Three weeks into the contract, Naomi received a letter.
Not an email. Not a message. A letter, hand-delivered to the penthouse by a courier who refused to give a name, sealed with dark red wax stamped with an unfamiliar crest — two intertwined circles and a single word beneath them:
Ataraxia.
Inside, in handwriting so controlled it was almost mechanical:
You don't know why he married you. But I do. Ask him about the photograph in the east wing. Ask him about Lena. Ask him who you really are.
—A Friend
Naomi read it four times.
She put it in her drawer. She went to bed.
She stared at the ceiling until 3 AM.
The east wing.
She'd been respecting that rule for three weeks. Not because she was obedient — she was the furthest thing from it — but because instinct told her whatever was b
