"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?"

By the third week of her exile in the north wing, Evelyn had turned the forgotten servant’s quarters into a command hub.

She hadn't asked for luxury. She had asked for wood for the fireplace, a lantern, and access to the manor’s library. Adrian had granted the wood and the lantern, likely believing she would give up and beg to be moved to a primary bedroom. He had refused access to the main library, but Evelyn didn't care—Noah, the young guard whose younger sister Evelyn had helped secure medical aid for through her Providence contacts, had quietly begun bringing her the documents she actually needed.

Ledgers. Waybills. Financial statements.

While Adrian ran the violent front lines of the Blackwood empire, Evelyn sat in the freezing north wing, mapping out the silent corruption rotting his family from within.

Late one evening, the heavy oak door of her room swung open without a knock.

Adrian stood in the doorway, framed by the dim light of the hallway. He wore a long dark coat, snow dusting his shoulders, and the faint smell of copper and gunpowder clinging to him. He walked into the room, his eyes scanning the space.

The room was no longer a bleak dungeon. Evelyn had mended the old curtains, polished the wood, and kept a small, efficient fire crackling in the hearth. The iron bed was neatly made, and the desk was stacked with organized papers.

"You haven't complained once," Adrian said, his voice quiet, almost intrusive in the stillness of the night.

"To whom would I complain?" Evelyn asked, not looking up from her papers. "My husband, who put me here? Or my father, who sold me?"

Adrian walked over to the desk, his eyes landing on the intricate diagrams she had drawn. "Dominic was stealing. Container 408-B was exactly where you said it would be. We... settled the matter quietly."

"I know," Evelyn said calmly. "I heard the cars leaving at 3:00 AM two nights ago."

Adrian leaned down, placing both hands on the edge of her desk, bringing his face dangerously close to hers. "How did you know, Evelyn? My father spent ten years trying to catch Dominic skimming. You figured it out in ten minutes."

"Your father looked at the men," Evelyn said, turning her head to meet his gaze. She could smell the cold winter air on his skin. "I looked at the numbers. Men lie. Numbers don't."

Adrian stared at her, his dark eyes intense, searching her face for any sign of fear. "You're a strange weapon for Arthur Hart to send into my home."

"My father didn't send me as a weapon, Adrian. He sent me as a sacrifice," Evelyn murmured, her tone softening just enough to reveal the sharp edges beneath. "He thought I would cry in this room until you felt pity for me. He forgot that cold weather makes iron stronger."

Adrian reached out, his gloved fingers lightly catching her chin, lifting her face so she had no choice but to look at him. "You think you're safe up here, little bride? You think because you're clever, you're untouchable?"

"I know I'm not safe anywhere in this city," Evelyn replied, refusing to back away. "But in this cold room, I answer to no one. Not even you."

A strange, dark light flickered in Adrian’s eyes. For a long moment, neither of them moved. The silence between them was thick, charged with something far more dangerous than hatred.

Then, Adrian let go of her chin and stepped back.

"Pack a bag," he ordered coldly. "Tomorrow night is the Annual Syndicate Gala. You will wear the Blackwood diamonds, you will stand at my side, and you will smile for the men who want to kill us both."