"Wedding? A *deal*?"
Prince Arthur's laugh was sharp and brittle, cracking at the edges like thin ice.
"*Ha!*"
He lunged forward and seized Adelina's wrist, yanking her away from the Duke with enough force to make her stumble.
"This is *my* treasure," he spat, positioning himself between daughter and suitor. "And I've certainly never given *you* my blessing."
Alexio released her without resistance.
He could have held on. The difference in their strength was obvious—Arthur was soft from decades of palace comfort, while the Duke moved with the coiled power of a man who had clawed his way to prominence through sheer will. Had Alexio chosen to fight, Arthur wouldn't have stood a chance.
But force would have hurt Adelina. Her face had already gone pale from her father's crushing grip, her lips pressed thin against the pain.
"Lord Pembroke, enough of this *nonsense*!" Arthur's voice rose to a near-shout. "I've already given my consent to this child's marriage. The heads of the families have agreed on terms. Everything is *settled*!"
"Why all this high-flown talk, Father-in-Law?" Alexio's tone remained pleasant, almost conversational. The title dropped from his lips like a perfectly placed knife. "Let's settle this simply."
Arthur's face, already flushed with fury, deepened to an alarming shade of purple.
"Stop calling me—!"
"How much did they promise you?"
The question cut through Arthur's tirade like a blade through silk.
The prince's mouth snapped shut. His eyes darted—involuntarily, revealingly—toward Adelina.
*She doesn't know*, his panicked expression screamed. *She can't know about the money.*
If his daughter discovered that her marriage had been sold for five billion klons, she might demand her share. Or worse—she might tell someone. The scandal would be catastrophic.
"I don't know what you're talking about." Arthur arranged his features into something approximating dignified confusion. "This is a matter of noble alliance, not—"
"Shall I announce the list of families you've visited recently?" Alexio's smile sharpened. "The ones you approached in your desperate attempt to auction off your 'treasure'?"
Arthur's throat worked convulsively.
The list, they both knew, would include virtually every noble house with an unmarried son of appropriate age. The prince had been shameless in his desperation—practically going door to door with his hand outstretched.
"Tell me the amount you agreed upon with my stepmother." Alexio's voice remained perfectly calm, perfectly reasonable. "I'll pay double. That's the agreement between Adele and myself."
"*D-double?*"
The word emerged as a strangled whisper.
Arthur's grip on Adelina's wrist loosened as arithmetic overwhelmed outrage. Five billion from Madame Pembroke. Double that would be...
"*Ten billion klons!*"
His voice cracked on the number. All pretense of dignity evaporated, replaced by naked, undisguised greed.
Ten billion. *Ten billion.*
With that kind of money, he wouldn't just pay off his debts—he'd be wealthier than before the railway disaster. He could invest again, rebuild his fortune, live the life he deserved.
Adelina slipped free of his slack fingers, forgotten.
"I haven't received any payment from Madame Pembroke yet," Arthur heard himself saying. "If someone offers better terms, surely it would be *foolish* to refuse?"
Loyalty? What was loyalty compared to ten billion klons?
He'd trembled at the shadow of Pembroke mere hours ago, terrified of the Duke's reputation and reach. But that fear seemed quaint now. *Distant.* Ten billion klons had a way of dissolving inconvenient emotions.
Alexio, watching the calculations play out across Arthur's face, delivered the final blow.
"I arrived in haste and couldn't prepare a proper advance." He reached into his coat and withdrew something that gleamed gold in the afternoon light. "Accept this as a token of my intentions."
He pressed the object into Arthur's palm.
A pocket watch.
Arthur's breath caught.
He had grown up surrounded by luxury—had worn, eaten, and displayed only the finest things since the day of his birth. He knew quality when he saw it. And this...
"This is—" His voice dropped to an awed whisper. "This is a *Hartmann original*."
The renowned master had died decades ago, leaving behind fewer than fifty watches in existence. Each one was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, worth hundreds of millions on the open market. Some collectors would pay *more* than that—the pieces were practically impossible to acquire.
And the Duke of Pembroke had just handed one over like spare change.
While Arthur stared at the watch, transfixed by its weight and beauty, Adelina and Alexio exchanged a glance.
Her eyes asked: *What did you just do?*
His shoulders lifted in an eloquent shrug: *What needed to be done.*
Arthur looked up. His expression had undergone a remarkable transformation—suspicion replaced by something approaching warmth, hostility melted into eager cooperation.
"Son-in-Law." The word emerged smoothly, naturally, as though he'd been saying it all his life. "Let's go inside and discuss the details, shall we?"
---
## — The Pembroke Estate —
"That *wretched* man!"
Madame Pembroke slammed through the door without warning, her entrance more assault than arrival.
The room beyond was dark despite the late morning hour—heavy curtains drawn tight against any intrusion of light. The air hung thick and stale, carrying the unmistakable scent of expensive wine and cheaper perfume.
Madame Pembroke's lip curled with disgust.
"Open the curtains immediately," she commanded, her voice slicing through the gloom like a whip crack. "And *clean this place*."
"Yes, Madame! At once!"
Servants scurried into action, their movements frantic with fear. Fabric rustled as the curtains were torn aside, flooding the room with unforgiving sunlight.
The scene it revealed was exactly what Madame Pembroke had expected.
And dreaded.
The chamber was opulent—gilded mirrors, velvet furnishings, crystal decanters scattered across every available surface. The kind of room that spoke of unlimited wealth and unlimited indulgence.
In the center of it all, dominating the space like a throne, sat an enormous bed.
And in that bed...
"*Mmm...*"
A groan emerged from beneath tangled silk sheets. A masculine arm flung itself across the pillows, warding off the offensive brightness.
Next to that arm lay a feminine one.
The servants caught glimpses of bare skin, discarded clothing, the aftermath of activities best left unmentioned. Several young maids waiting in the doorway flushed scarlet and fixed their gazes firmly on the floor.
The clothes scattered beside the bed were not those of a noble lady.
They were maid's uniforms.
*Again*, Madame Pembroke thought, fury building behind her teeth. *He's done it again.*
She strode to the bedside, heels striking the marble floor like hammer blows.
"The curtains..." The man's voice emerged cracked and petulant, thick with interrupted sleep. "Draw them back."
He thought she was a servant. *Of course* he did.
"I'm afraid," Madame Pembroke said coldly, "that's quite impossible."
Derek Pembroke's eyes snapped open.
He was handsome—devastatingly so. Soft features, warm coloring, light-brown hair that fell in artful disarray across his forehead. The kind of face that made women sigh and men envious.
The face, unfortunately, was attached to an absolute *fool*.
"Mother?"
The girl beside him—some little chambermaid, barely more than a child—jerked upright at the word. Her eyes went wide with horror as she registered Madame Pembroke's presence.
"M-Madame?!"
The color drained from her face. She scrambled from the bed in a tangle of limbs and linen, snatching at her discarded uniform with trembling hands.
Madame Pembroke didn't spare her a glance. She simply raised one finger, a minimal gesture of dismissal.
The maids in the doorway surged forward, seizing their unfortunate colleague and dragging her toward the exit.
"M-Master!" The girl's voice rose in desperate appeal. "Master, please—!"
Derek yawned.
The sound was loud, theatrical, ostentatiously unconcerned. He didn't even turn his head.
The door closed on the girl's pleading cries.
Silence.
"Why," Madame Pembroke said, each word precise as a surgeon's cut, "are you *here*—instead of at the Rossi estate?"
Derek stretched languorously, completely untroubled by his mother's fury. "Rossi? That's why you came? Just to ask about *that*?"
"*Just*?" The word emerged as a hiss. "I made it *explicitly* clear that I had arranged a marriage meeting for you today. *Why are you still in bed*?"
"Mother." Derek rose at last, reaching for a silk robe draped over a nearby chair. He pulled it on without bothering to close it properly, revealing a chest marked with red scratches and darker bruises—evidence of enthusiastic nocturnal activities. "Do you really think such an *old-fashioned* custom as an arranged marriage suits me?"
He yawned again.
Madame Pembroke pressed her fingertips to her temples, fighting the urge to scream.
*This.* This was what she had raised. This was what she had sacrificed and schemed for. This *incorrigible, worthless—*
"You ruined everything," she said, her voice dropping to something low and dangerous, "because you were afraid of giving up your *wild life* after marriage? That's *all* this is?"
Derek had the audacity to shrug.
Something snapped inside her.
She lunged forward, her palm connecting with his back once, twice, three times in rapid succession.
"*Answer me!*"
"Mother—!" Derek dodged away, hands raised defensively. "Please, calm yourself—"
"*Calm myself?*" Her voice rose to a shriek. "You didn't even *show your face* at a meeting that cost me *five billion klons*!"
The number hung in the air.
Derek, who had been retreating with an expression of mild annoyance, suddenly went very still.
"Five billion?"
For the first time since her arrival, genuine interest flickered across his handsome features.
Madame Pembroke noticed the change. She drew a steadying breath, pressing one hand against her chest to calm her racing heart.
*Finally.* Finally she had his attention.
"I see you're surprised." Her voice steadied, regaining some of its usual composure. "Perhaps now you understand the magnitude of what you've *thrown away*."
"No." Derek tilted his head, studying her with new curiosity. "I'm simply wondering how impressive this bride must be, if *you're* willing to spend that kind of money on her."
The watching servants fought desperately to control their expressions. Several bit their lips hard enough to draw blood.
There were many words one might use to describe Madame Pembroke. *Dignified. Formidable. Ruthless.* But one word that few would dare apply—at least not to her face—was *miserly*.
Yet it was true. Behind the noble facade, she hoarded gold like a dragon guarding its hoard. Every expenditure pained her. Every transaction was calculated to the last klon.
Only Derek had the audacity to acknowledge this openly.
"If Mother had that kind of money lying around," he continued blithely, "you could have bought me that villa I mentioned last season. The one with the bedroom overlooking the sea?" He sighed wistfully. "You would have *loved* the view, Mother. Simply *breathtaking*."
His tone was light, casual—as though requesting a trinket from a street vendor rather than a property worth more than most nobles earned in a lifetime.
Madame Pembroke's eye twitched.
Her palm connected with his back again, harder this time.
"Is this *really* the moment to discuss *villas*?" She struck him once more for good measure. "Correct your mistake *immediately*! Go to Rossi and apologize for keeping the princess waiting!"
"The princess?"
"*Yes*, the princess! Adelina Roche—the purebred princess—the bride I secured for you at *considerable* expense!" Madame Pembroke's composure was crumbling rapidly. "Her carriage should have arrived at the Rossi estate hours ago. If you leave *now*, you might still—"
A knock interrupted her tirade.
"Madame." A servant's voice, trembling with obvious reluctance. "A message has arrived. From... from the Roche estate."
Madame Pembroke's eyes narrowed. "Bring it here. *Immediately.*"
The door cracked open. A folded letter appeared, passed from hand to hand until it reached the Dowager Duchess.
She tore it open.
Her eyes scanned the contents once. Twice. Three times.
All color drained from her face.
"*Impossible.*"
"Mother?" Derek, sensing the shift in atmosphere, actually looked concerned. "What does it say?"
Madame Pembroke didn't answer.
She stood frozen, the letter crumpling in her white-knuckled grip, her lips moving soundlessly around words that refused to emerge.
Finally, in a voice that seemed to come from very far away:
"Prince Arthur has... *withdrawn* from our agreement."
"Withdrawn?" Derek blinked. "Why would he—"
"Because your *brother*—" The word emerged like poison. "—has made a counter-offer."
She looked up, and her eyes burned with cold, terrible fury.
"*Alexio* has stolen your bride."
---