The fates must be laughing, because a woman rounds the corner from the tower’s grand foyer, the tap of her heels sharp against the floor. Dressed in navy slacks and a fitted cream blouse, she carries herself with a no-nonsense air that sets my teeth on edge.

Oliver rejoins us, his gaze settling on the woman I assume is my babysitter. “This is Astrid,” he announces. “She’ll be staying with you.”

The woman gives a single nod, her face an unapproachable mask. She’s tall and poised, the embodiment of composure, with her dark hair swept into a sleek bun.

I press my lips together and fight the impulse to argue. Objecting outright won’t get me anywhere, not with Liam’s mind made up, so I shift to Oliver instead.

“I understand the concern, but is this really necessary? I’m sure Astrid has better things to do.”

“Better things than her job? She’s a professional, hired to keep you safe.” Oliver adjusts his cuff. “And I agree with the chancellor. We can’t risk you, my queen.” His words leave no room for debate, so I bite back any further protest.

If I’ve learned anything from these men, it’s that resistance is pointless.

Liam meets my gaze, and though he says nothing, emotion swells behind the quiet. The message is clear.

Don’t forget your promise to me.

Only then does he look away, his voice rough as he turns to Oliver. “Take care of her. I’m counting on you.”

“Of course.”

Liam hesitates, jaw set, his earth-toned eyes revealing too much. Without another word, he turns away, and I can’t bring myself to watch him go.

A beat of disquiet hangs, but Oliver doesn’t extend the moment. “Follow me.” He moves forward like a man used to being obeyed.

I fall in step beside him, Astrid trailing behind, and no one speaks during the short elevator ride to the fourth floor. When we enter the House of Capricorn, I’m not prepared for what awaits.

The space is the opposite of the penthouse’s contemporary design, and while its layout mirrors the other floors of Zodiac Estate, Oliver’s taste for antique decor sets it apart. High end pieces of mahogany furniture define the sitting room, each sofa, chair, and accent table carved with meticulous detail. A grandfather clock marks time in quiet, deliberate beats, and low lighting glints off crystal decanters on a sleek bar cabinet.

But the true centerpiece of the room isn’t the furniture or the clock.

It’s the walls.

They’re nothing short of scandalous, adorned with life-sized paintings of the same faceless woman in intricate forms of bondage.

The provocative imagery isn’t what stops me cold. It’s the devastation that follows, stealing my breath, because I’d recognize that beautiful, exotic style anywhere.