The silence in the chamber thickened after the elder's decree, heavy as stone.
Falcon's jaw tightened, a subtle shift beneath controlled composure, before his gaze moved — not to the elder — but to Isabella. She stood rigid, the color drained from her face, eyes wide but unbroken. She hadn't expected this. None of them had.
"I will not accept this!" Martha's voice cracked through the hall like a whip. She rose unsteadily from her chair, fury blazing in her eyes. "Falcon? A Montgomery? Over my dead body—"
Her words collapsed with her.
"Mother!"
Lucas and Alexander reached her before she hit the marble floor. Lucas caught her in his arms while Alexander steadied her shoulders, calling her name under his breath. Simon instinctively stepped forward to help, but the elder lifted a single finger.
Stop.
Simon froze.
The doors opened. The two sons carried their unconscious mother out, the echo of their footsteps fading down the corridor. The chamber doors shut again with a low, final thud.
The elder did not react. He did not look concerned. He did not repeat himself.
"My decision," he said calmly, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve, "is final."
His gaze shifted to Falcon.
"I trust you will honor it."
A long pause stretched between them. Falcon did not flinch. He did not question. He did not look at Isabella again.
He bowed his head once.
"Yes, sir."
Across the room, Isabella stared at him in disbelief.
That's it?
No hesitation? No protest?
Not even a glance to see if I agree?
Her thoughts raced, sharp and chaotic beneath her composed exterior. This wasn't a conversation. It was a verdict.
The elder spoke again, this time to her.
"I assume you will also comply."
"With all due respect, sir—" she began.
Oliver's eyes met hers sharply. A warning. Not here. Not now.
Her jaw clenched. The weight of the room pressed against her lungs.
"…Yes, sir."
Simon stepped slightly closer to her, voice smooth but firm. "Address the chairman properly. After all, you are his daughter."
Daughter.
The word struck harder than the marriage.
She swallowed.
"Yes… Father."
The title felt foreign on her tongue.
How do you gain a father in a single night?
How do you wake up ordinary and go to sleep a Montgomery?
Her hands curled into fists at her sides.
If I had known this… I would never have taken that job.
Did Mother know?
Did she keep this from us? From Oliver?
"Enough," the elder said, rising slowly from his seat. "You are all excused."
One by one, they bowed their heads and exited.
"Falcon… stay."
The doors closed again.
The chamber felt colder without the others.
The elder's breathing was faint but steady, each inhale deliberate. He did not look fragile now. He looked calculating.
"The family will not accept Isabella and Oliver easily," he said quietly. "Simon will guide them in matters of protocol and legacy."
A pause.
"But protection is not guidance."
His eyes locked onto Falcon's.
"You will protect them with your life. Especially Isabella."
Falcon's expression did not change, but something in his posture shifted — a deeper stillness.
"When the marriage is formally set," the elder continued, "you will wed her. But first… you will complete your mission. Lucien Wexler must be found."
The name lingered like smoke.
Falcon bowed his head again, this time slower.
"Your wife and children are now my responsibility," he said evenly. "No harm will reach them."
The elder studied him for a long moment, searching for doubt.
He found none.
"Go."
Falcon turned and walked toward the door, movements precise and unhurried. He opened it, stepped into the corridor, and closed it behind him.
Simon stood a few feet away with Oliver and Isabella, explaining the family structure in low, measured tones. Their mother had already been taken to her chambers.
Falcon did not stop. He began walking down the corridor, long strides echoing against stone walls lined with portraits of past Montgomery rulers.
"Excuse me," Isabella said suddenly.
Simon glanced at her, then gave a small nod.
She didn't hesitate.
She ran after Falcon.
Her footsteps echoed sharply against the marble floor, breaking the calculated quiet of the estate.
"Wait" she called.
Only after a few measured steps did he slow, then turn with deliberate calm. One hand rested inside the pocket of his tailored coat, posture relaxed — almost bored. The chandeliers above cast fractured light across the marble floor, catching faintly on the silver cross at his throat.
His expression was unreadable.
The air between them felt charged.
"You're just going to accept this?" she demanded, breath uneven but voice steady. "You didn't even ask me how I feel."
"If I recall correctly," he said evenly, "you agreed as well when the chairman asked you." His gaze sharpened slightly. "Did you ask how I felt?"
The words landed harder than she expected.
"That was different," she muttered, looking away for a moment before forcing herself to meet his eyes again. "The chairman is… intimidating. Saying no wasn't exactly an option."
A subtle curve touched Falcon's mouth — not quite a smile, not quite mockery.
"You'll survive," he said. "As long as you follow his directives."
For a moment, neither of them moved.
"This was never about feelings," Falcon said calmly. "It was about survival."
Her eyes flashed. "Mine? Or yours?".
A beat of silence.
"Our family's," he corrected.
Family.
The word hung there — heavier than before.
She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "You knew this would happen?"
"No."
"Then why did you agree so easily?"
Because refusal is weakness.
Because in this house, hesitation is rebellion.
Because power does not wait for permission.
But he didn't say that.
Instead, he met her eyes — steady, unblinking.
"Because," he said quietly, "from this moment forward… every enemy you have becomes mine."
The corridor fell silent again.
And for the first time since the announcement, Isabella didn't feel shocked.
She felt the weight of something far more dangerous.
Protection.
Possession.
The formality of his tone stung.
He moved to step past her.
She reacted instantly, shifting in front of him, lowering her voice to a whisper.
"You…" Her voice dropped, no longer loud but intense. "You recognize me, don't you?"
His eyes settled on her — steady, unreadable.
"I'm sure you do," she pressed.
"You didn't…" She glanced down the corridor, ensuring they were alone. The walls were lined with oil portraits of former Montgomery patriarchs, their painted eyes watching like silent judges. "You didn't tell the chairman about that night, did you?"
Falcon didn't answer.
He just looked at her.
And somehow that silence was worse.
Her pulse quickened. "Well?"
Still nothing.
She felt impatience flare beneath her anxiety. "Did you?"
"If the chairman asks," Falcon said calmly, "I will answer." His tone didn't change. "I don't conceal information from him."
He stepped around her.
"What? No — wait." She turned sharply, heels clicking against the marble as she followed him again. Frustration replaced panic. She straightened her shoulders, forcing authority into her voice.
"As the daughter of the head of the Montgomery family," she said firmly, "I order you not to tell anyone what you witnessed last night."
That stopped him.
Just for a second.
Falcon turned his head slightly, enough for her to see the edge of his expression. A slow, dangerous smirk formed — subtle but unmistakable.
An acknowledgment.
An amusement.
A warning.
Then he continued walking.
She stood frozen for a moment, watching his figure disappear down the corridor, long strides unhurried, completely unaffected.
"Huh?" she muttered under her breath. "Did he just smirk?"
Her hand went to her forehead in frustration.
What does that even mean?
The chandeliers flickered softly above her, the estate once again swallowing the sound of her breathing.
"Oh God," she whispered to herself. "He better not tell anyone."
But deep down, what unsettled her wasn't the possibility of him speaking.
It was the fact that he didn't seem afraid to.