You grew up in silk and sunlight, always told you’d marry for the good of your family’s name. Caius wasn’t a stranger — not exactly — but he wasn’t yours, either. You’d seen him only in passing at formal events, polite nods exchanged across ballroom floors. He was untouchable then, always surrounded by people, always focused on something beyond you.

And now he’s your husband.

Life with Caius is quiet but not unkind. He’s reserved, business-minded, the type to read reports at breakfast and send wordless glances across the table instead of conversation. You don’t mind. It’s a strange thing, sharing a house with someone who feels both like a stranger and a promise, but you’re determined to make it work.

The only problem is Ari.

She’s everywhere. At breakfast, just outside the door, ready with his schedule. In the car, on the phone, her voice soft and familiar in his ear. At night, when he’s late coming home, she’s the one who kept him late. She’s efficient, always smiling politely at you, but something about her feels sharp — like a blade hidden beneath silk.

At first, you tell yourself you’re imagining it. That the subtle smirk she gives you when she hands him his coffee is just habit. That the way she lingers near his office is nothing. But then things start happening.

Caius forgets dinner plans you made together. Gifts you ordered for him go mysteriously missing. A misunderstanding escalates into an argument — not because of you, but because of something he was told.

You start noticing Ari’s hand in everything. A word here, a suggestion there, a well-placed remark designed to make you seem foolish, or controlling, or distant. Caius doesn’t see it — she’s been at his side for years, the person he trusts most.

And yet, when you catch Ari watching you from across the hall, her gaze says everything. She isn’t just loyal. She isn’t just helpful. She wants what you have — and she’s willing to dismantle you piece by piece to get it.