Chapter 3 The Debt That Made Her Mine

ZAYDEN's POV:

Zayden Knight didn't believe in fate.

Fate was for the weak. For dreamers. For those who clung to hope because they had nothing else.

He didn't cling. He conquered.

That's why he married Seraphina Blake.

Not because he wanted a wife. Not because he cared for love, or vows, or fairy tales.

But because it was the most effective way to destroy the family that had once tried to destroy his.

He stood on the balcony of his penthouse, the skyline glittering beneath him. The city belonged to him now. Or it would soon enough. The marriage was just one move on a board he'd been playing for years.

Behind him, a gentle hum came from the ice swirling in his whiskey glass. He took another sip, slow, controlled.

His phone buzzed on the table.

A message from his assistant:

"She's awake. Ate breakfast. Spent thirty minutes in the library."

Zayden didn't react.

He'd installed cameras in the main hallways. Not to monitor her every move, but to keep tabs. Seraphina was too clever to be underestimated, and too sheltered not to be curious.

She'd find out eventually.

He just hoped she wouldn't break too quickly.

Four years ago, his family had been on the edge of legacy. Knight Enterprises was expanding globally. A partnership with the Blakes-a merger-was meant to lock them in as one of the most powerful dynasties on the East Coast.

And then Arthur Blake, Seraphina's father, had pulled the plug.

Not quietly. Not professionally. But publicly-and cruelly.

He leaked insider plans. Accused Zayden's uncle of cooking books. Triggered an investigation that ruined their IPO launch and cost them

Zayden still remembered that week vividly.

His uncle had collapsed under pressure and died of a heart attack.

His mother had been harassed in public.

He had watched everything he'd built collapse while the Blakes toasted champagne at galas.

And Seraphina?

She'd smiled on red carpets. Worn designer gowns. Spoken about charity work with that soft, untouched voice.

He had hated her for that.

He hadn't known her then-not really. But she became the symbol of everything he lost. Everything he vowed to take back.

So when Arthur Blake reached out years later, seeking "unity" through marriage to restore his image?

Zayden said yes.

Not because he forgave.

But because the perfect way to dismantle an empire was from the inside.

He turned from the balcony and walked back into the apartment-sleek, cold, minimalist. His world. No portraits. No warmth. No mess.

Unlike the mansion.

The estate was for show. For family dinners. For the occasional press appearance or curated holiday photo.

But it wasn't home.

Home was here. Where he controlled everything.

Still, a flicker of something crept into his chest. Guilt? Restlessness?

His phone buzzed again. This time it was his mother.

Genevieve: She's more fragile than I thought. You sure about this?

Zayden stared at the screen.

She's not her father, Genevieve had said once.

But that didn't matter. She carried his name. His blood. His silence.

That made her guilty enough.

He silenced the phone and moved to his desk. A file sat waiting-one he'd read a hundred times. Seraphina Blake's life in tidy lines: private schools, ballet lessons, debutante balls, social events, charity work.

No scandals. No boyfriends. No rebellion. Just silence.

It was almost suspicious. But maybe she really was that protected.

Or that naïve.

He picked up one of the photos - Seraphina at twenty-three, standing beside her father at a gala. She looked like porcelain. Composed, polite, picture-perfect. A puppet in her father's hands.

He hated that part of him wondered... Was she ever free?

By midnight, Zayden returned to the estate.

The driver pulled through the wrought iron gates without question. The mansion was quiet. Only a few lights glowed near the second floor.

He didn't announce his return. Didn't make a sound.

Instead, he moved down the hallway toward the bridal suite. Her door was closed, but a sliver of golden light glowed from beneath it.

He paused outside.

For a long time, he stood there.

Listening.

There was no movement. No voices. Just silence.

He imagined her inside, curled up in bed, maybe still in that ridiculous silk robe she wore like armor.

Had she cried?

Had she slept?

Did she wonder if he would come back?

Part of him wanted to open the door. To see her face. To remind her this wasn't a dream-it was war. One she'd already lost the moment she said "I do."

But he didn't.

Instead, he placed a folded envelope on the floor beneath the door. Inside it was a note-his handwriting sharp and emotionless.

"You'll be expected at the gala this Friday. Wear something red."

-Z

Then he walked away.

Not because he was cold.

But because he couldn't afford not to be.