal goblets sparkling like a crown jewel. Beta John Hobbs and his wife, Lisa, were already seated, laughing with Gamma George Leroy and his stylish wife, Angie. All of them were young, elegant, and newly Married just like Alex. They had all risen in rank together when Alex took power. The previous generation had quietly stepped down after his father's mysterious resignation.

Mona descended the grand staircase gracefully, and conversation paused. All eyes turned. She smiled politely as Alex stood and pulled out her seat.

"You look stunning," he said, his voice low and smooth.

She nodded. "Thank you."

The wives leaned in, eyes gleaming. Lisa Hobbs had glossy auburn curls and wore a bold one-shoulder dress in coral. Angie Leroy had a pixie cut and sported something sleek and black. Both were stylish, vibrant.

"We were just talking about Upper East Manhattan," Lisa said, eyes twinkling. "Did you live close to that art gallery on 75th?"

Mona tilted her head. "I used to."

"Oh my god!" Angie leaned in. "They've been showcasing those minimalist emotion-pieces, you know? The ones signed only M.S.?"

Mona's lips curved. "Yes. I've heard of her."

"She's brilliant," Lisa added, sipping her wine. "I stood in front of one of her pieces for ten minutes. It felt like the painting knew I was grieving. I actually cried."

Mona smiled gently. "Art does that."

As the meal progressed, the conversation flowed fashion week in Paris, the revival of grand opera, the newest AI concierge bots in Manhattan's luxury towers. Alex spoke sparingly but listened. The men occasionally dipped into politics and trade. But the women? They pulled Mona in. She was surprised at how much she enjoyed their company.

"You're incredibly well-spoken," Angie said at one point, her brows raised. "What did you study?"

"Liberal arts. Philosophy. Some art history," Mona replied. "I went to school in the city. Graduated early."

Lisa beamed. "A smart woman with taste. Alex, you married up."

Alex gave a small, unreadable smile and refilled Mona's glass with sparkling water. "She's always been exceptional."

By the end of the meal, Mona had bonded with the women more than she thought possible. When she excused herself, they came with her.

"We want to see your room," Angie said, bouncing on her heels.

Her suite was breathtaking high ceilings, silk curtains, gilded trim, and a private balcony. The bed, massive and draped in layers of cream and blush, sat under a glittering chandelier. The girls gasped.

"It's like every Princess Dream Room," Lisa whispered.

They gossiped a little light, harmless things. Angie teased Mona about her dress. Lisa asked about her skincare. It was easy, safe. After hugs and laughter, they left her alone.

She sat on the edge of the bed and pulled out her phone. Stacy answered first.

"Monieee! So? Is he gorgeous in the sheets or just on paper?"

Donna popped in next, both voices teasing.

Mona blushed. "Stop it. It's just the first night."

"Exactly why we're asking!" Donna laughed. "Come on. Did he carry you over the threshold?"

"No," Mona said softly, smiling. "But the house is beautiful. And... I don't know yet. He's been kind."

After some gentle teasing, love, and laughter, they let her go.

The maids came in like clockwork. Two older women, clearly trained in high-end pampering, gently ushered her into the luxurious bathroom. It was exactly how she had requested: a full Moroccan hammam ritual. A tradition passed to her by a Moroccan nanny when she was younger she had always loved it.

Steam rose like mist.

Scents of orange blossom, eucalyptus, and spice filled the air.

They scrubbed her skin with black soap and clay, careful and reverent. She felt layers of her old life peel away. Then the incense burnt Rosebuds and a hint of lemon with a dash of Ylang Ylang and the Scented candles, casting flickering shadows on the marble walls. When she emerged, she was soft, glowing, and perfumed.

They massaged her in her favorite pheromone oil rich, musky, sensual and dressed her in a whisper-soft white negligee beneath a silk robe. When they left, she slipped into bed, hair still damp, and switched on Bridgerton.

She laughed and cried at once, watching a whirlwind ballroom scene unfold. It was extravagant and ridiculous and made her ache for something real.

The door clicked.

She turned.

Alex stood in the doorway. His shirt was off, pants hanging low on his hips. His expression was unreadable. The room smelled of incense, roses, and the faintest edge of sandalwood cologne.

He approached the bed, slowly. "How are you doing?"

"I'm fine," she said gently. "Just watching a bit of something."

"You look beautiful," he said, eyes scanning her. "May I?"

She swallowed. "Yes, you may."

He leaned over, took the remote, and turned the TV off. Then he dimmed the lights.

It wasn't rough.

It wasn't cruel.

But it was quick.

He kissed her gently, asked no questions, and took what he came for. No foreplay. No warmth. No emotion. She stared at the canopy the whole time, trying to match his rhythm to something poetic, something kind.

It ended in five minutes.

He stood, went to the bathroom. The sound of running water. He returned in slacks and a black shirt, hair slightly damp.

"I have some work to finish," he said, kissing her forehead. "Rest well."

The door clicked again.

Mona lay still.

She waited five minutes, then went into the bathroom herself. She washed, changed, and came back out to clean the bed. The silk sheets were cool beneath her fingers. She remade it carefully. Then slipped in alone.

The chandelier above sparkled faintly in the darkness.

Her fingers rested on her stomach. Her chest felt empty.

She blinked at the ceiling, willing herself not to cry again.

Not yet.

Unbeknownst to her, Alex hadn't gone back to work.

He had faked the orgasm.

He hadn't come for her he came to fulfill obligation, to keep up appearances. The moment he left her room, he went straight to the first floor. To the hidden wing that had been locked to everyone else. To the woman who was, in truth, his mate. The dark witch he had always belonged to. Nicci.

That was where he went.

To finish what he had started.

To finish with the woman he truly desired.

Mona, wrapped in silk and silence, had no idea. Not yet. But soon, she would find out. And soon...

The nightmare would begin.