[Hunter’s POV]
The manor feels different when I return. Charged, somehow. Electric with tension I can taste the moment I step through the doors.
I find my mother in her study, pacing like something caged. Her composure—that legendary Valdren control—has cracked completely. Papers scatter across her desk in chaos she'd never normally tolerate.
"What did you say to her?"
No greeting. No preamble. Just accusation wrapped in silk.
"Mother—"
"The asset investigation." She whirls on me, eyes blazing. "Parliament is crawling through our finances. Nineteen years of carefully managed accounts, and suddenly the crown takes interest? What a remarkable coincidence."
I loosen my collar. The room feels smaller than it should. "I went to apologize. That's all."
"Apologize." She says the word like it's a disease. "You went to the palace—against my explicit instructions—to apologize to the girl who's trying to destroy us."
"She's not trying to destroy us. She's trying to reclaim what was stolen from her."
The slap comes before I can react. Not hard—my mother has never been physically violent—but shocking enough that I step back. My cheek stings with surprise more than pain.
Her hand trembles at her side. "You sentimental fool. You're exactly like your father. All emotion, no strategy. Do you understand what you've done?"
"I told her I was sorry for humiliating her publicly. That's not a war crime."
"You showed weakness!" Her voice rises, cracking on the edges. "You confirmed that this family can be broken. That our heir has no spine. That everything I built can be dismantled by a girl in borrowed gowns."
The words land like blows. I've heard variations my entire life, but they still cut deeper than I'll admit.
"What would you have me do? Pretend I didn't treat her like garbage for years?"
"I would have you think." She forces herself to stillness, hands gripping the desk's edge. "I would have you consider consequences before indulging your guilt."
She moves to her desk, retrieving a folder I haven't seen before. Her hands shake slightly as she opens it.
"I've been in contact with the Montclairs."
The name hits wrong. "Catherine's family?"
"Obviously."
"You never wanted me to marry Catherine. You pushed Christina for years—"
"That was before." Her voice goes cold. Hard. "Before Christina became a threat instead of an asset. Now we need new alliances. Now we need people who understand what's at stake."
I stare at her, trying to reconcile this woman with the mother who raised me. "The Montclairs hate us. They think we're beneath them."
"They hate Christina more. She stands between them and a throne they've coveted for generations. Hatred makes strange bedfellows."
Something ugly crawls up my spine. "What exactly are you planning?"
"Survival." She meets my eyes without flinching. "The Montclairs have resources. Connections. Legitimate claims to succession if Christina can be... removed from consideration."
"Removed." The word tastes like poison. "What does that mean?"
She doesn't answer. The silence stretches, filling the room with implications I don't want to examine.
"Mother. What does ‘removed’ mean?"
"It means whatever it needs to mean." Her composure returns, sliding over her features like a mask. "Catherine arrives this afternoon to discuss strategy. You will be gracious. You will be charming."
"I'm not—"
"You are still engaged to her, Hunter. Publicly. Officially." She straightens papers that don't need straightening. "You will play your role. You're good at that."
I want to argue. Want to demand answers about what exactly she's planning with people who smile like sharks and speak in euphemisms.
But I've never won an argument against my mother. Not once in twenty-four years.
So I nod, and I wait.
* * *
Catherine Montclair arrives at three o'clock precisely.
She moves through our manor like she's already cataloguing what to keep and what to discard. Her eyes sweep across paintings, furniture, family heirlooms—assessing, calculating, finding everything slightly wanting.
I've never noticed before. Or maybe I chose not to see it.
"Hunter." She offers her cheek for a kiss I don't want to give. "How lovely to see you."
"Catherine." I manage something approximating warmth. "Thank you for coming."
She smells like expensive roses and cold ambition. Her blonde hair is swept up perfectly. Her dress probably costs more than most people earn in months.
She's beautiful. Objectively, undeniably beautiful.
And I feel absolutely nothing.
My mother spirits her away for private discussions I'm not invited to join. I pace the library instead, pretending to read books I don't care about while straining to hear voices through walls.
An hour later, Catherine finds me alone.
"Your mother is quite determined." She settles onto the sofa with practiced grace. "I admire her tenacity."
"She's nothing if not persistent."
Catherine's laugh is musical and empty. "Tell me about Christina. I'm curious about the woman who's caused such upheaval."
The question seems casual. It isn't.
"What do you want to know?"
"What was she like? Growing up here?" Catherine tilts her head, blonde waves catching the light. "Did she show signs of ambition? Did you ever suspect she was more than she appeared?"
Too pointed. Too hungry. Her smile doesn't reach her ice-blue eyes.
"She was quiet," I say carefully. "Kept to herself mostly."
"And yet you were engaged to her for two years." Catherine's tone sharpens subtly. "You must have noticed something."
"I noticed she deserved better than what this family gave her."
The honesty surprises us both. Catherine's mask slips—just for a moment—revealing something calculating beneath. Something cold and sharp as winter.
"How noble." She recovers quickly. "And yet you announced our engagement instead. In front of everyone who mattered."
"I did."
"Why?"
Because I was weak. Because I listened to whispers instead of my own heart. Because I thought political advantage mattered more than the woman I claimed to love.
"It seemed strategically sound at the time," I say instead.
Catherine smiles. Satisfied. "Strategy is important. Your mother understands that. I hope you do too."
She leaves an hour later, all gracious farewells and promises to coordinate further. Her perfume lingers in the foyer like a warning.
I stand at the window, watching her car disappear down the drive.
The contrast burns in my chest like acid.
Catherine Montclair. Cold calculation wrapped in silk. A woman who sees people as chess pieces and smiles while planning their removal from the board.
Christina Valdren—no, Christina Ashford. Fire forged from nineteen years of injustice. A woman who should hate me but offered something almost like respect when I brought her information.
I almost married Catherine. Would have, if Christina hadn't been revealed.
The thought makes me physically ill.
What are the Montclairs truly capable of? What does "removed" mean when spoken by people who view thrones as rightful inheritance?
I think of Christina in that receiving room, composed and regal, holding my family's fate in her elegant hands.
My mother is planning something terrible. I feel it in my bones, in my blood, in every instinct I've ignored for years.
And I have absolutely no idea how to stop her.
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