The first sign was the smirk.

Not the usual subtle one. Sharper. Polished.

Calculated.

Erik noticed immediately.

He set the chess piece down with deliberate care, studying her across the board.

“Where,” he began slowly, “did you acquire that tone?”

She tilted her head—innocent.

Too innocent.

A faint psychic brush grazed the room, cool and precise. Controlled in a way that felt… curated.

Erik leaned back in his chair.

“…You’ve been spending time with Emma.”

The name sat in the air like crystal catching light.

Another smirk.

More refined this time.

He exhaled through his nose.

“Jesus Christ.”

The white queen on the board slid two inches to the left without him touching it.

“Confidence is admirable,” he continued evenly. “Weaponized condescension, however, is an art Emma Frost has perfected.”

His gaze narrowed slightly.

“And you are practicing.”

The temperature in the room felt cooler somehow. Sharper. Like edges had been polished to gleam.

He rose from his seat, circling the table slowly.

“I tolerate her,” he said, voice calm but edged. “Because she is useful. Brilliant. Strategic.”

A pause.

“But if I hear that particular brand of aristocratic superiority directed at me again—”

The metal chair across from him lifted half an inch before settling back down.

“I will be forced to remind you,” he finished smoothly, “who you married.”

Not a threat.

A correction.

He stepped closer, studying her expression like a scientist observing an experiment.

“Yes,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Definitely Emma.”

The faintest hint of amusement flickered in his eye.

“…We will fix this.”