The air in Marquis Alistair's study was thick with the scent of old leather and simmering rage. Luna surveyed the room, her eyes lingering on the gold-leafed books and the plush velvet armchair. A monument to wealth she had never been allowed to share.
Alistair sat behind a massive oak desk, his face a mask of impatience. "Speak your terms," he snapped, "but do not be foolish. Your position is not one from which you can bargain."
Luna walked to the desk, the heavy velvet of the wedding dress rustling with every step. She held up two fingers.
"Two hundred thousand gold lions." That was mentioned in memories that did not belong to her—the currency of this place.
The words hung in the air. Alistair stared at her as if she had grown a second head. Then, a choked sound, half-laugh, half-strangled cry, erupted from his throat.
"Are you insane?" he roared, slamming his fist on the desk. "That's more than the entire Ashford estate earns in a year!"
"Is it?" Luna's voice was unnervingly calm. "That's the price for my freedom, my future, and quite possibly my life. You think it's not worth that much?"
She leaned forward, her hands flat on the polished wood. "Let's be clear. If I refuse, Seraphina marries the Prince Regent. Your precious daughter, terrified and resentful. You will have a miserable daughter, an angry Prince Regent, and you will have thoroughly offended the Queen. Your losses will be far greater than two hundred thousand."
Alistair's face cycled through shades of red and white. He was a man accustomed to power, but this girl's cold logic left him with no room to maneuver.
Luna pressed her advantage. "Besides," she added, her tone laced with casual curiosity, "I have serious doubts that I am even your biological daughter."
The statement hit him like a physical blow. He shot up from his chair, his eyes wide with a flicker of genuine panic. "Nonsense! Do not speak such baseless filth!"
His overreaction was all the confirmation she needed. It wasn't a guess anymore. It was a fact. She filed the information away. It was a useful tool for pressure, nothing more. She felt no emotional connection to these people.
Alistair paced the study, his hands clenched behind his back, a caged animal. The future of his family versus a fortune.
Luna, meanwhile, made herself comfortable on a nearby sofa. She picked up a green apple from a fruit bowl and took a crisp, loud bite, her casual disrespect a calculated insult.
Finally, Alistair stopped pacing. His shoulders slumped in defeat. "Fine," he ground out through clenched teeth. "You will have your money. After you are safely married and inside Hawthorne Castle."
"No," Luna said immediately, taking another bite of the apple. "The money first. Or the deal is off."
They were at an impasse again. Alistair sputtered that it was impossible to gather that much cash on such short notice.
"I don't need cash," Luna said, as if explaining something to a child. "A bank draft. Stamped with the Ashford family seal. Irrevocable."
Alistair's face grew even paler. A draft was as good as gold, and he couldn't default on it without ruining his family's credit. He was trapped.
With a trembling hand, he sat down, pulled out a fresh draft, and began to write. The scratching of the quill was the only sound in the room. He stamped it with his signet ring, the wax seal a bloody red tear on the parchment.
Luna took the draft, inspected it carefully, then folded it and tucked it into a hidden pocket inside the voluminous dress.
She then called for her personal maid, Celeste, a timid girl who had been assigned to her upon her arrival. Celeste slipped into the room, her eyes fixed on the floor.
In front of Alistair, Luna pulled out the draft and handed it to the girl. She leaned in and whispered a few precise instructions in Celeste's ear.
Celeste's eyes widened slightly, but she nodded and vanished from the room as silently as she had entered. Luna's mind worked so quickly that in the short exchange with Celeste and the servant's reply, she could tell the true owner of this body hadn't been completely helpless—she had her own network of influence.
Alistair watched Celeste go, a knot of dread tightening in his stomach. He had a terrible feeling he had just been thoroughly outplayed.
Miles away, in the oppressive gloom of Hawthorne Castle, a servant knelt in the shadows.
"My lord." Corbin's voice was a monotone, devoid of emotion. "The Ashfords have changed the bride."
Damien Hawthorne sat in a high-backed wheelchair, his form silhouetted against the weak light of a dying fire. Only the glint of a silver ring on his finger moved as he slowly turned it.
His voice, when he spoke, was a low, rasping sound, like stones grinding together. "Who did they send?"
"Their eldest daughter, the one abandoned in the countryside. Luna Ashford."
Silence descended. The only sound was the crackle and pop of the embers in the hearth.
Then, a low chuckle echoed in the chamber. It was a cold, unsettling sound, devoid of any warmth or humor.
"An interesting pawn," Damien murmured, his voice laced with a chilling mix of amusement and malice. "The King is finally getting desperate, isn't he?"
