The study smelled of old mahogany, cigar smoke, and expensive betrayal.

Cassian Vale Kingsley sat in the leather wingback chair closest to the window, a crystal tumbler of whiskey balanced loosely between two long fingers. The firelight painted sharp gold edges across his profile, but his expression was unreadable — as always.

Across from him, sprawled in deliberate arrogance on the velvet sofa, Silas Mercier laughed like the whole world belonged to him. Two of their mutual friends — trust fund parasites who’d followed Silas around since St. Albans — sat nearby, drinking too much and laughing too loudly, their amusement fueled more by proximity to power than the joke itself.

Silas swirled the liquor in his glass lazily, the amber catching the light.

“Three years,” Silas drawled, leaning back with the self-satisfaction of a man who had never faced consequences. “Three whole years, and she hasn’t noticed a damn thing.”

One of the friends — Theodore, eternally overdressed and underwhelming — barked out a laugh.

“Blind or not, that’s insanity,” Theo said, grinning as though this were all some delicious scandal instead of a grotesque manipulation. “Cassian, you sound nothing like him when you actually speak more than three words. How has she not caught on?”

Cassian didn’t immediately respond. He just brought the tumbler to his lips, the slow, deliberate sip doing nothing to dull the burn crawling down his throat.

Silas answered for him, smirking like the devil himself.

“Because he’s good,” Silas said, gesturing lazily toward Cassian with his glass. “Better at being me than I am, half the time. Stoic, cold, distant. Perfect impression.”

He laughed, tipping his head back.

“Hell, Cass, I think you were born for this role. You haven’t touched her in three years — haven’t so much as breathed near her — and she hasn’t suspected a thing.”

The other friend, Julian, shook his head with a low whistle.

“Three years,” Julian repeated, his voice tinged with awe. “I couldn’t go three weeks without losing my mind. No wonder she doesn’t suspect — she thinks you’re just the same miserable bastard she married.”

Silas grinned at that, wicked and unrepentant.

“Meanwhile,” he said, lifting his glass in a mock toast, “I’m having the time of my life with Emilia Harcourt. God, you remember Emilia, don’t you?”

Cassian’s jaw tightened around the rim of his glass, but he didn’t look up.

Silas didn’t notice — or didn’t care.

“She’s even better than I remember,” Silas continued, oblivious to the growing chill settling over the room. “Fiery as ever, and she knows exactly what I want before I even say it. Not like—”

“Don’t.”

The single word cut through the air like a blade.

The laughter died instantly.

Cassian set his glass down on the table with meticulous care, the sharp clink of crystal on wood echoing louder than it should have in the quiet room. When he finally looked at Silas, those icy blue eyes were colder than the whiskey in his glass.

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Cassian said, his voice low, even, and sharp enough to draw blood.

Silas blinked, caught off guard for only a moment before his smirk returned, thinner this time.

“Relax, Cass,” he said lightly, though his tone carried the faintest edge of mockery. “You’re wound up tighter than usual tonight. What’s the problem? You’re the one playing along, remember?”

Cassian leaned back in his chair, one long leg crossed over the other, his demeanor calm but his gaze unyielding.

“I play along,” he said softly, “because my father made it very clear that keeping your family’s name aligned with ours matters more than my personal opinion. Don’t mistake that for approval.”

Julian shifted uncomfortably. Theo stopped pretending to sip his drink.

Silas, though, only laughed again — quieter this time, but no less infuriating.

“You act like I’m the villain here,” Silas said, stretching out his legs, Silas said, stretching out his legs, his careless arrogance dripping from every word. “I’m happy, Emilia’s happy, she’s well, blissfull”