"A broom, a bucket, and blankets, Mrs. Dalton," Evelyn repeated, her voice remarkably steady despite the shivering cold settling into her bones. She met the old housekeeper’s eyes with absolute calm. "If I am to occupy the cold wing, I intend to make it mine. I trust that basic sanitation supplies do not violate Mr. Blackwood’s decree?"

The grand study of Blackwood Manor smelled of expensive leather, aged bourbon, and underlying danger. Six men sat around a massive mahogany table, their faces shadowed by the early morning light filter through heavy velvet drapes. At the head of the table sat Adrian Blackwood, looking rested, pristine, and entirely lethal.

When Evelyn walked into the room, conversation stopped dead.

Her appearance was a stark contrast to the opulence around them. Her hair was pulled back simply, her face was devoid of makeup, and her dress—though high-quality— bore the subtle water marks of a long night of manual labor. Yet, she walked in with the calm authority of an empress inspecting her domain.

"You're late," Adrian said smoothly, not offering her a seat.

"I wasn't aware I was invited," Evelyn replied, standing near the fireplace, allowing its warmth to thaw her frozen fingers. "I assumed I was only meant to be displayed when necessary."

A quiet laugh rippled from the side of the table. It came from Dominic Blackwood, Adrian’s ruthless uncle and the head of the family’s distribution network. "The girl has spunk, Adrian. Too bad her father is a incompetent fool who nearly cost us two million dollars on the docks last night."

Adrian’s eyes darkened. "What happened on the docks, Dominic?"

"The federal inspectors seized three crates from Providence," Dominic said, slamming a file onto the table. "Hart’s men screwed up the shipping manifests again. We lost the cargo, and now Customs is crawling all over Pier 4."

Adrian turned his piercing gray gaze onto Evelyn. "Your father’s incompetence continues to burden my family. Perhaps I should send him a reminder of what happens to men who fail me."

Evelyn didn't flinch. She stepped forward, placing her hands on the edge of the polished table, looking directly into her husband’s eyes.

"My father didn't screw up the manifests, Mr. Blackwood," she said clearly.

Dominic sneered. "What would a child like you know about shipping manifests?"

"I know that Pier 4 operates on a revolving shift system managed by your men, Uncle Dominic," Evelyn said, her voice dripping with ice. "I also know that my father’s shipments were cleared through Customs two days ago. If the crates were seized this morning, it means someone inside the Blackwood organization gave Customs a tip-off about a specific container serial number."

The room fell into an uncomfortable, suffocating silence.

Adrian’s gaze sharpened, shifting from Evelyn to his uncle. "Is this true, Dominic?"

"She's lying! She's trying to protect her useless family!" Dominic snarled, rising slightly from his chair.

"Check container 408-B," Evelyn said, not breaking eye contact with Adrian. "If your men actually lost two million dollars, why is the secondary warehouse in South Boston reporting an unexpected inventory spike of equal value this morning? You don't have a shipping problem, Adrian. You have a thief in your inner circle."

Adrian slowly stood up. His presence filled the room, heavy and suffocating. He looked at Evelyn as if seeing her for the first time—not as a burden, not as a helpless bride, but as a dangerous variable he had completely failed to account for.

"Noah," Adrian commanded without looking away from Evelyn. "Send a team to the South Boston secondary warehouse. If container 408-B is there... bring me the keyholder."

Dominic’s jaw tightened, a flash of genuine panic darting across his eyes before he quickly masked it.