"I told you to put it *here*, not *there!*"
Alexio Pembroke had been heading for the terrace when the servant's voice cut through the morning air—sharp, exasperated, entirely too loud for this hour. He pushed open the glass-paneled door and stepped outside.
Below him, the garden had descended into chaos.
Dozens of servants swarmed around a massive griffin statue, hauling ropes, shouting contradictory orders, their movements frantic beneath the unforgiving summer sun. The sculpture itself was grotesque in its grandeur—solid gold, wings spread wide, talons poised mid-strike. Sunlight blazed against its polished surface, throwing blinding reflections across the manicured hedges.
The griffin. Symbol of the Pembroke family.
Alexio leaned against the wrought-iron railing, his expression souring. He searched his memory, sifting through every document he'd signed, every purchase he'd authorized. Nothing. Even if there had been a single day in his life when he'd composed a shopping list while drunk or delirious, he was certain he would *never* have written down anything like this.
Which left only one possibility.
Only one person in this household would dare install something so monstrously ostentatious in the Duke's private garden—without so much as a word of consultation.
"Truly disgusting taste," he murmured.
The statue had been positioned with surgical precision. From where Alexio stood, it dominated the view from his chambers entirely. The message was clear. *Look at this every morning. Remember who put it here.*
He clicked his tongue softly and watched the servants struggle for another moment before turning back inside. His fingers found the velvet pull-cord near the fireplace. He tugged once.
Less than five minutes later, Mason appeared.
The butler paused in the doorway, his gaze drifting past his master to the spectacle unfolding in the garden below. A deep sigh escaped him—the sort of sigh that spoke of long-suffering patience worn dangerously thin.
Alexio, for his part, looked immaculate. Black suit tailored to razor-sharp perfection. Black leather gloves. Black hair swept back without a strand out of place. The Duke of Pembroke was, as always, flawless.
"My lord." Mason bowed, his expression pinched with embarrassment. "The Madame commissioned that statue. I only learned of its existence when it had already arrived at the gates."
"I assumed as much." Alexio's voice remained calm—almost disinterested—but Mason, who had served him for years, recognized the steel beneath the silk. "I doubt my butler would have stood idle if he'd known beforehand. Such an extravagant eyesore hardly suits the estate."
"In that case, Your Grace, shall I have it moved somewhere less... prominent?"
"No need."
Mason blinked. "My lord?"
Alexio waved a gloved hand, silencing him. His gaze lingered on the golden griffin, now being wrestled into its final position by a team of sweating servants. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"She clearly wanted it here. Let her have this small victory."
"You're... certain?"
"This time, she's content to vent her frustrations with a statue." The words rolled off Alexio's tongue with practiced ease. "That's still preferable to poisoned food or sabotaged brakes."
The statement landed like a stone dropped into still water. Mason's face remained carefully neutral, but he couldn't bring himself to laugh.
Because it wasn't a joke.
Poisoned meals. Severed brake lines. These things had happened before—more than once. The only reason Alexio Pembroke still drew breath was his own relentless paranoia. He trusted no one. Suspected everyone. And that suspicion had saved his life time and again.
Some men prayed to God for protection. Alexio had learned, through bitter experience, that the divine offered no such guarantees. If he wanted to survive, he would have to do it himself.
---
The roots of his predicament stretched back two decades—to his father's wedding.
The previous Duke of Pembroke had been a proud man teetering on the edge of financial ruin. Desperate to save the family name, he had made a choice that scandalized high society: he married a woman without a title. A *wealthy* woman, certainly. An heiress to a merchant fortune. But common blood, nonetheless.
The gossip columns had called it "the romance of the century"—a love that transcended class. In truth, it was nothing so poetic. The previous Duke had simply sold the position of Duchess to the highest bidder. An inelegant transaction dressed up in white lace and wedding vows.
Alexio was the product of that union.
The so-called romance ended three years later, when his mother died under circumstances no one spoke of anymore. Less than six months after her funeral—before the mourning wreaths had even wilted—the Duke remarried. His new bride was Lady Balfour, daughter of an earl, a woman of impeccable breeding and long-standing connection to the family.
That same year, she bore him a son: Derek Pembroke.
Society whispered. Had the affair begun before the first Duchess's death? The timing seemed too convenient, too perfectly arranged. But there was no proof, and eventually, the whispers faded into accepted history.
Time passed.
The previous Duke died of a mysterious illness—some unnamed infection that claimed him within weeks. And suddenly, Alexio, the half-blooded firstborn son with merchant's gold running through his veins, inherited everything.
To his stepmother, the Dowager Duchess, this was unacceptable.
Her son—*her* Derek, with his perfect pedigree and noble mother—had been passed over. And so the quiet war began. A war of poisoned teacups and loosened carriage wheels. A war Alexio had been fighting since he was old enough to understand that family could be the deadliest enemy of all.
---
"Leave the statue."
Alexio turned away from the window, dismissing the golden monstrosity from his thoughts.
"All I require is strong coffee and this morning's newspaper."
He tapped the empty surface of his desk—the desk where Mason always placed the daily paper before the Duke awoke. Today, that space was conspicuously bare.
Alexio arched an eyebrow.
Mason shifted his weight. His throat bobbed as he swallowed.
"My lord... it might be better if you didn't read today's edition."
A slow smile spread across Alexio's face. There was something almost playful in the way he tilted his head, arms folding across his chest.
"Now that you've said that," he murmured, "I find myself quite desperate to read it. Bring me the newspaper. Immediately."
---
## — The Rogue Duke —
> **THE LARGEST RAILROAD INVESTMENT SCAM IN HISTORY**
> *Is the "Rogue Duke" Behind It?*
Alexio scanned the article with practiced detachment, one hand wrapped around a cup of coffee so dark it was nearly opaque. The bitter aroma curled through the air as he read.
He knew the railway venture well. The company had promised a direct route to the coastal resort town of Ashworth—a destination beloved by nobility and commoners alike. The projected returns had been substantial, and Alexio had been among the first to invest.
The railway company had wasted no time exploiting his name.
*"The Duke of Pembroke—Our Investor!"* Their advertisements had proclaimed it in bold letters across every major publication, luring countless others to follow his example.
And follow they had.
The Pembroke family had once nearly destroyed itself through stubborn refusal to adapt. Now, thanks to Alexio's ruthless business instincts, the ducal coffers overflowed with more gold than the royal treasury itself. Rumors painted him as a mad dog—a predator who never released his prey once he'd caught the scent of profit.
Hundreds of billions had poured into the railway project. Wealthy merchants. Ambitious citizens dreaming of fortune. Even aristocrats, hiding their involvement behind layers of intermediaries, had contributed funds.
Then, without warning, the company vanished. The offices emptied overnight. The executives disappeared. Hundreds of billions—gone.
> *According to an anonymous source, members of the royal family are believed to be among the victims...*
> *The Duke of Pembroke, one of the earliest investors, withdrew his investment with interest three months prior to the collapse...*
> *Investors who lost their fortunes suspect the Duke was complicit in the scheme...*
"Total nonsense."
Alexio set down his cup with a soft *clink*.
Yes, he had withdrawn his investment. Yes, he had received interest on top of his principal. But collusion? Absurd. He had simply signed a short-term contract with performance milestones. When those milestones went unmet—when the company failed to produce a single coherent development plan—he had exercised his contractual right to terminate early.
Nothing more. Nothing less.
But accusations of fraud? Those, at least, were familiar. He was a half-breed aristocrat who had built an empire from suspicion and spite. The whispers had followed him his entire life. What was one more?
He tossed the newspaper onto the desk. The pages settled open to reveal a photograph: Alexio walking through a hotel lobby beside the railway company's representative, their postures suggesting comfortable familiarity.
The photo had been taken months ago, during the initial investment negotiations. But printed here, in *this* context, it told a different story entirely. It suggested intimacy. Conspiracy. A partnership that had continued until the bitter end.
_Clever_ , Alexio thought. _Manipulative. But ultimately meaningless._
"Mason."
"Yes, my lord." The butler's eyes sharpened, anticipating the command. "I will contact the newspaper immediately. We shall file charges of libel, demand a formal retraction, and—"
"Is there any need for such trouble?"
Mason hesitated. "My lord?"
Alexio rose from his chair, smoothing the front of his jacket with gloved fingers. His smile was cold. Pleasant. Utterly without warmth.
"Inform them that all Pembroke advertising is to be withdrawn from their publication. Effective immediately." He paused, letting the words settle. "Not a single coin will be spent on a newspaper that prints such drivel."
_There is no point_ , he had learned long ago, _in arguing with people who believe themselves cleverer than everyone else. Logic will not move them. Reason will not shame them._
_But money?_
_Money will crush them._
His pedigree was questionable. His reputation, tarnished. His connections among the old nobility, sparse at best.
But when it came to wealth—pure, overwhelming, suffocating wealth—no one in the empire could compare to Alexio Pembroke.
Even his stepmother, who dreamed nightly of his demise, dared not move against him openly.
Not yet.
He turned back toward the window, gazing down at the golden griffin now standing proudly in *his* garden, gleaming like a challenge.
_Let her have her statue_ , he thought. _Let her have her petty victories._
_The war is far from over._
---