Prince Arthur knew everyone would leap at his proposal.
Who, after all, could refuse a purebred princess with the blood of two royal families coursing through her veins?
"Hmm..."
Yet Madame Pembroke, inexplicably, seemed utterly unmoved. She sat across from him with the cool detachment of a seasoned merchant examining second-rate goods, her expression conveying neither enthusiasm nor interest.
"The princess appears rather... *thin*." She tilted her head, studying him with narrowed eyes. "I fear she may not be robust enough to bear an heir."
Arthur's hands fluttered up defensively, like a fledgling salesman scrambling to salvage a deal.
"Madame, what are you *saying?*" He forced a laugh that came out too loud, too eager. "Despite her delicate appearance, my daughter is brimming with vitality. Why, she can weave lace through the entire night and still greet the dawn with perfect cheer!"
Madame Pembroke's eyebrow arched dangerously.
"*Lace?*"
The word hung in the air like a guillotine blade.
It was unthinkable—*unconscionable*—for a member of the nobility to engage in manual labor. That was servants' work. The work of the *common*. For a princess to spend her nights hunched over needlework, fingers bleeding into thread...
The implication was damning.
Madame Pembroke's gaze swept the drawing room with fresh scrutiny. Prince Arthur sat before her in clothing of exquisite cut and luxurious fabric—silk brocade, gold threading, mother-of-pearl buttons—garments fit for a palace. Yet the room itself told a different story. The upholstery was faded. The corners harbored dust. The vases that should have overflowed with fresh flowers stood empty.
The prince had dressed himself in finery while the mansion crumbled around him.
"*Ahem!*" Arthur realized his mistake too late. He cleared his throat sharply, scrambling to recover. "Of course, it's merely a *hobby*. A genteel pastime. Certainly not—not a means of—"
"Of course." Madame Pembroke's smile was razor-thin.
The lie was transparent. Pathetic, even. A prince raised in the palace like a hothouse orchid, sheltered from every harsh reality—such a man had no talent for deception. Not against someone like her.
So. The situation was even more desperate than she'd anticipated. The princess wasn't just being sold; she was being worked like a servant to keep her father's creditors at bay.
*Excellent.*
Madame Pembroke relaxed visibly, her posture easing into something almost languid. Desperation made for excellent leverage.
"Well..." She folded the fan in her hands with a soft *snap*. "Even dressed rather *simply*, your daughter certainly possesses the bearing of a true princess."
The word *simply* was a masterpiece of understatement. The girl's gown had been threadbare, the lace at her collar yellowed with age. But Arthur, bless him, seemed oblivious to the insult.
In truth, Adelina wasn't technically a princess at all. As the daughter of a *prince*, her proper title should have been Lady Adelina at best. But the Queen—doting on her youngest son's child as fiercely as she'd doted on the son himself—had bestowed the title of *Princess* upon the girl by royal decree.
The decision had been controversial. Half the court had opposed it. But no one dared defy the Queen when her mind was set.
Of course, the Queen had been bedridden for over a year now. Her power had withered along with her body. And without her protection, Adelina's title was little more than a courtesy—a fading echo of a grandmother's indulgence.
Madame Pembroke knew all this. She also knew that Prince Arthur understood none of it.
"Isn't it marvelous?" Arthur leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with barely suppressed greed. "There is no finer bride than my daughter in all the kingdom. This is your chance, Madame—to make your son the *son-in-law of the crown*."
He truly believed it, too. Believed in his own pitch. Believed that she saw him as an equal, rather than a debtor scrambling to avoid ruin.
*Pathetic.*
But useful.
---
The rumors were true, of course.
Prince Arthur *had* lost his entire fortune in the railway scheme. Every last klon, sunk into promises of profit that evaporated overnight. Now, unless he could produce five billion klons within the month, he would be bankrupt. Utterly, irrevocably ruined.
The mansion would be seized. The servants dismissed. The lifestyle he'd enjoyed since childhood—the silk sheets, the imported wines, the endless indulgence—would vanish like morning mist.
The thought alone made Arthur's stomach churn with dread.
But five billion klons was an astronomical sum. The equivalent of a mid-tier noble house's entire budget for *five years*. He could never raise it alone.
His elder brother, Prince Leopold—now serving as regent in their ailing mother's stead—had refused him outright.
"You expect me to drain the royal treasury for your *gambling debts?*" Leopold's voice had been ice and iron. "How much longer do you intend to behave like a spoiled child? I am not our mother. I will not coddle you."
"But brother, I—"
"Do you have *any* idea how much damage you've done?" Leopold's fist had slammed against his desk, rattling inkwells and parchment. "Your name appears in every abolitionist pamphlet printed in the capital. To silence them, I've had to slash taxes, gut budgets, sacrifice programs that *matter*—all to prove the crown still serves the people. And you *dare* come to me asking for more?"
Arthur had opened his mouth. Closed it. No words came.
"If you are a prince," Leopold had continued, voice dropping to something soft and venomous, "then *act like one*. Live for honor. Live for the continuation of the bloodline. Or abdicate the title and spare us all the embarrassment."
---
Arthur couldn't turn to his late wife's family, either.
The marriage had been arranged—practically forced—as a political alliance between the Kingdom of Riochel and the Duchy of Estria. A union designed to strengthen ties between nations, not hearts. The Duke of Estria had never liked his son-in-law. Even when Marguerite was alive, the old man had made his disdain clear in a thousand small cruelties: cold greetings, pointed silences, the refusal to visit except on state occasions.
After Marguerite's death, that disdain had curdled into outright hostility.
Arthur knew—though Adelina did not—that the Duke had demanded his granddaughter's return the moment his daughter drew her last breath. He'd sent letters. Emissaries. Thinly veiled threats.
*She is of my blood. She belongs with her mother's people.*
Arthur had ignored them all.
Because Adelina was the only card he had left to play.
If the Duke learned that Arthur was bankrupt—that he'd gambled away his fortune on a fraudulent scheme—the old man would descend on the estate like an avenging angel. He would take Adelina. He would strip Arthur of everything.
And without Adelina, there would be no five billion klons. No salvation. No hope.
So Arthur had to act quickly. Before the Duke found out. Before Leopold lost patience. Before the creditors came knocking.
He had only one asset of value: his daughter.
*The goose that lays golden eggs.*
---
"Of course," Arthur told himself, sipping tea he could no longer afford, "this arrangement will ultimately serve the kingdom. If Adelina's descendants—carrying the blood of both Riochel and Estria—prosper, imagine how much *stronger* the alliance between our nations will become. Leopold will thank me. The Queen will thank me. Even the Duke will have to acknowledge my wisdom."
It was a beautiful rationalization.
And if he happened to collect a finder's fee in the process—well, that was simply his right as a father arranging an advantageous match for his exceptional daughter.
*No more, no less.*
Exactly five billion klons.
That was the number. That was salvation.
Arthur studied Madame Pembroke from beneath his lashes, anxiety coiling in his gut.
Several families had expressed interest after he'd announced Adelina's availability. But their offers had been insultingly low—two billion, perhaps three at most. Nowhere *near* enough.
The Pembroke family, however...
The Pembrokes were old blood. Their lineage stretched back as far as the royal family's—perhaps farther, if certain historians were to be believed. And more importantly, they were *wealthy*. Obscenely, incomprehensibly wealthy. The current Duke had turned the family fortune into an empire that rivaled the crown's own coffers.
If anyone could pay five billion klons without blinking, it was them.
Arthur tried not to think about the fact that the Pembroke name had been tangled up in the railway scandal. Tried not to think about the Duke's cold eyes and colder reputation. Tried not to think about anything except the number.
*Five billion.*
*Salvation.*
He forced his expression into something resembling confidence and waited.
---
Madame Pembroke had not missed the prince's nervousness. She could see it in the way his fingers trembled around his teacup, the way his gaze kept darting toward her face, searching for approval.
*Desperate*, she thought. *Perfect.*
She opened her fan again, waving it languidly before her face.
"Well," she mused aloud, "golden hair bright as honey... eyes that sparkle like sapphires..."
The rumors surrounding Princess Adelina's beauty had spread far and wide. *Word of a beautiful woman travels a thousand miles*, as the saying went. Yet the girl had spent most of her life hidden away—first tending to her dying mother, then secluded in mourning afterward. The few photographs released to the press had been blurry, distant, useless for confirming anything.
Even Madame Pembroke, who attended every significant social event in the capital, had never seen the princess's face up close.
Until today.
"The rumors," she said slowly, "were not exaggerated."
She allowed herself to recall the encounter in the garden earlier that afternoon. A carefully orchestrated "chance" meeting, of course—Arthur's doing, no doubt. The princess had been strolling among the roses with her maid, and Madame Pembroke had paused to observe.
The girl was... extraordinary.
Not merely beautiful—*striking*. The kind of beauty that stopped conversation mid-sentence. Golden curls cascading over delicate shoulders. Eyes like deep water, fringed with dark lashes. Skin so pale it seemed to glow in the sunlight. Features so perfectly symmetrical they might have been sculpted by a master artisan.
Even Madame Pembroke—who prided herself on her critical eye—had been forced to admit it.
*With beauty like that*, she thought, *even my fool of a son won't be able to resist.*
Derek was vain. Easily swayed by a pretty face. A princess like Adelina would dazzle him utterly.
"Her beauty alone," Madame Pembroke said, snapping her fan shut, "would be worth the price. The royal connection is simply... a bonus."
Arthur's face lit up like a child promised sweets.
"I knew you would understand!" He straightened in his chair, confidence flooding back. "There is no family that can compare to the Pembrokes, after all."
It was an absurdly arrogant statement—one that implicitly placed the Pembroke family *above* even the royal line. But Arthur nodded eagerly, oblivious.
"Of course! That's precisely why I approached you first."
*Liar*, Madame Pembroke thought. *You've been running from estate to estate, begging anyone with deep pockets.*
But she smiled graciously. "How wise of you."
"Well..." She leaned back, affecting an air of thoughtful consideration. "It *is* time for my son to settle down. Better to marry while he's young, wouldn't you say?"
"Undoubtedly!"
Madame Pembroke's smile sharpened.
"Your Highness." Her tone shifted—brisk, businesslike. "Lengthy negotiations bore me. Let us speak plainly. Name your price. The Pembroke family will not allow such a remarkable bride to slip into another house's hands."
Arthur's eyes widened. Even he couldn't mistake the meaning.
*This is a done deal.*
Carefully—oh, so carefully—he raised one hand. Five fingers extended.
"Five billion klons," he said. "That will suffice."
Madame Pembroke didn't hesitate.
"A perfectly reasonable sum."
Arthur's face split into a triumphant grin.
"Wonderful! We'll arrange an informal meeting between the young people—let them become acquainted. After that..." He waved his hand airily. "We'll leave the rest to them."
"Indeed."
Madame Pembroke rose from her seat, smoothing her skirts. The negotiation was over. The deal, as far as Prince Arthur knew, was sealed.
She offered him a shallow curtsy—just deep enough to satisfy propriety, not nearly deep enough to suggest true respect.
"I look forward to welcoming Princess Adelina into the Pembroke family."
Arthur stood as well, bowing low. "The honor is ours, Madame."
Neither of them saw the shadow that had fallen across the drawing room doorway.
Neither of them heard the soft, deliberate footsteps approaching from the hall.
And neither of them noticed—until it was far too late—the figure standing just beyond the threshold, black-gloved hands folded neatly behind his back, dark eyes glittering with cold amusement.
"Forgive the intrusion," said Alexio Pembroke, his voice smooth as silk and sharp as broken glass. "But I believe there's been a misunderstanding."
He stepped into the room.
"You see, Madame... I'm afraid my *brother* is already spoken for."
---