THE SHADOW’S KING REVENGE

The Arrangement

Derek's voice cracked as he scrambled for words. "A music box. Yes. I can—I can get you a music box. One that plays lullabies. I know a collector, he has dozens of them. Antiques from all over Europe. I can have one delivered by tomorrow morning. Maybe sooner. I just need to make a call—"

"It had better be the right one," Dominic said quietly.

Derek nodded so hard his jowls shook. "Yes. Of course. The right one. I'll find it. I swear I'll find it."

Dominic held his gaze for another moment, then turned away. Derek stayed on his knees, shaking, not daring to move until Dominic's attention had fully left him.

The sirens were closer now. Maybe three blocks away.

Two floors above the destroyed ballroom, in a private lounge decorated in cream and gold, the chaos hadn't reached yet.

Emilia Ashford sat in a high-backed chair that looked more like a throne, her posture perfect, a champagne flute balanced elegantly in one hand. She was younger than Vivienne by nearly ten years, but carried herself with the same practiced authority. Tonight she wore a burgundy dress that probably cost more than most people earned in a year.

Across from her, the Monroe family occupied a matching set of chairs. Mr. Monroe—Thomas—was in his fifties, grey-haired and distinguished in an expensive suit that couldn't quite hide the stress lines around his eyes. His wife Catherine sat beside him, her smile brittle, her hands clasped too tightly in her lap.

Between them sat their daughter.

Celeste Monroe was twenty-four, dark-haired and green-eyed, wearing a simple black dress that stood out among the evening's extravagance. She'd argued against coming tonight. Had lost that argument, like she'd lost so many others recently.

"It really is a perfect match," Emilia was saying, her voice warm with manufactured enthusiasm. "The Ashford art empire and Monroe real estate ventures—old money meeting new ambition. Vivienne was absolutely thrilled when Tristan proposed the arrangement."

Thomas leaned forward slightly, his rehearsed smile firmly in place. "We're honored by the Ashford family's interest. Truly. The opportunity to unite our families—"

"To unite our resources," Catherine added smoothly. "The synergies alone—"

Celeste stared at her hands, clenched white-knuckled in her lap.

"Of course, Vivienne sends her apologies for not being here personally," Emilia continued. "She and Lucian are in Paris finalizing the acquisition of the Rousseau collection. A significant coup for the museum." She gestured elegantly with her champagne flute. "But she trusted me to oversee tonight's engagement announcement. Family, after all."

"We understand completely," Thomas said. "Business comes first."

Emilia's smile sharpened slightly. "Precisely. Which brings us to the particulars. As discussed, the Ashford family is prepared to forgive the outstanding Monroe Group debts—all fifty million dollars, upon the marriage. Additionally, we'll extend a line of credit for your downtown development project. Twenty million to start."

Catherine's smile became more genuine. Thomas's shoulders relaxed fractionally.

"In exchange," Emilia continued, "the Monroe family will merge its real estate portfolio with Ashford Holdings. Tristan will assume oversight of all properties. And of course, Celeste will take her place as the future matriarch of the Ashford family." She raised her glass. "A new chapter for both our families."

Thomas raised his own glass. Catherine did the same. Neither of them looked at their daughter.

"Celeste, darling," Catherine said, her voice carrying a warning edge. "Don't you think you should smile? This is supposed to be a happy occasion."

Celeste's jaw tightened. She forced her lips into something that might technically qualify as a smile. It didn't reach her eyes.

"That's better," her mother said.

Emilia studied Celeste with the practiced eye of someone who'd brokered a hundred deals just like this. "I know arranged marriages aren't fashionable these days. But Tristan is a good match. Handsome, well-connected, he'll inherit the Ashford fortune. You could do far worse."

"I could do far better," Celeste thought, but kept her mouth shut. Speaking up would only make things worse. She'd learned that lesson over the past three months, as her parents' debts had mounted and the walls had closed in.

Fifty million dollars. That's what her freedom cost.

Thomas cleared his throat. "We've explained to Celeste that this is best for everyone. The Monroe name will survive. Our employees will keep their jobs. And she'll want for nothing as an Ashford."

"Except a choice," Celeste thought bitterly.

The door burst open. A guard stumbled in, his uniform disheveled, his face flushed. He was breathing hard, like he'd run up several flights of stairs.

"Ms. Ashford—" he gasped. "Downstairs—there's a situation—"

Emilia's pleasant expression vanished. "What kind of situation?"

"An intruder. He's—" The guard struggled for words. "He's destroyed half the ballroom. Multiple guards down, Marcus is injured. And Tristan—"

Emilia stood so quickly her chair scraped against the floor. "What about Tristan?"

"He's badly hurt. The intruder—he just—" The guard shook his head, disbelieving his own words. "And Magnus Cross. He tried to stop him, but—"

"Magnus?" Emilia's voice cracked. "Magnus Cross lost?"

The guard nodded mutely.

The lounge fell silent. Thomas and Catherine exchanged confused glances. Emilia stood frozen, her champagne flute forgotten in her hand.

"Who could possibly—" Emilia started, but didn't finish. She set down her glass and strode toward the door. "Show me."

The Monroes rose to follow. Catherine gripped Thomas's arm. "Should we leave? If there's danger—"

"No," Thomas said quietly. "We need to see this."

They moved toward the door as a group. Celeste stood last, her heart suddenly pounding for reasons she didn't fully understand. Something was happening. Something that might change everything.

She followed them into the hallway, toward the grand staircase that descended to the main floor.

From the landing, you could see down into the ballroom. Emilia reached it first and stopped dead. Her hand went to her mouth. Behind her, Thomas and Catherine crowded forward, then froze as they took in the destruction below.

Celeste pushed between them and looked down.

The ballroom was ruined. Overturned tables, shattered glass, broken bodies. The champagne fountain was demolished. Security guards lay scattered like broken dolls. And in the center of it all, standing alone near what had once been the VIP section, was a man.

He was tall, dark-haired, dressed in a plain black suit. He held a wine glass in one hand, perfectly composed amid the chaos. There was something about the way he stood—confident, contained, dangerous, that made everyone else in the room look small by comparison.

Celeste's breath caught.

She knew that stance. Knew the way he held himself, like violence was a second language he spoke fluently but only when necessary.

Two years ago. A dark road. Armed men surrounding her father's car, and then he'd appeared—a stranger who moved like shadow and struck like lightning. He'd saved them. Saved her. And then vanished before she could even thank him.

"It's him," Celeste whispered.

Her mother turned. "What?"