The clack of her heels echoed furiously across the marble floors of the Town Guard station as the officer signed her release. Misty didn't thank him. She didn't glance at the guards who escorted her out. She moved like someone who believed the world owed her an apology—and that she'd collect it before noon.
The moment the air hit her skin, she hissed. Morning sunlight filtered through high arches, far too bright for the mood curling under her skin. Her nails dug into her silk gloves as she snapped them into place, jaw tight.
Her expensive dress was now creased and ruined; it was made of a material that was notoriously difficult to maintain. A material designed for those who were more concerned with its appearance than with its functionality.
She had been humiliated.
Dragged from a noble estate like some criminal. Spoken to like she was nothing. And worst of all, by her own son.
Her own traitorous, precious investment.
Lucas.
She had made numerous sacrifices to obtain him, to be able to give birth to an imperial child, and to raise him in her care, away from those who could intervene.
She boarded the car waiting for her, ready to unleash a tirade at Ophelia for her cowardice, for her silence, for not defending her at dinner the night before. But the words died in her throat the moment she saw him.
A man stood beside the open door of the car, leaning slightly against the polished frame like the vehicle belonged to him. Her driver and her usual bodyguard were nowhere to be seen. They were most likely bribed to allow them time to speak in silence.
Ash-brown hair, styled with that effortless precision only those born into old money could master. His suit was black, tailored to the inch, and hugged his frame like armor. The House Velloran emblem was discreet but unmistakable on the lapel.
He didn't smile. She had never seen him smile or treat her like an equal.
His expression was cool, unreadable, the kind that made servants bow and politicians pause.
"Count Christian," Misty said after a beat, summoning her best voice. She stepped back slightly, blinking against the rising sunlight. "I didn't know we had a meeting today."
Christian Velloran tilted his head, his gaze flicking toward her with all the warmth of a blade being drawn.
"You weren't summoned," he said, voice low. Measured. "I came on my own."
That wasn't like him. He never came uninvited. Never moved without intention.
Misty forced a laugh. "Well, you could've sent word. I would've prepared tea. Or something stronger." She clenched her hands in the dress's folds, trying to hide her discomfort.
He raised his brow in mockery. "In the Town Guards's section? Do not blame me if I decline. I've come and…" He glanced at his watch with the grace of a predator. "I have less than ten minutes to hear why your precious son is now under D'Argente house protection rather than Velloran's."
Misty's painted smile cracked.
"Now, Christian, there is no need to be dramatic," she said, her voice catching despite herself. "Lucas was only supposed to be at the Temple. A spiritual retreat. Reflection before his ceremony. It's traditional—"
Christian looked up from his watch, unimpressed. His grey eyes cut into her like cold metal.
"Traditional," he echoed, dry. "And yet, I hear Serathine announced she's adopting him. As her ward."
Misty's mouth parted. Closed again. Then forced out a laugh too high to be casual. "Oh, that woman's always been dramatic. She's trying to provoke me. Caelan asked her to host his coming-of-age. Nothing more. It's symbolic."
"You forged a contract," he said, and there was no room left for smiles.
Misty stiffened. "That was… exploratory. Not binding."
"You took money."
Her face drained of color.
"You signed for a bond-exclusive clause. Fertility included. Custom schedule for heats," he added, glancing at her with pointed disdain. "You sold him already."
"It's legal," she snapped, desperate now. "He's not of age! The Empire recognizes my guardianship—"
"And the Empire now recognizes Serathine D'Argente as his guardian," Christian cut in. "Which means I, as the contracted buyer, should've been informed the moment the boy's custody changed."
"Lucas doesn't know," she said quickly, almost pleading. "He thinks Serathine's helping him. That it's about family. He doesn't know about the arrangement. Not fully. Not yet."
Misty opened her mouth, but no sound came.
Christian's words struck with the precision of a guillotine: clean, absolute, and final.
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. Power wrapped around him like bespoke silk, stitched into the lines of his posture, his perfect jaw, and his cufflinks.
"That's why I don't like doing business with your kind," he said again, quieter this time. Colder.
His hand moved to adjust his cuff, slow and deliberate, golden rings catching in the morning light like tiny crowns. Not ornamental. Not vain. Just true. This was a man who wore what he owned.
And he expected Lucas to be among those possessions.
"He is to be mine," Christian continued, each word sharp as crystal. "After his first heat."
Misty drew a shaky breath but didn't interrupt.
"Don't forget that," he added, the faintest smile curling at the corner of his mouth—one that had nothing to do with joy.
He turned to leave, but not before the last blade.
"Otherwise," he said over his shoulder, "I expect your payment of the penalty. In full."
The door of his car opened with a whisper.
"And I won't be nearly as forgiving as D'Argente."
Then he stepped inside.
And Misty, left behind, felt the burn of sweat roll down her back despite the morning chill. For the first time in years, she realized she might've lost her prize.