The summons arrived at Evelyne’s estate before sunrise, delivered by a stiff-faced imperial courier who wasted no time in making it clear that she was expected at the imperial detective’s office immediately.

  Dressed in a deep navy coat, her boots clicking against the cobblestone streets, Evelyne made her way through the city, where the whispers of her recent triumph still lingered in the air. Market vendors stole glances at her, street urchins pointed excitedly, and the more well-to-do citizens regarded her with wary curiosity. News of her solving Lord Hawke’s murder had spread like wildfire, and even commoners now saw her as a force to be reckoned with.

  The imperial detective’s office was an imposing stone building with high-arched windows and a crest of the royal family etched into its iron doors. The guards at the entrance barely spared her a glance as they swung the doors open, allowing her inside.

  She was led into a grand chamber where dark oak bookshelves lined the walls, filled with meticulous records of the empire’s criminal cases. The air smelled of parchment and ink, tinged with the faint scent of cigar smoke. Behind an elaborate desk sat Lord Inspector Castian Veldt, a man known for his rigid adherence to the law and his deep-seated distaste for noble interference in his affairs.

  Veldt, a man with graying hair and piercing eyes, barely looked up from the papers before him. “Lady Thorne,” he greeted, his tone clipped. “I see you’ve made quite the name for yourself.”

  Evelyne took the offered chair across from him, folding her hands neatly in her lap. “I do have a habit of getting to the truth.”

  Veldt exhaled slowly, setting his papers aside. “You overstepped. It is not the place of a noblewoman to meddle in imperial investigations.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “And yet I solved it.”

  His lips thinned. “Which is exactly why I called you here.” He leaned forward, fingers steepled together. “Lord Hawke’s death was not a simple crime. Someone used the murderer as a tool. There are larger forces at play, and your little display at the ballroom may have placed you directly in their sights.”

  Evelyne’s expression didn’t falter. “Then perhaps you should be thanking me for forcing their hand.”

  Veldt let out a humorless chuckle. “You may be clever, Lady Thorne, but you are also reckless. Nobles are not immune to assassination, nor is the crown eager to see an upstart detective stirring trouble among its ranks.”

  Stolen story; please report.

  Before Evelyne could retort, the doors to the office swung open.

  Prince Alaric Varellion entered with the unhurried confidence of a man who owned every space he stepped into. His silver hair gleamed in the dim candlelight, and his golden eyes flicked between Evelyne and Veldt with practiced amusement.

  “My, my. Have you already started scolding my investigative partner, Lord Veldt?” he drawled.

  Evelyne stiffened. “I am no such thing.”

  “Not yet.” Alaric strolled past her chair, placing himself between her and Veldt. “But you will be.”

  Veldt stood, his expression carefully neutral. “Your Highness, this is a delicate matter. The empire cannot allow—”

  “The empire will allow what I command.” Alaric’s voice was silk wrapped around steel. “Lady Evelyne Thorne has already proven herself far more competent than half the investigators under your employ. Would you not agree?”

  Veldt’s jaw tightened. He was outranked, and they all knew it. After a moment of silence, he exhaled sharply. “And what is it you propose, Your Highness?”

  Alaric turned to Evelyne, a smirk tugging at his lips. “It’s simple. I am officially appointing Lady Thorne as my personal investigator. Her status will be recognized under royal decree, and no noble can challenge her right to investigate as she sees fit.”

  Evelyne narrowed her eyes. “Why do I get the feeling this is less about justice and more about making me indebted to you?”

  Alaric chuckled. “Perceptive, as always. Consider it a favor. You’ll owe me later.”

  Veldt, looking none too pleased, rubbed his temple. “This will cause an uproar.”

  “Let them rage,” Alaric said smoothly. “It amuses me.”

  Evelyne exhaled slowly. She wasn’t naive enough to believe Alaric did this purely out of goodwill. He was a man who played a long game, and now, she was a piece on his board. Still, if it granted her the authority she needed to continue investigating Lord Hawke’s murder, she would take the risk.

  “Fine,” she said. “But make no mistake—I work for the truth, not for you.”

  Alaric’s grin widened. “We’ll see.”

  By the time Evelyne stepped outside, word had already begun spreading. The nobles would be seething, scandalized that a woman—an orphaned duchess at that—had been granted investigative power under a prince’s protection.

  And the commoners? They would rejoice. Already, she saw glimpses of it—the nods of approval from passing merchants, the way a group of children whispered her name in awe. She had become something more than a noblewoman. She was a symbol of defiance against corruption.

  But as she approached her carriage, a hooded figure stepped out from the shadows, pressing a folded letter into her palm before vanishing into the bustling street.

  Evelyne glanced around, but the stranger was gone. Heart pounding, she unfolded the note.

  You were useful once. Do not make yourself a problem.

  The message was unsigned, but the warning was clear. Someone was watching her. Someone who did not appreciate her meddling.

  She clenched the note in her fist, lifting her gaze toward the imperial palace, where Prince Alaric no doubt watched and waited, amusement flickering in those golden eyes.

  He had thrown her into this game, and now, there was no turning back.

  With measured calm, she stepped into her carriage, letting the note burn to ashes in the wind.