Fiona woke up to the smell of coffee.

She shot up in bed, panic seizing her chest. The sheets were gray silk, not the gold of her room.

Where am I?

Then she saw her wrist. It was neatly bandaged with professional gauze.

The memories rushed back. The infiltration. The blood. The deal.

The door opened. A tall man with a scar running through his eyebrow walked in. Vane. Demian's head of security.

He didn't look like he wanted to kill her, which was an improvement from last night.

"Good morning, Your Highness," Vane said. He set a tray down on the bedside table. "The Prince sends his regards."

"What time is it?" Fiona asked, swinging her legs out of bed.

"Seven a.m. We have established a cover story. You were at the Royal Library late last night researching ancient prayers for your husband's success. You fainted from exhaustion and were brought to the nearest medical wing-ours."

Fiona let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. It was a solid lie. Bradley would buy it because it stroked his ego.

Vane handed her a small black velvet box.

"From the Prince."

Fiona opened it. Inside sat a heavy silver ring with a black onyx stone, engraved with a hawk. And a tiny, almost invisible earpiece.

"Put the ring on," Vane said. "It's a signal to my men. If they see it, they protect you. The earpiece is a direct line. Encrypted. The microphone is woven into the setting of the ring's stone. Orozco tech. It's undetectable by standard security sweeps. The Prince insists on discretion."

Fiona slid the ring onto her right ring finger. It was a little loose, but it felt heavy. Like armor.

"Thank you," she said.

She dressed quickly in the clothes Yana had packed-her "library" outfit.

As she walked down the long corridor toward the exit, she saw him.

Demian was sitting in a wheelchair by the window, looking out at the rain-washed garden. He was wearing a black turtleneck that hid the needle mark on his neck.

He didn't turn around. But as she passed, he raised a crystal tumbler of whiskey slightly in the air.

Fiona paused. She touched the ring on her finger.

He saw her reflection in the glass. His lips curved into a smirk.

She kept walking.

The car ride back to the Palace was smooth. Too smooth.

When she walked into the grand foyer, the atmosphere was suffocating.

Yana rushed to her, her face pale. "He's in the dining room. He's furious."

Fiona took a deep breath. She pinched her cheeks to bring some color to them, then let her shoulders slump. She transformed from the woman who fed blood to a vampire into the meek, exhausted wife.

She walked into the dining room.

Bradley was eating eggs benedict. He didn't look up.

"Where were you?" he asked. The fork scraped against the china. Scrape. Scrape.

"I... I was at the library, Bradley," Fiona stammered, pulling out the forged medical report Vane had given her. "I wanted to find that prayer for the gala. I guess I forgot to eat."

She placed the paper on the table.

Bradley picked it up. He scanned it, his eyes narrowing. Anemia. Exhaustion. Stress.

He scoffed. "You're so fragile, Fiona. It's embarrassing. The press is asking questions."

"I'm sorry," she whispered, looking at her shoes.

"Daddy!"

Jimmie ran into the room. He was wearing his school uniform. He ran straight past Fiona and jumped onto Bradley's lap.

"Hey, champ," Bradley's face transformed. He smiled, kissing the top of Jimmie's head. "Ready for school?"

"Yeah! Can we take the sports car?"

"Anything for you."

Neither of them looked at Fiona. She was a ghost in her own house.

She watched them leave, Bradley's arm draped protectively around the boy who had bitten her. The boy who would kill her.

She went to her room and locked the door.

She put the earpiece in.

"Testing," she whispered.

Static crackled, then a voice. Low, smooth, and amused.

"Academy Award performance, Princess."

Her heart hammered. "You were listening?"

"I have eyes and ears everywhere," Demian said. "Especially on my investments."

Fiona looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were hard.

"I'm not an investment, Demian. I'm a partner."

"We'll see," he replied. "Seven days. I need another dose. Don't be late."

The line went dead.

Fiona touched the bandage on her wrist.

Let the game begin.

Breakfast the next morning was a battlefield disguised as a meal.

Fiona sat across from Jimmie. He was swinging his legs, kicking the table leg rhythmically. Thump. Thump. Thump.

He reached for the pitcher of milk. As he poured it into his cereal, his hand "slipped."

The pitcher tipped. White liquid flooded across the table, cascading onto Fiona's lap, soaking her silk skirt.

"Oops," Jimmie said. He didn't look sorry. He looked bored. "Slippery."

Bradley didn't even look up from his tablet. " accidents happen. Go change, Fiona."

In the past, Fiona would have apologized. She would have run upstairs, crying, blaming her own clumsiness for upsetting the child.

Not today.

She didn't move. The cold milk seeped into her skin.

"Apologize," Fiona said.

The room went silent. The servants froze.

Jimmie blinked. He looked at Fiona, confused by the tone. "What?"

"You heard me," Fiona said, her voice steady and sharp as a scalpel. "Apologize. Now."

Jimmie looked at Bradley. "Dad?"

Bradley sighed, putting down his tablet. "Fiona, don't be dramatic. He's just a boy."

"He is a Prince of the Blood," Fiona said, standing up. "If he cannot handle a milk pitcher, how will he handle the Crown? The media is already calling him spoiled. Do you want them to call him feral?"

Bradley flinched. The media. His achilles heel.

He looked at Jimmie. "Say sorry to your mother, Jimmie."

Jimmie's face turned red. He glared at Fiona with pure venom.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"Look at me when you say it," Fiona commanded.

Jimmie's hands curled into fists. He looked up, his eyes burning. "Sorry."

"Better." Fiona dabbed at her skirt with a napkin. "Lee, bring me the household accounts for the last quarter. Immediately."

The butler, Lee, a man who had been in Bradley's pocket for years, hesitated. "The... accounts, Your Highness? They are with the auditor."

"I am the Crown Princess," Fiona said, walking past him. "If those books aren't on my desk in ten minutes, I'm calling the police to report embezzlement."

Lee paled. "Yes, Your Highness."

An hour later, Fiona had the ledger. It didn't take long to find it.

Ice Lily Foundation.

Monthly transfers of fifty thousand dollars. Labeled as "Consulting Fees."

Fiona snapped a photo of the page and sent it to the encrypted email Vane had provided.

Proof, she typed. He's using state funds to keep his mistress.

Later that afternoon, Fiona heard shouting from the garden.

She walked out to the terrace.

Jimmie was standing by the rose bushes. He had a slingshot. He was aiming at a stray cat that had wandered onto the grounds.

Thwack.

The stone hit the cat's flank. The animal yowled in pain, trying to limp away.

Jimmie laughed. He loaded another stone.

Fiona's vision went red. In her last life, he had blinded that cat.

Her hand was already moving, pulling her phone from her pocket. She pressed the record button, the screen's reflection shielded by the shadows of the veranda. She captured it all: the cruel laugh, the cat's cry, the second stone being loaded. Only then did she move.

She crossed the lawn in seconds. She grabbed the slingshot from his hand and threw it into the fountain.

"Hey!" Jimmie screamed. "That was mine! Dad gave me that!"

"Your father gave you a weapon to torture helpless animals?" Fiona grabbed his shoulder, spinning him around. "That is psychopathic behavior, Jimmie."

"Let me go!" He tried to bite her again.

Fiona was ready this time. She slapped his hand away.

"Stand there," she ordered, pointing to a spot on the pavement under the direct sun. "Two hours. No moving. No water."

"You can't do that! I'm telling Dad!"

"Tell him," Fiona said. "Tell him I have a video of you torturing a cat. Tell him I'm ready to send it to PETA."

Jimmie froze. He was only seven, but he already understood what bad press meant. Bradley had drilled it into him.

"What is going on here?"

Bradley came striding out of the French doors, his face thunderous. "Fiona! Unhand him!"

Jimmie ran to him, sobbing fake tears. "She threw my toy away! She's being mean!"

Bradley scooped him up, glaring at Fiona. "Have you lost your mind?"

Fiona held up her phone. She pressed play.

The video showed Jimmie laughing as the cat screamed.

"Animal cruelty," Fiona said calmly. "It's a felony in some states. Imagine the headlines, Bradley. 'Future King Raises Sadist.'"

Bradley watched the video. His face went gray.

He looked down at Jimmie. The adoration in his eyes flickered, replaced by calculation.

He set the boy down.

"Do as your mother says, Jimmie," Bradley said coldly.

"Dad?" Jimmie gasped, betrayed.

"Stand there," Bradley ordered. Then he looked at Fiona. There was a new emotion in his eyes. Fear. "Delete the video."

"When he learns empathy," Fiona said. "I'll consider it."

She walked back into the house, leaving them both in the sun.

That night, Bradley was quiet.

He sat on the edge of the bed, unbuttoning his shirt. He was angry, but he was containing it. He needed Fiona. He needed her money, and now, he needed her silence.

Fiona sat at her vanity, removing her earrings.

"Bradley," Fiona said softly. "I've been thinking."

He grunted. "About what? How to terrorize my son?"

"About my health," Fiona lied. She turned to face him, letting her shoulders droop. "I'm... I'm overwhelmed. With the foundation, the transition of my family's assets is a massive undertaking. Someone needs to manage the public-facing duties, especially with Jimmie. I don't think I can do it alone."

He looked at her, suspicious. "What are you saying?"

"I'm suggesting you need help," Fiona said. "I'm proposing we bring on a 'Special Advisor' to the foundation. Someone to help with the social calendar. Someone Jimmie trusts."

Bradley stopped moving. His hands froze on his shirt.

He was processing the political implications, the way this could be spun to the media. He saw the trap, but he also saw the opportunity.

"Who did you have in mind?" he asked, his voice carefully neutral.

"Duchess Icy," Fiona said.

His eyes widened. He dropped his shirt.

"Icy?" he repeated. "But... she's your friend."

"Exactly," Fiona said, forcing a smile. "She is so good with Jimmie. And she knows the protocol. If she moved into the East Wing temporarily... it would look like a unified family front, showing how we all support each other during my 'illness'. It would take so much pressure off me."

Fiona stood up and walked over to him. She took his hand. It took every ounce of her willpower not to recoil.

"I just want you to be happy, Bradley. I know I'm not... enough."

A slow smile spread across his face. It was the smile of a man who thought he had just won the lottery.

"Fiona," he said, squeezing her hand. "You are... incredibly generous. Are you sure?"

"Yes," Fiona said. "Call her."

He didn't wait. He kissed her cheek-a dry, perfunctory peck-and practically ran to the balcony to make the call.

Fiona turned away. She walked to the bathroom and locked the door.

She grabbed a wet wipe and scrubbed her hand. She scrubbed until the skin was red and raw.

Come in, Icy, she thought, staring at her reflection. Come into the light where I can see you.

Her earpiece buzzed.

"Inviting the wolf into the sheep pen," Demian's voice drawled. "Bold strategy."

"She's not a wolf," Fiona whispered. "She's a parasite. She needs a host to survive. I'm just changing the environment."

"And what happens when she tries to take your place?"

"I'll let her," Fiona said. "The throne is electric, Demian. If you sit on it wrong, it fries you."

The next day, Icy arrived.

She came with a caravan of Louis Vuitton luggage and an entourage of assistants. She wore a white sundress and a wide-brimmed hat, looking every inch the innocent angel.

Fiona met her on the front steps. The press was there, of course. Bradley had tipped them off.

"Fiona!" Icy squealed, rushing up the stairs.

She hugged Fiona. Her perfume was cloying-gardenias and ambition.

"Thank you so much for inviting me," she whispered in Fiona's ear. "I promise, I'll take good care of Bradley."

The threat was clear.

Fiona pulled back and smiled for the cameras.

"Welcome home, sister," she said.

Fiona led her to the guest suite she had prepared. It was luxurious, filled with flowers.

And in the base of the large potted fern in the corner, hidden under the moss, was a high-fidelity listening device.

"I hope you're comfortable," Fiona said.

"Oh, it's perfect," Icy said, spinning around. She flopped onto the bed. "So close to Bradley's study."

"Yes," Fiona said. "Very convenient."

Fiona left her to unpack.

As she walked down the hall, she heard Icy lock the door.

Fiona tapped her earpiece. "Is the feed live?"

"Crystal clear," Vane's voice replied.

Fiona smiled.

Welcome to hell, Icy.