The bell rang.
Not some servant’s delicate chime. Not a courteous summons for tea or a casual request. This was the central house bell, the one sunk deep into the estate’s very bones. It thrummed through marble floors, iron railings, and centuries-old paneling with a low, resonant power that felt ancient. The sound did not ask. It commanded.
The deep note rolled down the corridors like distant thunder, impossible to ignore.
The Mistress sat her chamber, where morning light spilled across her writing desk and ink still glistened on the page. She paused mid-sentence, pen hovering. Bck silk draped her body like liquid shadow, a long wrap that clung at the waist and parted teasingly at the thigh whenever she shifted. Matte in the shade, glossy where sunlight kissed it, the fabric moved with her like a second skin. Her hair spilled loose over one shoulder, still warm from sleep, a thin silver chain resting cool against her colrbone. Bare feet crossed at the ankles beneath the chair, toes brushing the cool hardwood.
The bell echoed again, insistent.
She closed the leather-bound book with deliberate slowness.
“Now what?” she murmured, irritation threading through her composed tone.
A quick gnce toward the tall windows confirmed the obvious. “I thought he was at the office.”
She rose in one fluid motion, silk whispering against her thighs, and stepped i
nto the hallway.
Marisol lingered on the south veranda, not yet willing to admit morning had truly arrived. She lounged sideways across a deep-cushioned chaise, one leg tucked beneath her, the other stretched nguidly into the sunlight. Crimson silk clung to her in sheer, yered folds that looked carelessly thrown on but were anything but. Delicate straps skimmed her shoulders, the neckline plunged low enough to invite the eye, and a slender golden anklet caught the light with every zy shift of her foot. Her tablet banced on her p.
The bell rang.
She blinked once, then groaned softly. “Oh really?” she said to the empty air. “I was so, so cozy…”
Another ring vibrated through the stone.
With theatrical reluctance, she sat up, gathered the crimson silk around her curves, drained the gss in one long sip, and padded barefoot toward the interior hallway.
In her chambers, Noa stood before the tall mirror in her suite. Sapphire silk wrapped her frame in simpler lines than Marisol’s, yet bolder than she would have dared months ago. Loose sleeves slipped from her shoulders, and the modest neckline still hinted at the quiet confidence blooming beneath her skin.
She was fastening a delicate bracelet when the bell sounded.
Her fingers froze mid-csp.
The second ring came louder, deeper.
She gnced toward the door, pulse quickening. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”
She didn’t bother with slippers. Bare feet carried her forward before the echo faded.
They nearly collided at the grand nding.
Marisol reached it first from the veranda side, The Mistress gliding in from the west corridor, and Noa descending the wide stairwell. All three halted at once.
A single shared beat of silence passed between them.
They looked at one another.
“Any ideas?” Marisol asked, voice still husky from the mimosa.
“No,” Noa answered quietly.
The Mistress shook her head, silver chain glinting. “Not a pleasant one.”
They moved together now, faster than any of them intended, silks trailing like liquid banners, bare soles soft on polished floors. The estate itself seemed to hold its breath, every corridor charged with anticipation.
They reached his private office.
The door stood ajar.
They stepped inside and stopped short.
Celeste waited behind the massive desk, already dressed for battle. Pristine white tailored her form in a power suit-dress that screamed control: structured shoulders, nipped waist, and a pencil skirt skimming just below the knee. Not a single wrinkle dared appear. Her arms folded across her chest, and the diamond on her left hand caught the morning light.
The contrast hit like a sp—three women still wrapped in morning silk, skin warm and sleep-soft, facing one woman armored and ready for war.
Marisol spoke first, breaking the tension. “Okay… what’s going on? Are we in trouble?”
The Mistress frowned, a faint line appearing between her brows. “You don’t usually ring the bell. Where is he?”
Celeste remained perfectly still behind the desk. “He wants all of us on the front steps in thirty minutes. Dressed to business-kill. Colrs and all.”
Silence thickened the air.
The Mistress blinked once. “…Why?”
Celeste drew a slow, measured breath. “We are going to have some… honored guests.”
Noa’s brow furrowed. “Who?”
Celeste met each of their gazes in turn. “The wounded and dethroned queen bee of Strayforth—Camille Morvant—showed up at the tower this morning.”
A collective groan rose.
The Mistress scoffed, sharp and low. “What? To make demands? Beg for a secretarial position? Stick her in the mail room.”
Celeste rolled her eyes, though her mouth stayed serious. “And she’s not alone.”
The room went utterly still.
Marisol straightened, “…Who else?”
Celeste looked directly at The Mistress. “Savina.”
A weighted pause stretched.
“…her daughter.”
The Mistress inhaled deeply, measured, and said nothing at first.
Celeste lifted a hand before any words could form. “I know what you’re thinking. Don’t. Let’s just see how this pys out. He knows what he’s doing.”
Marisol muttered under her breath, “And who’s he gonna do—”
Celeste shot her a single, razor-sharp look.
Marisol froze, then cleared her throat. “Sorry.”
Celeste pointed toward the door with calm authority. “Go change. Office best. Professional.”
Her gaze pinned Marisol. “And Marisol… conceal the girls.”
Marisol pulled a wounded face, crimson silk slipping slightly at the shoulder. “Damn it…”
Celeste gestured to Noa and Marisol. “You two—go.”
Then her eyes settled on The Mistress. “You stay.”
Marisol and Noa exchanged a wide-eyed gnce, already whispering overpping questions as they slipped out. The heavy door clicked shut behind them, sealing the room in sudden privacy.
The Mistress remained where she stood. “…Yes?”
Celeste’s voice softened, almost gentle. “I know what you may be thinking. A repeat. You, him… and Genevra.”
The Mistress offered a thin, sarcastic smile. “Oh, why on earth would you ever think that?”
Celeste stepped away from the desk, heels silent on the rug. “This is different.”
“HOW?” The Mistress snapped, the first true crack in her composure showing. “You know the game, Celeste. We were the firsts. Are we not good enough anymore? Does he need fresh blood? Expose everything? For what—to humiliate Xavier? To turn Camille against us? To turn Savina into—”
Celeste cut her off, calm but firm. “I don’t know how it is between the two of you. But we are fine. I’ve seen no dissatisfaction. Not once.”
The Mistress paused, tension easing just a fraction. Then a small, reluctant ugh escaped her lips. “…No. Neither have I.”
Celeste moved closer, close enough that the faint scent of her perfume mingled with the room’s leather and wood. “We both knew he wouldn’t stop with one. You were thrown into it—yes—but he gave you a choice. And you chose. Look where you stand now.”
The Mistress gnced down briefly at her own silk-wrapped form, then back up. “…Yeah. You’re right.”
Celeste held her eyes steadily. “If anything… he may want you to protect Savina.”
The Mistress tilted her head, considering. “Or properly prepare her?”
Celeste exhaled slowly. “If that path comes… and she chooses it… yes. Probably.”
A long silence settled between them, heavy with unspoken history.
Then The Mistress nodded once, decisive. “…I understand. I’ll go change.”
She turned, bck silk trailing behind her like midnight water, and walked out.
The door shut with a soft finality.
Celeste stood motionless for a moment longer.
Then she circled the desk and lowered herself into his chair. The moment she was alone, her perfect composure fractured. She leaned forward, elbows braced on the polished wood, face buried in her hands as she rubbed her temples.
Softly, almost to herself, she whispered, “I believe in what you’re doing… and I will py my part.”
A slow breath escaped her lips.
“…Always.”
