The coughing fit seized Arthur with particular violence this time.
He realized, too late, that his rambling had led him directly onto a landmine. The Duke of Pembroke's parentage—that *scandalous* marriage between a desperate nobleman and a common-born heiress—was obviously a sensitive subject. A wound that hadn't healed.
And Arthur, in his careless arrogance, had just pressed his thumb directly into it.
*Fool*, he chastised himself. *Utter fool.*
But when he dared to glance up at the Duke, expecting cold fury or wounded pride, he found only...
A smile.
"I quite agree about the documentation," Alexio said pleasantly, as though nothing untoward had been mentioned. "Businessmen do prefer to have things in writing. How fortunate that my Father-in-Law and I find ourselves so naturally aligned."
Without waiting for a response, the Duke reached for the paper and pen lying on Arthur's desk. His hand moved with swift, confident strokes—and within moments, he was extending a freshly written document across the table.
Arthur accepted it with trembling fingers.
His eyes scanned the page—and widened.
*How does a half-blood merchant's son have such exquisite penmanship?*
Despite being dashed off in mere seconds, the handwriting was *perfect*. Each letter precisely formed. Each space exactly measured. Arthur could search his entire library and not find a document more elegantly written.
> *I, Alexio Pembroke, promise to pay ten billion klons within three days of my marriage to Adelina Brielle Estria-Roche.*
The prince examined every letter, every word, every flourish of ink. He had learned caution—*finally*—after the railway disaster. No more signing documents without reading them. No more trusting promises that seemed too good to be true.
But this...
This was simple. Clean. Legally binding.
The Duke's signature sprawled across the bottom in bold, confident strokes.
"Will this document set my Father-in-Law's mind at ease?"
"*Yes!*" Arthur's voice came out embarrassingly loud, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He folded the paper carefully—reverently—treating it like the ten-billion-klon check it essentially was.
His thoughts were already racing ahead.
Pay off the debts. *Start fresh.* Invest in something *new*—something *safe* this time. He could rebuild everything he'd lost. He could be *wealthy* again, properly wealthy, the way a prince deserved to be.
What did it matter how his daughter and this stranger had come to their arrangement? What did it matter if the Duke had hidden motives, secret schemes, plans within plans?
For ten billion klons, Arthur would have sold his soul.
His daughter was a bargain by comparison.
"The wedding should happen as soon as possible, shouldn't it?" The words tumbled out before Arthur could stop them, his smile stretching too wide, his dignity abandoned entirely. *So I can get my hands on the money—*
The thought remained unspoken.
It didn't need to be said. The prince's greed was written across his face in letters anyone could read.
Alexio's lips curved upward—just slightly—and he nodded.
"Indeed. We're planning to marry during the upcoming full moon."
"The full moon? Ah, yes." Arthur nodded sagely, trying to recover some semblance of composure. "Weddings on the night of a full moon are a long-standing royal tradition. Very appropriate. Very—"
He stopped.
Blinked.
His face went slack as arithmetic finally penetrated the haze of avarice clouding his brain.
"Speaking of the *upcoming* full moon..."
*Isn't that in ten days?*
---
## — The Road to Roche —
The carriage hurtled down the country road at a speed that bordered on reckless.
Derek Pembroke lounged against the velvet cushions, watching the scenery blur past the window. Trees became smears of green. Fences became streaks of white. The wheels beneath them seemed to scream in protest with every rut and stone.
He whistled softly—a jaunty tune entirely inappropriate for the circumstances.
"If we continue at this pace," he observed mildly, "we'll arrive in the Underworld rather than the Roche estate."
Madame Pembroke's leg had been bouncing with nervous energy since they'd departed. At her son's flippant remark, her eyes flashed with barely contained fury.
"This is *not* the time for jokes, Derek." Her voice cracked like a whip. "A title and fortune weren't enough for you to lose—now you're going to hand your brother a *bride* as well?"
"*Lose?*" Derek stretched his arms wide, displaying the immaculate cut of his coat, the gleam of his cufflinks, the casual opulence that draped him from head to toe. "Mother, I never *had* those things to begin with. The title, the estate, the fortune—they were always Alexio's by right of birth."
He shrugged, utterly unbothered.
"And honestly? My life is quite comfortable as it stands. Why would I want more?"
Madame Pembroke stared at her son as though he'd grown a second head.
Derek had never—not *once*—seriously entertained the notion of becoming Duke. He'd watched Alexio work himself to exhaustion, managing investments and negotiations and a thousand moving pieces. The dukedom wasn't a privilege; it was a *burden*. A spinning wheel that would never stop turning.
Why subject himself to that misery?
No. Derek had concluded long ago that he was born for leisure. Fortune had blessed him with a wealthy family and a half-brother willing to fund his lifestyle. What possible reason could he have for wanting more?
He couldn't understand why his mother remained so obsessed with titles and inheritance. Alexio was *generous*. Even when Derek and Madame Pembroke spent money frivolously—and they spent it *very* frivolously—the Duke never complained. Never threatened. Never even seemed to *notice*.
So what, exactly, was there to worry about?
"You're incredibly naive, Derek."
Madame Pembroke's voice had gone cold. Dangerous.
"You think your brother will remain generous forever?" She leaned forward, eyes boring into his. "Once he has a *family*—once he has a *wife*—everything changes."
Derek's expression flickered—the first hint of uncertainty since the conversation began.
"What do you mean?"
"I *mean*," Madame Pembroke said slowly, as though explaining to a particularly dim child, "that my position in this household depends entirely on there being no Duchess of Pembroke."
She sat back, folding her hands in her lap.
"As Alexio's stepmother, I serve as the de facto mistress of the estate. I manage the household. I control the internal affairs. I have *leverage*." Her lips pressed into a thin line. "But the moment he marries? The moment some woman receives the title of Duchess? My authority evaporates. *Poof.* Gone like morning mist."
Derek was silent.
"And when *I* lose my position," Madame Pembroke continued, "you lose your comfortable life. Do you understand? The clothes on your back, the villa you wanted, the servants who attend your every whim—all of it flows from *my* influence. Without me standing between you and your brother..."
She let the sentence hang, unfinished.
The implications were clear enough.
"Perhaps we should simply leave the manor," Derek suggested, though his voice had lost some of its usual lightness. "Take what we can and establish ourselves elsewhere. We could still live comfortably—"
"On *what*?" Madame Pembroke's laugh was bitter as ash. "The laws of entail ensure everything passes to the eldest son. *Everything.* We own nothing. We have nothing. We exist entirely at Alexio's sufferance."
She reached out and gripped her son's chin, forcing him to meet her gaze.
"What nobleman," she asked softly, "shares his wealth with a stepmother he despises? With a half-brother he barely acknowledges? *Think*, Derek. Think about what happens when we are no longer useful."
Derek's jaw tightened.
For the first time, genuine unease flickered behind his eyes.
"You must marry while I still hold power," Madame Pembroke released him, sitting back with grim satisfaction. "While I can still prevent the Duke from taking a wife. This is the *only* way we maintain our position."
Derek said nothing.
But his earlier complacency had vanished entirely.
Madame Pembroke turned to stare out the window, watching the countryside streak past.
She wanted to remain in this position. Wanted others to treat her as the true mistress of Pembroke. Wanted to continue living in wealth and elegance until her dying day.
And for all of that to happen, Alexio Pembroke *must* remain unmarried.
---
## — The Princess's Chambers —
"It's *true!*"
Sophie's voice rang through Adelina's private sitting room, trembling with barely contained fury. Her hands shook. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears.
"His Highness the Prince has been running from estate to estate trying to arrange your marriage! He reached an agreement with Madame Pembroke *days* ago! I've found out *everything!*"
The storm that had been building since their return from the Pembroke estate finally broke.
Sophie had been investigating. Questioning. *Listening*. And what she'd discovered had shattered something inside her.
"I heard—" Her voice cracked. She steadied herself and continued. "I heard that His Highness invested in a railway construction project. And *lost everything*. The entire fortune. Every last klon."
Adelina sat very still, her face carefully neutral.
She had already known, of course. Alexio had told her in the carriage. But hearing it confirmed—hearing the full scope of her father's desperation laid bare—still landed like a blow to the chest.
"Oh, my lady..." Sophie's composure crumbled entirely. Tears spilled down her cheeks. "I thought—when Madame Pembroke visited—I thought perhaps the Prince was considering *remarriage*. I never imagined—I never *dreamed*—"
She grabbed a crumpled newspaper from the side table and thrust it toward Adelina.
"*Look at this!*"
The headline screamed from the page:
> **PRINCE ROCHE FACES BANKRUPTCY AFTER RAILWAY SCHEME COLLAPSE**
The article detailed everything. The investment. The fraud. The desperate attempts to secure funds. Arthur's name wasn't mentioned directly—royal privilege afforded certain protections—but the implications were unmistakable.
"This is something *everyone* knows about!" Sophie's voice rose to something approaching a wail. "The whole mansion! The whole *kingdom!* Everyone knew except *us!*"
She threw the newspaper onto the table with more force than necessary.
"The servants have been gossiping about it for *weeks*, my lady. Weeks! They watched you walk past every single day, and they said *nothing!*"
Adelina remained silent.
She was thinking about the cook who always smiled so warmly when preparing her meals. The footmen who bowed so respectfully in the corridors. The housemaids who curtsied and murmured "Your Highness" and seemed so devoted to her service.
They had all known.
They had watched her father put her up for auction. They had whispered about it in the kitchens, speculated about it in the servants' quarters, gossiped about which family would purchase her like livestock at market.
And not one of them—not *one*—had thought to warn her.
"How could they?" Sophie was pacing now, too agitated to remain still. "After everything you've done for them? When the household began to struggle, *you* were the one who insisted their wages be paid! *You* sold your own jewelry to cover the costs! *You* went without new dresses and fine food so that *they* could be comfortable!"
Her voice broke on the final word.
"And they repaid you with *silence*."
The betrayal hung in the air between them—heavy, suffocating, complete.
Adelina finally spoke, her voice barely above a whisper.
"They were afraid."
"*Afraid?*" Sophie whirled to face her. "Of *what?*"
"Of my father." Adelina's gaze dropped to her hands, folded neatly in her lap. "Of losing their positions. Of being turned out onto the streets with no reference and no prospects."
She understood it, even if she couldn't forgive it.
Arthur was not a kind master. He was demanding, imperious, quick to anger. The servants had learned long ago that crossing him meant destruction. And in a household already teetering toward bankruptcy, job security was precarious at best.
*Better to stay silent*, they must have reasoned. *Better to keep our heads down and hope someone else delivers the bad news.*
"It doesn't excuse them," Adelina added quietly. "But I understand why they did it."
Sophie's fury deflated somewhat, replaced by something sadder. Heavier.
"My lady..." She sank into a chair, suddenly exhausted. "What are you going to *do?*"
For a long moment, Adelina didn't answer.
Then, slowly, a small smile curved her lips.
"I'm going to marry the Duke of Pembroke."
Sophie's head snapped up. "*What?*"
"He came to me with a proposal." Adelina's voice was calm now, steady. "A contract. Three years of marriage in name only. No... *obligations*. No children. And at the end, if I wish, a divorce."
She met her maid's astonished gaze.
"He's offering me *freedom*, Sophie. The one thing I never thought I could have."
Sophie stared at her mistress for a long, silent moment.
Then, slowly, a matching smile spread across her tear-stained face.
"Well, then." She straightened in her chair, composure returning. "I suppose we have a wedding to prepare for."
"In ten days," Adelina confirmed.
"*Ten days?*" Sophie's eyes went wide as saucers. "My lady, that's—that's barely enough time to arrange the *flowers*, let alone—"
"I know." Adelina's smile widened. "We'd better get started."
---