Alexis looked like he was going to be sick. He slumped back in the armchair, his face ashen, his hands trembling slightly in his lap. The revelation had short-circuited his brain.

"She never said..." he muttered, staring blankly at the floor. "She never told me..."

Blair stood over him, her expression carved from ice. Watching him crumble, she didn't see the star he had become; she only saw the raw, desperate boy she’d rescued from that Brooklyn club three years ago. She had spent three years turning that gutter-born ambition into gold, only for the gold to try and melt the hands that shaped it.

The coldness in Blair's chest hardened into something impenetrable.

A sharp knock on the door shattered the silence. Before Blair could respond, the door swung open. A tall, broad-shouldered man strode in. He wore a perfectly tailored navy suit, his dark hair swept back, his features aristocratic and refined.

It was Tristan Cromwell. Her cousin.

Tristan was carrying her black cashmere coat over his arm—he must have intercepted her assistant on the way in. He walked straight past Alexis as if he were a piece of furniture. He reached Blair and draped the coat over her shoulders, his movements natural and protective.

"Blair," he said, his voice a low, gentle rumble. "Why are you hiding in here? The lobby is crawling with reporters." He reached up and ruffled her hair, a familiar, brotherly gesture that instantly softened the sharp lines of her face.

Blair felt the knot in her shoulders loosen just a fraction. "Tristan," she said, looking up at him. "What are you doing here?"

"Butler is already back at the presidential suite, and he’s in a foul mood," Tristan said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "He sent me to fetch you before you did something the McIntyre family would have to pay to bury. Aunt Joella is on the other line with him now."

Alexis, still slumped in the chair, watched this interaction with wide eyes. A sharp, bitter spike of jealousy pierced through his shock. Who the hell was this guy? The way he touched her—it wasn't professional.

Tristan finally turned his head, acknowledging Alexis for the first time. His eyes were polite, but the look was utterly dismissive.

"Mr. Ashley," Tristan said with a curt nod. "Congratulations on your award. Enjoy it—it might be your last."

Alexis scrambled to his feet, his face flushing. Tristan turned back to Blair, his expression softening. "Let's go. The car is waiting at the private entrance. Don't waste another second on things that don't matter."

Blair nodded. She adjusted her coat, preparing to leave without a backward glance.

"Wait!" Alexis blurted out. "Who are you?"

Blair stopped. She turned her head slowly, looking at Alexis over her shoulder. Her eyes were empty, the gaze of a Glover looking at a spent resource.

Tristan smiled. It was a confident, predatory smile. He stepped closer to Blair, placing one arm securely around her shoulders.

"I'm her family," Tristan said, his voice dropping low and sharp. "And you're done wasting her time."

The hum of the private jet's engines filled the cabin. They were thirty thousand feet in the air, leaving the glittering chaos of Los Angeles—and the "Blair Guzman" alias she’d used to hide her identity there—far behind.

Blair leaned back in the cream leather seat, her eyes closed. The makeup was wiped off, the diamond necklace was gone, and the sheer exhaustion of the night was etched into the hollows of her cheeks.

Tristan sat across from her. He reached into the galley and poured a glass of warm water, not champagne. He placed it on the small table beside her hand.

"Stop pushing yourself," he said quietly. "I know you didn't sleep at all last night."

Blair opened her eyes. The hazel irises were dull, guarded. She picked up the water, her fingers wrapping around the warmth. "Just had some loose ends to tie up."

Tristan sighed, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. "Is it about Alexis Ashley, or is it about Butler McIntyre?"

At the mention of the second name, Blair's fingers tightened around the glass. The knuckles turned white for a fraction of a second before she forced them to relax. "Both."

Tristan watched her, a deep frown pulling at his brow. "Blair, you don't have to live like this. You don't have to carry everything alone."

She turned her head, looking out the small oval window at the endless black sky and the clouds below. "It's the choice I made."

A heavy silence fell between them. Tristan rubbed his jaw, the stubble rasping under his palm. "I just can't believe them," he said, his voice laced with years of frustration. "After everything... after dumping you on my mother's doorstep because some crackpot psychic said you were 'cursed.' And now they want to drag you back for a family dinner? The hypocrisy is staggering."

Blair let out a soft, hollow laugh. "A trap?"

"More or less," Tristan said, his eyes dark. "Hughie and Georgiana are back. They've been talking to Aunt Joella. The main item on the agenda is your marriage."

The words landed without surprise. Blair had been raised by Joella, Tristan's mother and her aunt, learning to view the world through a lens of profit and loss. Her biological parents, Hughie and Georgiana, had showered their other daughter, Kiana, with love, while treating Blair like a leper they were forced to acknowledge on holidays. Love was a liability. Family was a balance sheet. And she was their most valuable, untapped asset.

"You knew?" Tristan asked, searching her face.

"Glover Group needs a European conglomerate alliance to expand," Blair said, her voice monotone, like she was reading a financial report. "I'm the most valuable asset they have to trade. It's simple math."

Tristan looked away, a muscle ticking in his jaw. He looked utterly defeated.

"Do you really plan to just accept whatever they decide?" Tristan asked, his voice tight.

Blair placed her glass down on the table with a soft click. "Do I have a choice?"

She didn't voice the thought that echoed in her mind: They want to trade me, but they don't know I've already sold myself to a much more dangerous master.

She had kept the secret of her marriage to Butler locked away, even from Tristan.

The plane banked, beginning its descent. Through the window, the dark outline of the Long Island coastline appeared, dotted with the lights of sprawling estates.

Tristan reached across the aisle and covered her hand with his. His palm was warm and solid. "Whatever happens, I'm on your side."

A flicker of warmth touched Blair's chest, but it was quickly smothered by the freezing reality of her life. "Thank you, Tristan," she whispered.

She looked out the window as the Glover family estate came into view. Her eyes hardened into chips of green ice. The war was just beginning.

The black Rolls Royce Ghost glided down the private, tree-lined road leading to the Glover estate. The hedges were perfectly manicured, the gravel driveway raked into flawless lines. It was a picture of old money and absolute control.

Inside the car, the air was thick with tension. Tristan sat beside Blair, watching her profile. She looked immaculate-her hair pulled back, her makeup flawless, her black dress a statement of power. But he knew the armor was heavy.

"Are you really not going to fight back?" Tristan asked, unable to keep the frustration out of his voice. "Not even a little?"

Blair kept her eyes forward. "Fight what? The fact that I was born a Glover?"

She turned to look at him, her expression unreadable. "To me, this is no different from signing a corporate merger. Who the man is, what he looks like, whether he loves me-those are irrelevant variables."

"What matters," she continued, her voice dropping into a cold, analytical rhythm, "is the leverage this arrangement gives me. The time it buys me. The resources it secures for Stellosphere Quadrant."

Tristan closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the leather headrest. "You can't reduce your whole life to a business transaction, Blair. You're not a product."

"From the day they handed me to Aunt Joella, I was a product," Blair said, her tone flat, devoid of self-pity. "If I'm going to be sold, I might as well be the one setting the price."

She looked out the window, her mind racing ahead. "If the suitor is powerful enough, I can use the family’s greed for this alliance to sever Hughie and Georgiana's hold on me permanently. Let them think they’re still in control of my hand, while I use their distraction to dismantle them. If he's weak, I'll marginalize him and take the power myself."

There was no romance in her words. No hope for a fairy tale. Just cold, hard strategy.

Tristan looked at her, seeing the lonely, battered girl hiding behind the CEO's mask. The family had broken something inside her, and she had rebuilt it with ice and steel.

He wanted to comfort her, but words of warmth bounced right off her frozen exterior.

This is all a smoke screen, Tristan, Blair thought. You don't know that I've already made the biggest trade of my life. I traded my freedom for the power to fight back.

She thought of Butler McIntyre. The way he invaded her space, the way he controlled her every move. The prenup they had signed was a pact with the devil. He gave her unlimited capital and protection; in return, she belonged to him, body and soul.

It was a terrifying bargain, but it had been her only way out.

The car slowed, passing through the towering wrought-iron gates of the estate. The massive, colonial-style mansion loomed ahead, its windows glowing with warm, deceptive light.

Blair took a deep breath, holding it for a count of three. As she exhaled, she smoothed her dress and adjusted her expression. Every crack, every ounce of vulnerability, vanished behind a wall of perfect composure.

When the driver opened the door, she stepped out onto the gravel, her heels clicking sharply. She was Blair Guzman, the ice queen.

She gave Tristan a reassuring smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Don't worry. I never take a loss."

Tristan nodded, his jaw tight. He stepped out after her, reaching over to straighten the collar of her coat-a gesture of a brother sending his sister into battle.

"I'm right here," he murmured.

Blair nodded once and turned toward the house. Standing at the top of the stone steps were two figures. Georgiana Glover, with her perfectly styled hair and diamond earrings, and Kiana, still riding the high of her public victory.

Kiana's smile vanished the second she saw Blair, replaced by a naked, venomous hostility.

Georgiana raked her eyes up and down Blair's frame, her lips pursed in distaste, like a buyer inspecting a piece of meat that had passed its expiration date.

Blair didn't flinch. She straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and walked up the steps, meeting their stares head-on. The air crackled with unspoken threats.