The sun filtered through tall windows draped in ivory, catching the fine dust in its golden light. The breakfast table gleamed beneath the crystal chandelier—quiet elegance in every place setting. Polished silver. Hand-folded linen napkins. A tiered dish of fruit that looked more like art than food.
Lucas sat at the far end, hunched slightly over a cup of dark, fragrant coffee. He hadn't touched the toast. The butter curled too perfectly at the edge of the plate, and he found something about it unsettling.
He wasn't used to mornings that didn't start with noise. Or orders. Or threats.
Just the hum of soft jazz from a hidden speaker and the occasional distant click of heels against marble.
"Do you always eat in silence?" he asked without looking up.
Serathine glanced over her newspaper, lounging with a poached pear and a cup of something floral. "I find silence keeps the appetite sharp. But you're welcome to fill it, darling."
Lucas hummed into his cup, noncommittal. Despite his worries, he slept soundly through the night.
The door opened precisely then, and the butler entered—David, tall and slim, with hair gone mostly silver and a manner so precise he might've been carved from one of the estate's statues. He bowed slightly before approaching Serathine with a folded paper in hand.
"From my contact," he said simply.
Serathine took it, unfolding it with one clean flick. Her eyes scanned the page—once, then again.
Lucas knew it was about him before she spoke.
"Velloran," she said, folding the page neatly again. "Christian Velloran."
Lucas didn't blink. But his grip on the cup tightened just slightly.
"Can you repeat the name?" he said after a moment. He didn't trust his hearing. It was impossible.
Serathine tilted her head ever so slightly, eyes narrowing in a way that told him she heard the change in his tone.
"Christian Velloran," she said again, clearer this time. "Count of Velloran. Head of the Velloran estate. Your contracted buyer, four years ago. Through Misty. Full payment made."
Lucas's breath stilled.
'Four years.'
He was thirteen.
His stomach curled in on itself like something rotten. He hadn't even had his first heat—not officially. But that had never mattered to them. Not to Misty. Not to Christian.
His fingers uncurled from the cup one by one, each motion forced. Controlled.
A small stain of coffee bloomed on the white linen cloth where the cup touched down.
"Four years," he repeated, quieter. "She sold me at thirteen."
David looked down at his tablet, politely silent.
Serathine didn't speak right away. Her voice, when it came, was soft. Low.
"Engagements in the high society between heirs and young ones are not uncommon, but there are conditions to be met. Misty didn't sign a contract of engagement, but one that sold your rights to house Velloran."
Lucas's lips parted slightly. No sound came out.
Not a gasp. Not a question. Just silence, the kind that cracked beneath the surface of skin like hairline fractures.
'Sold your rights.'
Not a contract of engagement. Not a promise. Not a courtship to be broken. But a sale. A legal, notarized, witnessed transaction.
"She sold everything," Lucas murmured. "Guardianship, consent, custody. To him."
His voice didn't shake. It was too late for that.
He'd always known. Somewhere, deep beneath the hope, the lies, and the forced smiles—he'd known. That moment Christian Velloran looked at him with possession instead of interest; it hadn't been desire.
It had been ownership.
Serathine studied him quietly, one hand resting on the edge of the table like she was bracing for the weight of the past to tip.
"House Velloran acquired full custodial influence over your future heats, bond eligibility, and medical control, as if you were already theirs," she said. "Which, by law, they weren't. But Misty's documentation was... thorough. There are entire clauses that assume you'll never protest."
Lucas gave a slow, mirthless smile.
"They assumed right." He paused, reaching for the buttered bread. "Is this even legal?"
Serathine exhaled through her nose, not quite a sigh, not quite laughter. Just the sound of a woman who had seen too many contracts dressed as cages.
"Legal?" she echoed, spreading cream over her toast with surgical precision. "Technically, no. But that never stopped anyone."
David, still standing respectfully to the side, adjusted his tablet. "The original contract was drafted in a jurisdiction where such custodial transfers are permitted under noble exceptions. A grey zone in the law."
"In other words," Serathine said, glancing at Lucas, "it was just legal enough to go unnoticed. And just illegal enough to be thrown out—if someone powerful enough wants it gone."
Lucas chewed slowly, the butter melting across his tongue. He hadn't realized how starved he was until now.
"For four years," he said between bites, "he thought I was his. That I belonged to him."
Serathine met his gaze. "And now?"
Lucas set the bread down.
Now, his eyes were cold.
"Now, I'm curious to see the full contract."
Serathine nodded sharply, satisfied. A queen recognizing the moment a pawn decided to move like a king.
"David," she said without turning.
The butler didn't need further instruction. "It will be printed and waiting in your study within the hour," he said, voice smooth and unbothered, like they were discussing afternoon tea instead of the legal record of a child being sold.
Lucas picked up his cup again. The porcelain didn't shake in his hand this time.
He took a sip.
The coffee had gone lukewarm. He didn't care.
"I want every clause. Every loophole she exploited. I want to know how far they went." His voice was calm. But there was something beneath it: something older, colder, and more dangerous.
Serathine studied him again with that elegant stillness of hers. Like she wasn't looking at a boy anymore but a weapon.
"I'll have my lawyer sit with you," she said. "But I think, my dear, you'll understand the language just fine."
Lucas looked up. "I plan to."
And for the first time that morning, Serathine smiled.
"Just know you have all the time you need." She took a sip of her tea. "But you have to get ready for your coming-of-age ball."
Lucas set the cup down carefully, his movements deliberate now. Too composed for someone still technically a teenager.
He looked down at the table—at the silver cutlery, the glint of polished glass, the food he hadn't touched beyond the bread. A kingdom spread out like breakfast. A life returned to him in pieces.
"Of course," he said. "A celebration. Nothing says legal adulthood like a thousand strangers watching you bleed under the chandeliers."
Serathine chuckled into her cup. "You won't bleed, darling. You are my protégé; no one will dare to touch you."
Chapter 10: Rights Sold
Lucas tilted his head at that, eyes narrowed in thought more than doubt. "They don't have to touch me to draw blood."
Serathine set her teacup down with a quiet click. "True. But I know how to keep wolves at bay." She leaned forward slightly, her gaze steady. "This time, Lucas, they won't circle you. They'll circle me. I'm not Misty."
He looked at her for a long moment. The sharp cut of her jaw, the surety in her tone, the way her posture held power like it had always been there—like she'd been waiting for this exact war to arrive.
"I believe you," he said at last.
She smiled. Not the court smile. Not the amused one from last night.
This was quieter. Almost… proud.
"And you," she said softly, "will walk into that ballroom like you own it."
Lucas reached for the butter again and spread it carefully on a fresh piece of bread. "I don't want to own it," he murmured. "I want to make sure no one else ever owns me."
Serathine lifted her cup once more. "Then let's make sure they know it."