The transition from deep, restorative sleep to a state of high-alert panic happened in the span of a heartbeat.
I didn't wake up to a soft alarm or the smell of Reid's coffee. I woke up to the sound of heavy velvet curtains being whipped open with the violence of a gunshot. The gray, early-morning light of Manhattan flooded the room, cold and uncompromising.
"Five minutes past six," a voice rang out—melodic, sharp, and entirely too energetic for the hour. "Punctuality is the politeness of kings, Maya. And since you are currently a commoner, you are already behind schedule."
I groaned, burying my face in the pillow. Beside me, Reid shifted, let out a low growl, and pulled the duvet over his head.
"Mother," he rasped, his voice thick with sleep. "Get out."
"I am currently a tenant in this house, Reid, and I am conducting a lesson," Eleanor Sterling said, standing at the foot of the bed. She was dressed in a silk tracksuit that probably cost more than my first two years of college tuition. "Maya, your workout clothes are in the dressing room. You have four minutes to be in the foyer. We are going for a walk."
"A walk?" I sat up, my hair a bird's nest of defiance. "It's barely light out. And I worked a double shift—spiritually—yesterday."
"Movement clears the mind of 'Queens' clutter," Eleanor said, checking her gold watch. "Three minutes, fifty seconds."
She glided out of the room without another word.
I looked at Reid. He peeked out from under the covers, his eyes full of sympathy and a lingering sense of guilt. "I can make her stop. I can tell her the deal is off."
"No," I said, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. "If I quit on day one, she wins. She wants me to be soft. She wants me to be the girl who breaks. She's forgotten that I've spent the last three years standing for twelve hours a day on linoleum floors."
I marched into the dressing room. On the bench sat a set of sleek, black athletic wear. No logos, just high-performance fabric that felt like a second skin. I pulled it on, shoved my feet into the sneakers provided, and splashed cold water on my face.
When I reached the foyer, Eleanor was waiting. She wasn't stretching or warming up. She was simply standing there, looking like a statue of victory.
"Three minutes and forty-two seconds," she noted. "Efficient. Perhaps there is hope for you yet."
We didn't go for a "walk." We went for a forced march through Central Park.
Eleanor didn't run, but her stride was long and purposeful. I kept pace beside her, my lungs burning in the crisp morning air. For the first mile, she said nothing. She just watched the way I moved, the way I held my shoulders, the way I looked at the world.
"You walk like you're carrying a tray, Maya," she said finally, her gaze fixed on the path ahead. "You lead with your hips. You're prepared for someone to bump into you. It's defensive."
"It's New York," I panted. "If you don't walk defensively, you end up as a hood ornament on a yellow cab."
"In my world, people move out of your way," Eleanor corrected. "You do not lead with your hips. You lead with your collarbone. You assume the space belongs to you before you even enter it. You are an architect; think of your body as a skyscraper. It doesn't apologize for its height. It simply exists."
She stopped suddenly by a stone bridge. She turned to me, her expression unreadable. "Tell me about the Aegis Board. Who is the Chairman?"
"Thomas Thorne," I said, trying to catch my breath. "Sixty-two years old. Heavily invested in sustainable materials. Likes scotch, hates modernism."
"And his wife?"
"Lydia Thorne. Board member of the Met. She's currently obsessed with 18th-century French tapestries."
Eleanor nodded, a tiny flick of approval in her eyes. "Good. You've done your homework. But Lydia Thorne doesn't care if you know about tapestries. She cares if you look like you belong on one. Walk across this bridge. No hips. No defense. Lead with the collarbone."
I walked. I felt ridiculous. I felt like a giraffe trying to act like a swan. When I reached the other side, I turned back.
"Better," Eleanor called out. "But your hands are still clenched. You're holding on to a grudge, Maya. In this world, a grudge is a weight. If you want to beat me, you have to let go of the anger. It makes you predictable."
"I'm not trying to beat you," I lied.
"Lying is also predictable," she said, starting her stride again. "Now, we head back. You have forty-five minutes to shower, dress, and prepare for a breakfast with the Italian Consul's wife. You will speak only when spoken to, and you will not, under any circumstances, mention 'the diner.'"
The breakfast was a blur of tiny pastries and espresso that tasted like liquid gold. Eleanor didn't introduce me as Reid's fiancée. She introduced me as "a family friend with an interest in design."
I sat there, my spine straighter than it had ever been, my hands resting lightly in my lap. I watched the way Eleanor manipulated the conversation, how she used silence as a weapon, and how she made everyone in the room feel like they were lucky to be breathing her air.
It was a performance. A masterclass in "Sterling" power.
By the time we returned to the penthouse at noon, I was exhausted in a way that physical labor had never managed. My brain felt like it had been through a shredder.
I found Reid in the kitchen, hovering over a laptop. He looked up, his face softening instantly when he saw me. "How was it? Did you survive the Consul?"
"I think I'm fluent in 'Haughty Silence' now," I said, collapsing into a chair. "Reid, she's... she's not just teaching me etiquette. She's trying to build a version of me that doesn't exist. She's treating me like a blueprint that needs to be revised."
Reid walked over, his hands resting on my shoulders. "She did the same to me. For twenty years. That's why I became the 'Ice King.' It was the only way to stay solid while she was trying to melt me down."
"I'm not going to melt," I whispered, leaning my head against his stomach.
"I know you won't," he said, kissing the top of my head. "But be careful, Maya. The first week is about the surface. The second week... that's when she starts looking for the cracks."
The elevator dinked again. Eleanor stepped out, holding a large, heavy book. She didn't look tired. She didn't even look like she'd broken a sweat.
"Breakfast was acceptable, Maya," she said, dropping the book onto the table. It was an encyclopedia of European heraldry. "But your French pronunciation was atrocious. You sounded like a Canadian logger. We will spend the afternoon on vowel sounds."
"Reid and I were going to visit my mom," I said, standing up.
Eleanor paused. She looked at me, then at the ring on my finger. "Family is important, Miss Gable. But your mother is in a coma of sorts, isn't she? She won't know if you're an hour late. However, the Aegis Board will know if you can't pronounce 'Renaissance' correctly."
The room went cold. Reid's grip on my shoulders tightened, his body tensing for a fight.
"My mother is not a 'coma of sorts,'" I said, my voice dropping to a dangerous, low level. "She is the reason I'm in this room. And if you ever speak of her as a 'distraction' again, the deal is off, and I'll tell the world exactly what kind of 'pedigree' the Sterlings really have."
Eleanor stared at me. For a long, silent moment, I thought she was going to throw me out. Then, she let out a short, sharp laugh.
"There it is," she murmured. "The Queens fire. Keep it, Maya. You'll need it. Go see your mother. You have exactly two hours. If you're a minute late, we add two hours of French."
As we walked toward the elevator, I felt Eleanor's eyes on my back. She wasn't angry. She was... satisfied.
"She's testing your boundaries," Reid whispered as the doors shut.
"No," I said, looking at my reflection in the polished brass. "She's testing my breaking point. She wants to see what I'll sacrifice for the dream."
I looked at my hands—the hands that had scrubbed floors and held a dying mother's hand. They were clean, but they weren't soft. And they weren't going to let go of the fire.