Alistair pushed the butler's hands away. His voice was raspy from the blood, but it carried an undeniable, crushing authority. He ordered Warren to apologize to Holden immediately.
Warren's face flushed a mottled red, then drained to a sickly pale. But under his father's lethal glare, he bowed his head in utter humiliation, forcing the word "sorry" through his gritted teeth.
Alistair turned his heavy gaze to Cordelia. He struck his cane against the floorboards. He demanded she apologize to her future husband for her feral behavior.
Cordelia bit her lower lip so hard she tasted blood. A suffocating wave of injustice and humiliation made her entire body tremble. But looking at her grandfather, who had just been dragged back from the grave, she couldn't refuse.
She took slow, stiff steps until she stood in front of Holden. She bent at the waist in a deep bow, her voice thick with unshed tears as she whispered an apology.
As she leaned forward, the loose, draped neckline of her haute couture gown naturally fell away from her body. It exposed a vast expanse of pale skin and the deep shadow of her cleavage.
Holden's tactical instincts were hardwired to scan for concealed weapons or changes in breathing patterns. For exactly 0.1 seconds, his eyes dropped to her chest. Then he looked away.
But as Cordelia straightened up, she caught the tail end of his glance. The humiliation in her gut instantly ignited into a raging inferno.
She slapped both hands over her chest, taking a sharp step back. She glared at him with pure venom, utterly convinced he was nothing but a lecherous pig.
Holden's face remained completely blank. He didn't offer a single word of explanation. His arrogant silence made Cordelia want to scream.
Alistair watched the exchange, a sharp, calculating gleam in his old eyes. He coughed to clear his throat and dropped the bomb.
To honor the blood oath and repay the life debt, Cordelia would sign a legally binding marriage certificate with Holden tonight.
The room went dead. Cordelia looked like she had been physically struck. She screamed that it was impossible, that she would die before marrying this trash.
Beatrice lost all her high-society composure. She sobbed, begging Alistair not to throw the family's most precious jewel to a nameless beggar.
Alistair's face turned to stone. He played his final, brutal card: if she refused, he would instantly liquidate and strip her of her ten-billion-dollar trust fund.
The threat hit Cordelia like a sledgehammer to the ribs. The core tech project she had poured her soul into desperately needed that capital to survive.
All the blood left her face. She stumbled backward, looking at her ruthless grandfather and her powerless parents. The tears finally broke, spilling hot and fast down her cheeks.
Holden frowned. This was getting messy. He only wanted access to the vault to stabilize his genes, not a ball and chain.
He opened his mouth to reject the offer, but a sudden, violent spike of pain shot through his veins. The Progenitor genes lashed out, sending a wave of dizzying nausea through his skull.
His body was failing. He needed the Sterling estate's radiation shield to buy time. He swallowed the rejection, his jaw tight.
The butler, moving with terrifying efficiency, brought out two thick, leather-bound contracts. He handed a gold fountain pen to a hollow-eyed Cordelia, and a cheap plastic pen to Holden.
Cordelia's hand shook violently. The nib of the pen scratched aggressively against the paper. It felt like she was signing her own death warrant.
Holden didn't even glance at the clauses. He scrawled his name with a fluid, careless motion that left the family lawyer blinking in shock.
Alistair nodded in grim satisfaction. He issued his second command: the two of them would move into Cordelia's Manhattan penthouse tonight.
Before Cordelia could react, Alistair raised a hand, his tone shifting to one of transactional finality. "The vault access you require," he said, his eyes boring into Holden, "will be granted remotely. The necessary stabilization protocols can be administered from her residence. Consider it part of the contract's terms."
Cordelia's head snapped up. The hatred in her eyes could have burned a hole through Holden's chest, but she had nothing left to fight with. She let out a cold, defeated scoff.
She spun on her heel and marched toward the front door, her stilettos hammering the floor. She barked at the driver to bring the Rolls-Royce Phantom around.
Holden picked up his battered canvas bag. Ignoring the murderous glares from Warren and Beatrice, he casually followed her out into the night.
The heavy door of the Rolls-Royce slammed shut, cutting off the noise of the estate. They sat in the cavernous backseat, an invisible wall of absolute ice separating them.
Holden closed his eyes, leaning his head back. A faint, almost imperceptible hum seemed to emanate from the car's seat, a subtle vibration against his spine. The promised remote protocol had begun. It wasn't the full treatment of the vault, but it was enough to stave off the immediate collapse. For now. Cordelia stared out the window, her manicured nails digging so hard into the leather seats they left permanent crescent moons.
The luxury car glided smoothly out of the gates, heading toward the glittering skyline of Manhattan, carrying two people who wanted nothing more than to destroy each other.
