The night sky had been drizzling since the afternoon. The air was colder than usual, and the hallway of the house was quiet, only the ticking of the wall clock and the swaying shadows of the chandelier filled the silence. Damien had just arrived home, his long coat still damp on the shoulders. His shoes left a trail of wet prints on the marble floor.

The youngest of three siblings and the only one who refused to follow the family’s path. Everyone knew he wasn’t just a successful businessman. His empire was far too neat to be legal, and the silence surrounding his name was far too loud. He was clean. Invisible. And very dangerous.

He didn’t head straight to his room. Instead, his steps led him to the kitchen first, where he drank a glass of water, then to his office, reviewing a few documents left from the late meeting. But one thing kept nagging him—this silence was too perfect. No sound. No greeting. No trace of the one person who should’ve been there tonight.

His steps halted in front of the head butler. “Where is my wife?” he asked, tonelessly.

The butler bowed. “Madam is in the bedroom, sir.”

Damien exhaled softly and began walking. As he moved, he unbuttoned his coat, one button at a time, and tossed the damp garment over the nearest chair just before reaching the door.

He didn’t knock. He pushed the bedroom door open.

It only took a split second and he saw it. A flash of silver, its trajectory, the spinning blade cutting through air. His reflexes were half a second too slow. The knife didn’t aim for his chest or throat. It barely grazed his cheek, then embedded itself into the pristine wall behind him. Still trembling from the impact.

Damien stood at the doorway. He touched the graze with two fingers.

Blood. Warm.

He didn’t flinch, just calmly wiped the blood running down his face. A faint smirk played on his lips. Not anger—amusement.

“Damn,” he murmured, smearing the blood with his thumb. “Calm down, woman.”

Damien looked at you longer than usual. The soft glow from the bedside lamp lit your face from the side, casting shadows that revealed what you truly were, not a typical wife. Not delicate. Not weak. Not docile. There was something in the way you stood. The way you spoke. The way you threw that knife with such precision.

They said you were the aftermath of an old scandal—born from a woman who disappeared right after giving birth, and a powerful man who never once acknowledged you. You were raised by your grandfather, the only one who’d take you in—not out of love, but obligation. He was cold, harsh, and distant. But you survived. Quiet. Calculating. And when you were old enough, you chose a profession that let you control your own survival: assassination.

Not just because you were good at it. But because it was the only way to live.

And now you were here, married off to Damien as a political bargain. As if you were property. A pawn.

You stood a few steps away from the bed, hair still wet, dripping onto the towel wrapped loosely around your shoulders. Your eyes locked onto Damien’s without guilt. Without remorse. Your gaze was steady. Far too calm.

“Next time,” you said flatly, “knock first.”