It was ten minutes before eight o'clock.

  Camille had rearranged the small writing desk in her chamber twice already, though the effort only highlighted her growing restlessness.

  She attempted to sit still, but that sted scarcely a minute.

  At st, she approached the wardrobe and pulled open its doors, gazing at the array of wraps as if one might somehow ease the quiet coil of unease in her stomach.

  White? No, absolutely not. White was Celeste's domain, a symbol of authority, the crown of the house itself.

  Blue? Too gentle, too eager to reconcile.

  Green? No, that would seem territorial, jealous, far too obvious.

  Red? She released a quiet, humorless breath. Not tonight.

  Her hand finally rested on burgundy—deep, reserved, controlled, neither defiant nor submissive. Acceptable.

  She draped the burgundy wrap around her body, securing it with a single tie at the waist. Nothing beneath it, no jewelry, no added perfume beyond the subtle trace from her shower.

  She gnced at her reflection in the mirror once, then turned away.

  The corridor beyond her chamber y silent.

  Night had fully enveloped the estate, and the mps along the walls spilled long pools of amber light across the polished floor as she made her way down the West Wing.

  Celeste's private chamber awaited her there.

  Celeste never invited anyone into the marital suite she shared with him; that space remained untouched, almost sacred.

  The West Wing chamber served a different purpose altogether—conversations, reflections, or occasionally, judgments.

  Camille reached the door with one minute remaining.

  She paused.

  The hallway clock began to chime, its sound low and resonant.

  One. Two. Three.

  By the fourth gong, an unsettling realization struck her.

  Celeste had not suggested "around eight." She had specified eight o'clock precisely.

  This meant Celeste expected her to arrive and stand at the door before granting entry.

  Five. Six. Seven.

  By the seventh chime, Camille grasped something even more disconcerting.

  She had not come early out of mere politeness, but from some deeper instinct.

  Eight.

  The final note echoed into the corridor and faded.

  Silence enveloped the space once more.

  Camille lifted her hand to knock.

  Before her knuckles could touch the wood, the door swung open.

  Celeste stood before her.

  Ivory silk cascaded from her shoulders in long, clean lines—not quite a robe, not quite a gown, but an elegant fusion of the two. The fabric draped with effortless grace, cinched at the waist by a narrow satin tie. The sleeves flowed loosely, narrowing at her wrists.

  Her hair y brushed smoothly over one shoulder.

  She wore no jewelry except her wedding band.

  She appeared not as one ready for a casual guest, but prepared for a ceremony.

  “Camille.”

  The name emerged calmly.

  Camille swallowed. “Celeste.”

  “Come in.”

  No hesitation, no unnecessary gesture.

  Camille stepped inside the chamber.

  The windows stood slightly ajar, allowing the cool spring air to drift through. In the distance, a fountain murmured softly from the garden below, while the curtains stirred gently in the breeze.

  Two crystal gsses of wine sat already poured on the small table beside a chaise.

  Celeste lifted one and extended it.

  “You’ll want this.”

  Camille took it, her fingers brushing the cool gss.

  She sipped once, then again.

  The wine proved smooth and deep, aged beyond most of her own choices.

  “1978 Chateau Margaux,” Celeste remarked mildly. “It rewards patience.”

  Camille nodded faintly.

  Celeste seated herself—not reclining or lounging, but simply composed.

  “Sit.”

  Camille complied, positioning herself close enough for comfortable conversation, yet not touching.

  For a moment, neither woman spoke.

  The quiet felt intentional.

  Celeste regarded her steadily.

  “You’re afraid of me.”

  Camille stiffened.

  “I’m not.”

  Celeste did not press the denial.

  “You should be,” she said calmly. “Just not for the reason you think.”

  Camille’s fingers tightened subtly around the stem of her gss.

  “You believe tonight is another trial,” Celeste continued. “The Mistress tested your strength.”

  A pause.

  “Marisol unsettled your control.”

  Another beat.

  “And Noa gave you permission to breathe.”

  Camille looked up sharply.

  Celeste had noticed, of course.

  “You think this is simply another version of that,” Celeste said.

  “It isn’t.”

  Camille exhaled slowly.

  “Then what is it?”

  Celeste held her gaze.

  “This house,” she said evenly, “does not belong to the strongest woman in it.”

  The words lingered in the room.

  “It belongs to the one who understands what she is choosing.”

  Camille’s pulse quickened.

  “You were not hunted,” Celeste continued quietly.

  “You were not cornered.”

  “You were not forced.”

  Her voice remained steady.

  “You came.”

  The statement held no accusation, only clear truth.

  Camille shifted slightly.

  “You think I don’t understand that?”

  Celeste tilted her head just a fraction.

  “I think you understand desire.”

  A pause.

  “But you do not yet understand responsibility.”

  The word carried more weight than any judgment.

  Celeste took a measured sip of her wine.

  “I was chosen,” she said calmly. “Not because I was the most dangerous woman here. Not because I was the most beautiful.”

  Her gaze remained unwavering.

  “And not because I was fearless.”

  Camille listened intently.

  “I was chosen,” Celeste continued, “because I understood what the role required.”

  “And what does it require?” Camille asked quietly.

  Celeste’s voice softened, not with affection, but with certainty.

  “To remain steady,” she said.

  A breath.

  “When he is not.”

  The simplicity of the answer bore immense gravity.

  “I did not arrive here by accident,” Celeste went on. “I accepted the role of wife. Of mother. Of the woman who stands beside him when he chooses war.”

  Silence enveloped them briefly.

  “You are not here tonight to compete with me,” Celeste said.

  “You are here because I need to know whether you will strengthen this house…”

  A slight pause.

  “…or fracture it.”

  The words settled deliberately between them.

  Camille became acutely aware of her own breathing.

  “If you are chosen again,” Celeste continued evenly, “will you want to win?”

  A beat.

  “Or will you want to hold?”

  Camille did not respond immediately.

  And that hesitation revealed everything Celeste needed to know.

  Celeste did not smile.

  She merely observed her.

  Patient.

  Measuring.

  The queen of the house had initiated her evaluation.

  And Camille had fully entered it.