Misty Kilmer's morning began with silence.
The kind she enjoyed—silk-soft, polished, humming faintly with wealth. She stretched beneath imported sheets, already calculating the day's meetings in the back of her mind, already composing which earrings to pair with which lies.
The estate was quiet.
Breakfast would arrive soon. Tea first. Soft-boiled eggs on porcelain. Her secretary would call in the half-hour window before meetings began. A discussion with the Luceran envoy. A luncheon with a bored ambassador's wife who wanted a favor she hadn't earned. And, of course, whispers about Lucas.
The coming-of-age party hadn't gone exactly as planned.
But that was to be expected.
Lucas was prone to dramatics—especially when his so-called liberty was questioned. It was his favorite word lately, liberty, as though it wasn't just another illusion draped in silk. He hadn't understood that choices were for people who knew how to use them. That love, attention, and titles—all had their own economy.
Still. He'd come around. He always did.
She had ways.
She always had ways.
Especially now, with so many trying to curry favor with D'Argente through her—minor nobles, industrial families, people whose hands never touched real power but clung to its coat hem like children.
Let Serathine think she has won the boy for now. The duchess was indulgent, and eventually, even she would tire of Lucas's posture. When she did, there would be room again.
A tap of her nails on the bedside table.
Then the phone.
Buzz.
Buzz.
She blinked once, slightly annoyed.
Early.
Too early for calls.
She reached, elegant fingers sweeping across the screen.
Bank Alert: Transaction error. Please contact your account manager.
Her brows lifted.
A second buzz.
Account access denied.
Then a third—her secondary account. The quiet one.
Frozen.
She sat up.
Slowly. Controlled.
Slid her feet into the velvet slippers by the bed.
Then moved to her private office in a silence that was no longer soft, no longer polished.
Her fingers tapped across keys. Codes. Clearance.
Denied. Denied. Denied.
Buzz.
"Ms. Kilmer, our records indicate an ownership dispute on your Luceran estate. Please contact us at your earliest—"
Dispute?
Another buzz.
"Your daughter's tuition payment was declined this morning. Should we suspend enrollment or contact the father listed?"
Her chest tightened—not with panic. Not yet. But with awareness.
This wasn't technical. This wasn't accidental. This was targeted.
And there was only one person who had both the reach and the motive.
Christian.
She snatched up the secure line, the one he'd answered for years without fail. Dialed. Straight to voicemail.
She tried again—through another channel, a more private one.
And this time, it connected.
Then his voice came through.
Cool. Unhurried. Not cruel.
Just done.
"Misty."
She gripped the edge of the desk, knuckles whitening beneath the satin of her robe.
"Christian," she began, tight, controlled. "There's been some kind of—"
"No," he said simply. "There hasn't."
She blinked. "I don't know what you think you've seen—"
"Oh, I've seen everything," he interrupted, still calm. "Every falsified medical report. Every suppressed record. The secondary clause. The codename."
A pause.
"Faceless Agatha," he murmured. "That one was especially poetic."
"Christian—"
"You were warned."
His voice didn't shift. Didn't rise. It simply cut.
"I told you, face-to-face, more than a week ago. If I did not receive him, you would pay back everything I gave you. With interest. That leaves aside the fact that you tricked me."
There was a beat of silence.
Misty exhaled sharply, her voice sharper than before, trembling beneath the surface, regaining just enough composure to conceal her desperation in arrogance.
"He's still my child."
Christian didn't laugh. He didn't even scoff.
He simply leaned back in his chair, eyes half-lidded, like someone observing a thing already burning.
"No," he said, softly. "He isn't."
"You think a few signatures and theatrics change that?" she spat. "You think Serathine D'Argente can play mother just because she bought her way into—"
"She didn't play, Misty."
His voice turned quiet again.
More dangerous.
"Serathine bought him from you—with legal clarity, full documentation, and a court-sanctioned transfer of custodial authority that you signed off on."
Misty froze.
He continued, unbothered.
"She filed it under House D'Argente jurisdiction, used her private authority to cleanse every trace of your name from the ledger, and then had it ratified by three sovereign provinces. You know what that means, don't you?"
No response.
So he delivered the truth like a knife slipped into a quiet throat.
"It means there is no law left under which you can call him yours."
He let that settle. Let her hear it.
"You sold him. Then resold him. And planned to sell him again after he failed to conceive with me."
His voice didn't rise. It just flattened, like something scraped clean of sentiment.
"Now the last contract you signed—likely without reading, I imagine—ensures that you have no claim. Not in name. Not in blood. Not in court."
He paused then.
Not for effect.
But as if weighing whether she was still worth the sound of his voice.
And then—almost idly:
"Even if you did read it… D'Argente is the Emperor's sister-in-law. Do you really think it would be difficult for them to amend the contract on record? Have it mirrored across three jurisdictions? Retroactively sanctified?"
A faint pause. A shadow of amusement.
"We'd be seeing each other more often, Misty. Well—not me, of course. Just my legal team. For forgery."
Silence.
A silence that stretched, heavy with implication.
Then Misty exhaled—sharp, practiced, just shaky enough to sound sincere.
"Christian… you know me."
Her voice shifted. Lowered. That familiar tone—half-wounded, half-reasonable.
"I wouldn't forge anything. Not against you. Maybe I—I was misled. I trusted the wrong lawyer. There were drafts; you know how these things are passed around. It wasn't finalized. You know how messy these filings can get when too many hands—"
"Stop," he said.
Not loud. Just final.
But Misty pressed forward, desperate now, layering her tone with urgency that would've fooled anyone less intimate with her tactics.
"We were supposed to work together. You needed someone to bring him into line. I did what I thought was best. He's still young, still—confused. Let me speak to him, and I can fix this before it escalates."
Silence.
Then—quiet. Flat. Deadly.
"How stupid do you think I am?"
His voice didn't rise, but it struck like a slap.
"Lucas saw me as a monster the moment our eyes met—and I never met him until yesterday. Explain that."
The silence on her end cracked just slightly.
Christian continued, every word sharpened with ice.
"Whatever lies you want to throw at me—save them for the court. They'll listen. They'll document. And they'll judge."
Another pause. This one deliberate.
"And, unlike me, maybe they care how much your perfume costs."
Click.
The call ended.