Chapter 8 Malcolm's POV

The clock ticked like a loaded gun.

Slow. Loud. Measured.

Each second a whisper that the storm was getting closer.

I sat in my office, the only part of this house that still felt like mine. No marble. No mirrors. Just wood, leather, and silence. The kind of silence you could control.

Books lined the walls, worn spines and dog-eared pages, remnants of a time when I believed knowledge was enough to build an empire.

Now I knew better. Empires weren't built. They were taken.

A half-empty glass of bourbon sat untouched on the desk, the ice long melted.

My phone buzzed. Just once.

The screen lit up with a single name. Father.

I answered on the third ring, not because I hesitated but because I wanted him to know I wasn't in a rush to hear his voice.

"Malcolm."

Rough silk and gravel, the kind of voice that made people stand straighter without realizing it.

"Father." I leaned back, eyes on the unlit fireplace. I'd once tried to make this room warmer. It hadn't taken.

He didn't bother with greetings. He never did.

"The House Sitting's in two weeks. Are you ready?"

"I've been ready," I said, my tone steady. "It's everyone else I'm worried about."

A low chuckle, hollow as an empty vault. "You sound like me."

"I sound like someone who knows what's at stake."

A pause. A shift. The air between us went razor-sharp.

"Do you?" he asked, and just like that, the air thickened. "Because you bringing in a woman as your wife at this stage? That's a gamble."

I didn't flinch. "It was a calculated decision."

"It was stupid," he snapped. "You could've married Maria Sloane. She came from war money and obedience. Iris Taylor? She comes from nothing but broken dreams and pretty defiance."

"She's more than that," I said, and I hated how fast the words came out.

He stilled. I could feel it through the phone.

I didn't answer.

His voice dropped, colder now. "Don't confuse usefulness with affection. You're not a boy anymore.

The moment you get soft, the vultures will smell it. Love makes men sentimental. And sentiment is the first cut."

"I don't do love," I said, clipped. "You made sure of that."

"Good," he clipped. "Then make sure she understands the rules. She's not here to feel safe. She's here to make you look untouchable.

If she fails at that, she becomes a liability. And you know what we do with liabilities."

"I won't need reminders," I said. "And she won't fail."

There was a rustling sound on his end,papers shifting, maybe a lighter flicking. He was always doing something else while speaking, like people were just white noise beneath the weight of his agenda.

"She's beautiful," he said eventually, like he was stating the quality of a knife he'd yet to use. "But beauty dulls. Power doesn't."

I didn't respond. Because deep down, I hated how easily he reduced her.

But deeper still? I knew he wasn't entirely wrong. In our world, softness came with a price.

"I'll see you at the House Sitting," he said, voice already moving on. "And Malcolm... keep your so-called wife close. But not too close. Trust is currency, but suspicion is survival."

The line went dead.

I set the phone down slowly, gaze drifting toward the hallway beyond my office door.

My gaze drifted to the hallway. Somewhere beyond it, Iris was moving through this house. Breathing in its silence. Learning its shape.

Maybe she thought the walls were the prison. She hadn't realized it yet.

The real cage was me.

I stepped out of my office with my father's words lingering within my mind like shrapnel.

His words trailed after me, heavy and metallic, echoing off the marble with every step I made.

The house had become dark. Not only in light but in presence, like it was holding its breath.

But I knew she still lingered.

I could feel her. I always could.

I found her in the library.

Tucked into the corner chair, barefoot and cross-legged, like the world hadn't taught her yet how dangerous stillness could be.

A book rested in her lap, spine cracked, edges worn. Something old. Something that had survived long before us.

"You found the best room in the house," I said, voice low.

She glanced up without flinching. "Figured I'd try the one room that didn't feel like it had eyes."

There was a flicker of something like humor in her tone, but it didn't reach her eyes.

I didn't smile, but the sharp edge inside me dulled a notch.

"We're leaving in an hour," I said.

She blinked once, slow. "Now?"

I looked at my watch. "You'll have time to prepare."

"Where?" She asked, already straightening in her seat, spine lengthening with quiet alertness.

I let the pause stretch, just long enough for the question to shift from curiosity to calculation.

"A meeting," I said. "With the other heirs."

That made her freeze.

"Tonight?" she asked, voice flatter now. "What other heirs?"

"You're my wife. You go where I go. And you'll meet them tonight."

She set the book down carefully. "Do they know I'm coming?"

"They'll find out when you walk in."

She gave a dry, humorless laugh. "You want me to walk into a room full of men I don't know and convince them this marriage is real?"

I stepped closer, just enough to bring her into the same breath. "I want you to walk in there and own the room like it already belongs to you."

"And if it doesn't?"

"Make them believe it does."

She tilted her head slightly. "You always this good at selling illusions?"

I didn't smile. "Only when the stakes are high."

"And what are the stakes tonight?" she asked.

"The future," I said. "Mine. Yours. Ours. This marriage isn't just a distraction anymore. Not to them. They'll be watching every move we make."

Her gaze held mine, and I could see the calculations spinning behind her eyes. Not fear. Just strategy.

"Fine," she said. "I'll play your wife."

I nodded once. "And I'll play your husband."

I turned to leave, then paused at the doorway, my hand on the frame.

"Wear something that'll make them forget why they doubted you in the first place," I said without looking back. "And Iris?"

She glanced up.

"Don't just blend in," I added. "Make them remember you."

And then I left her alone in the quiet again.

But this time, the silence didn't feel so still.

The car felt too damn small for the way she looked tonight.

She slid in beside me in a black dress that didn't ask for attention, it commanded it. No sequins. No glitter.

Just sharp lines and a neckline that looked like a dare. It was the kind of dress that didn't flirt with danger. It was danger. Polished. Precise. Lethal in silence.

She didn't dress like someone playing the part.

She dressed like someone who was the part and knew it.

My eyes dragged over her, too long, too slow. The sweep of her hair, the unapologetic arch of her collarbone, the way the fabric kissed her curves like it had been tailored by sin itself.

"You're staring," she said, her voice low, almost bored. She didn't look at me. She didn't need to.

"Trying to decide if I should warn them," I said.

She smirked. "Too late for that."

I leaned back in the seat, watching the city roll by through the tinted windows. The farther we drove, the darker the streets got.

We weren't headed downtown, not tonight. We were headed to neutral territory, the kind picked for its silence and seclusion.

A place where no one overheard the kinds of things we were about to say.

"They'll be watching you," I said. "All of them. So you should know who they are."

She nodded once. "Tell me."

"Aiden-heir to the Wellington trade lines. Imports, exports, weapons, blood diamonds if you dig deep enough. He'll flirt. Don't let it throw you. He's dangerous and ruthless."

She flinched at my words but masked it quickly.

"Yves will be there too," I went on. "Heir to the Iverson fortune. Runs most of Europe's shadow tech, surveillance, sabotage, cyberweapons. He talks like a poet. Lies like a politician."

"Noted."

"Hayden Sawyer," I added after a pause. "The youngest of us. Quietest too. People mistake that for innocence.

It's not. He's the kind you never hear coming until it's already too late. He doesn't play games. He erases them."

She blinked, slowly.

"And Matteo..." My jaw tightened before I said the name. "He's the oldest of us. The sharpest. Thinks like a CEO, moves like a wolf.

He thinks like war disguised in a business suit. You won't notice him cutting you until you've already bled.

He won't challenge you outright. He'll make you reveal yourself."

"How?"

"By pretending not to."

She exhaled slowly, like she was storing the information somewhere deep and precise.

"And you?" she asked, eyes flicking toward mine. "What kind of heir are you, Malcolm?"

I didn't answer.

The question wasn't innocent. It was scalpel-sharp, and she'd meant for me to feel it.

"Do you trust them?" She asked.

"With my life. To the world, we're rivals," I said. "But the five of us were all forged in the same fire.

Raised on blood and silence and obligation. We know each other's scars even if we don't speak of them."

She nodded, eyes fixed ahead.

"They won't greet you," I said. "They'll assess you. Strip you down with their eyes and their silence. They'll measure your every word like it's currency."

"They'll ask questions without asking them," I added. "They'll look for cracks and weaknesses to test you. You need to prove you can stand your ground to them."

"I can do that."

I looked over at her again, slower this time.

"You look dangerous tonight."

She turned to face me now, lips parting slightly as if to respond but she didn't. Instead, she just held my gaze, quiet and steady.

And for a second, I forgot about the meeting. About the stakes. About everything except the fact that she wasn't just playing a role anymore.

She was starting to become it. And maybe... so was I.

The car slowed, the soft growl of the engine fading as we pulled up to the penthouse.

Black glass. No logos. No lights. A structure made for secrets.

Lewis, my driver, didn't speak. He didn't need to.

We'd arrived.

It's showtime.