The first confirmation of my influence arrived on a quiet afternoon—dressed, as all delicious scandals are, in silk and gasps.

I had been expecting it, watching for signs that the rumor I had planted was beginning to spread. But even so, hearing it spoken so openly, so confidently, in the heart of the capital was a satisfaction I hadn't anticipated.

Two noblewomen sat beneath the shade of a flowering trellis in one of the city’s quieter gardens, sipping afternoon tea, their voices hushed but eager.

"I heard Lady Norville’s been busy," one of them murmured, tapping a delicate silver spoon against the rim of her cup.

The other woman leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. "Yes! A threesome with the stable boy and the footman? Do you think it’s true? Poorly chosen decision if it is."

I clinked my spoon once against the porcelain, as if bored. Poorly chosen? Gods, nobles were masters of understating the facts with devastating elegance.

It was a careful, indirect phrasing, the kind nobles used when they didn’t want to be accused of outright slander.

But I had been the one to place that whisper in the right ears, and I knew the weight those words carried.

Brynda’s reputation was still solid, but in noble society, truth often took a backseat to perception, which in turn was often overshadowed by gossip. The moment doubt took root, it spread like ivy through the cracks of even the most powerful households.

And the doubt had begun. Not that Brynda knew that yet.

Later, my second win of the day came stitched in silk, attitude, and just the faintest whiff of lemon verbena—courtesy of Madame Celeste.

Brynda strutted into Madame Celeste’s like it was a coronation, not a boutique—entitlement wafting off her stronger than her perfume.

If ego were a scent, hers would have cleared the room.

And she had been denied.

The rejection had not been about money. It had been about influence.

Madame Celeste was no fool. She knew who dictated what, which businesses thrived, and which quietly withered away. And she had chosen her allegiance wisely.

As the most sought-after dressmaker, Madame Celeste had orders lined up for months.

And, as expected, Brynda Norville marched haughtily into her boutique, expecting special treatment.

"I require a gown made with the finest fabrics for a ball," Brynda declared, dripping in gold and lace. "Naturally, my order should take priority."

She said it the way one might order a servant to drown themselves—utterly confident it would be done with a curtsy.

Madame Celeste didn’t even glance up. Her assistants, all sharp shoulders and sharper scissors, followed suit with almost choreographed indifference.

"I am fully booked," she said flatly.

Brynda blinked. "I am Marchioness Norville."

"And I am still fully booked."

Brynda’s face twisted in disbelief, then outrage. "You dare deny me?"

Before Madame Celeste could respond, Lorran Norville walked into the shop.

"What’s wrong?" he asked, eyes darting to Brynda once he noticed frowns all around.

She turned on him immediately. "She won’t make me a gown!"

Lorran frowned. "Perhaps if we offer her more coin—"

Madame Celeste laughed. "There is no price that will make me betray my clients."

Celeste’s assistants nodded solemnly, like priestesses guarding sacred cloth.

Lorran stiffened. He was used to getting his way.

But Madame Celeste was unmoved.

"I don’t think we have anything for you," she said coolly. “You’re obviously in the wrong place. Please leave.”

Brynda’s face turned a deep shade of red. “Big mistake. " She snapped, already halfway to her next tantrum. “Huge!”

"I’m shaking in my boots," Madame Celeste said, rolling her eyes.

Hidden in the back room, I peeked through a sliver of the door, savoring every glorious second like it was the last slice of chocolate tarte and Brynda was prowling the dessert table with her eye on it.

I had to bite my knuckle to keep from laughing. Celeste really was a gem.

With a huff, Brynda stormed out, dragging Lorran with her.

One of Celeste’s assistants whispered nervously, “Madame, what if the Norville’s retaliate? They still have teeth!”

Madame Celeste turned and smirked slightly. “I’d sooner dress a goat than let that woman stain my silk.”

I was already imagining Brynda’s face when the gossip reached her.

Let her throw another tantrum.

I had better things waiting.

By the time I returned to the cottage, the sun was low—and, as if summoned by my mood, Evan was already there.

He let himself in—again—like knocking was beneath him, like my door belonged to him too.

"You ever heard of knocking?" I said, not bothering to look up from my quill and parchment.

He shrugged, already halfway to the chair across from me. “I could. But then I’d miss the look on your pretty face.”

I sighed, finally looking up, and immediately regretted it. Gods, he was handsome. All dark coat and untamed energy, like a thunderstorm pretending to behave. “What now, Evan?”

His eyes scanned the chaos on my table—merchant records, supply routes, backdoor contracts. All proof that the girl he once knew was long gone.

"You’re getting bolder," he said, dropping into the chair like he owned it—and maybe, just a little, like he owned me.

I arched a brow. "Is that a compliment or a warning?"

He leaned back, studying me. “Both,” he said, and that smile—lazy, dangerous—did terrible things to my pulse.

I continued to scribble notes on the parchment in front of me, trying to ignore the way he watched me so intently.

"You disapprove?" I asked.

I said it like a dare, but part of me wanted him to say yes, just so I could argue.

“Not at all,” he said. “But you’re not just a myth anymore, Cassandra. You’re becoming the axis the wheel turns on. How much longer do you think you can hide?”

I met his gaze, unflinching. "As long as necessary."

It was a lie, and we both knew it. The more they whispered my name, the harder it became to stay in the dark.

He smirked. "You don’t believe that."

I tilted my head slightly. "And what do you think I believe?"

Something shifted in his eyes, something quiet and dangerous, like a question he hadn’t decided whether to ask.

"I think you like this," he said, voice dipping low. “Not just the power. The attention. The way it makes you feel.”

The words hung between us, neither a challenge nor a judgment.

The quill slowed in my hand. "Would that be a problem?"

I kept my voice even, but he had struck something raw. Something I hadn’t named yet.

His smirk deepened, but there was something sharper behind it.

"Not for me," he said, almost too softly. “But one day, you’ll have to stop pretending you don’t love the way they talk about you.”

I set the quill down and met his eyes. “And what about you, Evan? You move pieces better than anyone. Are you really going to stand there and pretend you're not thrilled every time the board shifts?”

His lips parted slightly, then shut. Like he wasn’t sure which mask to wear with me.

A rare moment of silence.

Then he leaned in, slow and deliberate, until there was nothing left between us but a breath and a dare.

"Enjoyment," he said slowly, "isn’t the same as purpose."

For a second, I didn’t know if he was warning me or confessing something he hadn’t meant to say aloud.

The space between us crackled—like a lightning bolt we both kept brushing, too stubborn to pull away and too afraid to grab hold.

My breath caught, unbidden. I hated how close he always got—close enough to ruin me, never close enough to catch me.

He was watching me again. Not just watching—devouring. Like he was memorizing something he didn’t think he’d be allowed to keep.

I exhaled, slower than I wanted to. “If you’re going to fish for a reaction, you’ll need sharper hooks.”

He didn’t smile. Not fully. “You’re more dangerous than you think.”

Evan stepped back, not because he wanted to, but because he had to.

I could feel it. The restraint in his movements, the quiet war he was fighting between caution and something else entirely.

“I’ll be back,” he said, his voice quieter now.

Not a promise. A warning.

I stood in the doorway long after he’d gone, fingers still curled from where they’d gripped the edge of the table.

He didn’t kiss me. He didn’t touch me.

He didn’t have to.

There was a fire in me now, and it had his name on it.