Part 1
The boardroom door exploded open with such force that the ancient hinges groaned in protest. Lydia stood framed in the doorway, bosom heaving from her sprint. For a moment, Philip forgot to breathe.
Gone was the usual professional maid uniform he'd grown accustomed to. Instead, Lydia wore only a deep burgundy dressing gown of thick velvet that, despite its substantial fabric, clung to her figure in ways that made Philip's eyes widen involuntarily. Her usually pristine silver-touched hair tumbled loose around her shoulders in wild disarray, and the gown was cinched tightly at the waist, revealing an alluring hourglass silhouette uncommon for her age.
The gown pooled slightly at her feet, but the way it hugged her curves made Philip's mind stutter to a halt. For a split second, a thought flashed through his consciousness: Has she been wearing a corset this entire time? How else could I have missed that figure!
He immediately slammed that mental door shut, heat flooding his already blushing face. Maybe something is wrong with me!
"Good heavens!" Lydia's sharp intake of breath snapped him from his mental lapse. She stood frozen in the doorway, medical kit clutched in one hand, her jaw dropping at the scene before her.
Natalia had Philip thoroughly pinned to his chair in what could only be described as an enthusiastic amateur wrestling hold. Her hands gripped his wrists, pressing them firmly against the chair's high back while her legs straddled his lap, using her full weight to keep him immobilized. Her silk bathrobe had fallen completely open, revealing thin lace lingerie that left precious little to the imagination. Her perfectly athletic figure—all toned muscle beneath porcelain skin—flexed with the effort of restraint.
"Stay with me, Master!" Natalia was saying urgently, her face mere inches from Philip's as she leaned forward. "I know whatever you're seeing seems real, but it's not! Focus on my voice. I'm here with you. Don't drift away into the hallucination!"
"Natalia, I'm fine—" Philip protested weakly, face ablaze as he squirmed beneath her determined grip. Natalia, misunderstanding his attempts to escape as further symptoms of delirium, leaned even closer to reassure him. Her sizable bosom inadvertently brushed against his chest, the delicate lace lingerie barely mitigating the softness and warmth of her curves. Philip's heartbeat accelerated wildly with each accidental touch, sending heat surging into his cheeks until he was sure steam might actually rise from his ears.
Misreading his flushed face and rapid pulse as signs of escalating hallucination, Natalia's brow furrowed in deepening concern. "Please, Miss Lydia! Master's symptom is worsening rapidly."
"No, Master! Don't struggle!" Natalia pressed closer, interpreting his attempts to escape as delirium-induced panic. "Forgive me, but I must restrain you to prevent you from hurting yourself."
Philip made a strangled sound as she shifted position, her considerable strength easily overwhelming his attempts to sit up properly. The movement caused certain anatomical realities to become increasingly evident beneath his thin bathrobe.
"His heart rate is accelerating!" Natalia reported with clinical precision, though her position made it unclear how she was measuring this. "Pupils dilated, skin flushed, elevated breathing—all symptoms align with acute hallucinogenic episode as described in the books I read."
From the doorway, Lydia's expression shifted through several fascinating permutations—shock, embarrassment, and then something that looked suspiciously like suppressed amusement. A thought flickered through her mind: Impressive! It took me two years before getting to that level of intimacy with Master Gabriel.
Clearing her throat loudly, Lydia stepped forward, immediately switching to her professional demeanor. "I do apologize for the interruption. I seem to have misunderstood your message earlier. Perhaps I should leave."
"No!" Natalia's head whipped around, her golden hair creating a dramatic arc. "Miss Lydia, he needs you! Master Philip is experiencing severe hallucinations! He keeps saying he's fine, but that's exactly what someone in the grips of delirium would say!"
Lydia paused mid-retreat, her medical training overriding her embarrassment. The maternal concern that crossed her features was immediate and genuine. "Hallucinations? When did this begin?"
"Approximately half an hour ago," Natalia reported promptly, still maintaining her restraining position. "I observed him speaking to empty air and tracking invisible movement patterns. Classic signs of visual hallucination according to my research!"
"Your... research?" Lydia asked carefully, setting down her medical kit.
"I have thoroughly research the various medical emergencies as presented in the materials you had given me." Natalia explained earnestly. "Though they do tend to focus disproportionately on poison induced comas that require passionate kisses from some prince or princess to cure."
After a split second of speechlessness, Lydia's expression grew serious as the word "poison" immediately drew the possibility of another potential assassination attempt on Philip. Her medical training took over instantly.
"Miss Natalia, be so good as to unhand the Master at once," Lydia commanded, her tone polite but brooking no delay. "An improvised grapple may do him more harm than any passing confusion."
"But Miss Lydia—" Natalia began, still gripping Philip's wrists.
"At once, dear." The maternal steel in Lydia's voice had Natalia immediately releasing her hold, though she remained straddling Philip's lap in her concern.
Lydia moved with practiced efficiency, placing two cool fingers on Philip's wrist. "Master Philip, please tell me where we are, and the last matter you recall discussing."
"We are in Bromanceham," Philip managed, acutely aware of Natalia's barely-clothed form still pressed against him. "We're in a hotel. We were discussing tomorrow's schedule earlier."
"Excellent. Now follow my finger only with your eyes, if you please—left, right, now upward. Good. No tracking lag." She withdrew a fob-watch from her kit, counting quietly while maintaining her grip on his wrist. The movement caused her velvet gown to shift, and Philip found himself noticing the unexpected allure of her figure beneath the thick fabric. He immediately felt embarrassed and confused at the observation.
"Pulse one-hundred-and-ten, regular," Lydia announced calmly, her habit of stating findings aloud allowing any staff to document if needed. "Respirations twenty." She produced a pen-light, checking each eye with professional precision. "Pupils equal and brisk. All consistent with heightened excitement, not poison."
"But I saw him talking to himself!" Natalia insisted, her dedication to Philip's welfare evident in every line of her body. "He was staring at specific coordinates in empty space!"
Lydia's lips quirked slightly. "People do sometimes vocalize their thoughts when overwhelmed, Miss Natalia. Especially those managing complex situations while exhausted. It's a cognitive processing technique, not necessarily indicative of psychosis."
"Oh." Natalia's grip on Philip loosened slightly as she processed this information. Her faith in Lydia's expertise was absolute. "So... he's not experiencing delirium?"
"The only thing Master Philip appears to be experiencing," Lydia said with careful diplomacy, "is an elevated stress response to his current... position."
Natalia's brow furrowed in concentration. "But his heart was racing, and his blood flow patterns indicated either extreme stress or arousal—"
Lydia silently raised one hand, pointing directly at Natalia's exposed form.
Following the gesture, Natalia glanced down at herself. Her eyes widened as she took in her fully opened robe, the delicate lingerie on complete display, her body pressed intimately against Philip's increasingly flushed form.
"Ohhhhh," she breathed, understanding dawning with the slow inevitability of sunrise. For several seconds, she remained perfectly still, processing this new information. Then, like a dam bursting, a spectacular blush flooded her porcelain cheeks, swiftly spreading downward to tint even the delicate skin of her upper bosom.
"I... that is... oh my." She released Philip's wrists as if they were burning, though she seemed frozen in place by sheer embarrassment. "Master Philip, forgive me! I didn't realize... that is, I failed to consider... the romance novels never mentioned this particular physiological response to medical restraint procedures!"
She bowed her head, still straddling his lap, her entire body radiating embarrassment. "I'm so terribly sorry! I was only trying to protect you from self-harm as outlined in chapter twelve of 'The Perfect Sweetheart'!"
Philip exhaled shakily, embarrassment mixing with genuine appreciation for her sincere intentions. "It's... alright, Natalia. Really, I understand. You meant well."
Lydia discreetly retreated toward the door, lips twitching with carefully suppressed amusement. "Well, since Master Philip seems in no immediate medical distress, I'll take my leave. Perhaps, Miss Natalia, more academic medical texts might serve you better than romance novels in the future. I shall provide you some appropriate reading once we return to Yortinto."
"Yes, Miss Lydia," Natalia responded softly, her usual confidence utterly diminished by her embarrassment.
As Lydia turned to leave, Philip quickly called out: "Ah—Miss Lydia?"
She paused, disciplined composure swiftly replacing her playful amusement. "Yes, Master?"
"Could you gather as much information as possible regarding blue mana? I'd like to study it thoroughly over the coming week."
Lydia's expression softened into approval, offering a respectful nod. "Certainly, Master Philip. You'll have the materials by tomorrow evening."
As the door closed softly behind Lydia, silence filled the room once more. Natalia remained frozen momentarily, lost in mortified thought, before she suddenly blinked rapidly and hastily stood, nearly stumbling in her rush of embarrassment. She adjusted her robe with trembling fingers, cheeks aflame, eyes averted.
Philip breathed deeply, releasing the residual tension from his shoulders. Hoping to ease her embarrassment, he spoke gently, "Look, Natalia, let's just forget about this misunderstanding. It's late, and we should both get some rest—we've got the orphanage visit tomorrow, after all."
Natalia slowly lifted her gaze, confusion flickering behind the deep flush of her embarrassment. "Master Philip, now that we've confirmed your health isn't at risk..." she hesitated slightly, choosing her words with careful uncertainty, "shouldn't I continue with... addressing your needs, as you indicated earlier?"
Philip stared at her blankly, genuinely puzzled. "Addressing my needs? What do you mean?"
Rather than answering verbally, Natalia's hands moved deliberately to the ties of her robe. Silk whispered softly as it slipped from her shoulders and gathered gently at her waist, fully revealing the champagne lace beneath. Her flawless skin glowed softly in the lamplight, delicate patterns of illumination accentuating her sculpted form.
Part 2
Meanwhile, in the imperial capital, the Celestial Spire rose from the most exclusive district like a crystal lance piercing the heavens. Its two hundred stories caught the night sky's glow, mana-circuits integrated into the facades painting abstract patterns in gold and sapphire that seemed to pulse with the city's heartbeat. Each floor represented more wealth than most citizens would see in a lifetime, but the penthouse—the penthouse was where money transcended mere numbers and became pure power.
A young woman stood at the building's base, her beauty so striking that even the jaded doorman paused mid-bow. Her flame-red hair whipped in the wind generated by the tower's climate control systems, each strand catching the light like spun copper. Even in her simple wool dress and patched cloak—clothes that marked her as distinctly out of place among the luxury hovercars and enchanted carriages—she carried herself with an elegance that whispered of better days. Her face was a masterwork of genetic artistry.
"Your Grace," the doorman's voice was professionally neutral, though his eyes showed a flicker of surprise at her appearance. "Lady Blaric is expecting you. The penthouse express elevator is ready."
Lilianna Wetdin, the sole heir to the dukedom of Wetdin—though few would recognize her status from such humble attire—nodded mutely and stepped into the building. Her beauty drew stares even here, among people who could afford to purchase perfection. But there was something about her beauty that surgery couldn't replicate, centuries of breeding couldn't guarantee—a vibrancy that spoke of the Wetdin line's legendary vitality.
The lobby was a cathedral of excess: soaring ceilings of enchanted glass showed views of nebulas and distant galaxies that shifted subtly as you watched, floors of polished starstone created the illusion of walking on the cosmos itself, and air that had been precisely calibrated to smell of jasmine, success, and just a hint of ozone from the power required to maintain such splendor.
The elevator was a capsule of pure crystal that shot upward at speeds carefully calculated to impress without inducing nausea. The city fell away below—first individual buildings, then districts, then a carpet of lights that looked like fallen stars. By the time it stopped, they were so high that the people below seem like ants.
The penthouse doors opened directly into the elevator—no hallway, no anteroom, just immediate admission to five thousand square feet of pristine luxury. The space was arranged on two levels connected by a sweeping staircase of white marble that seemed to float without visible support. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a 360-degree view of the capital, while the décor spoke of unlimited resources applied with surgical precision. Every piece of furniture was positioned to maximize both aesthetic impact and the view, creating a space that felt both intimate and infinite.
"Lilianna, darling!" The voice came from the indoor pool area, where water met sky in an infinity edge that made it seem one could swim off the building's edge. "Perfect timing. I just finished my evening laps."
Lady Clara Blaric—née Wetdin, before she'd married into extraordinary wealth—stood waist-deep in the pool, water streaming down her tanned skin in rivulets that caught the underwater lighting. At fifty, she looked perhaps thirty, moved like someone in their twenties, and radiated the kind of supreme confidence that came from the ability to pay the price for anything she ever desired.
She wore a midnight blue swimsuit that had been designed by someone who understood that true luxury meant perfect fit rather than ostentatious decoration. The material clung to her athletic frame like a second skin, emphasizing the lean muscles of a dedicated swimmer, the flat stomach that spoke of personal trainers and private nutritionists, and legs that seemed more art than human. Her dirty blonde hair, darkened by water, was slicked back to reveal aristocratic features that had been enhanced by the best surgeons money could buy, though subtly enough that she still looked completely natural.
"Come, sit," Clara commanded, gesturing to a lounger near the pool's edge as she began a lazy backstroke. "Tell me about your encounter with Philip. And don't blush so—we're all adults here."
Lilianna settled carefully on the lounger, her simple dress a stark contrast to the opulence surrounding her. The very air here felt different—thicker with possibility, charged with the kind of power that shaped nations over champagne brunches.
"He was as kind as I remembered," Lilianna said softly, her melodious voice carrying across the water. "Unlike the rumors suggested, he did not become a drunkard. Though his figure is a bit… different from what I saw in news before."
Clara laughed, the sound tinkling across the water like breaking crystal. She executed a perfect turn at the pool's edge, her movements displaying the kind of casual athleticism that came from having unlimited time to perfect one's body. "My sweet girl, you are behind the news. You really should get away from those gym and stop living under a rock. Spend some time getting to know your world."
She pulled herself from the pool with practiced ease, water cascading down her figure in a way that would have been provocative if it weren't so casually done. A servant appeared as if by magic with a towel, which Clara accepted without acknowledgment.
"Times change, Lilianna. It's important to adapt, or else even a fifteen million Avalondian dollars fortune can be squandered."
Lilianna flinched at the number. Fifteen million. Her father had inherited one of the Empire's great fortunes and left her with a million in debt.
"Now then," Clara continued, settling onto a poolside recliner and gesturing for wine. "The good news is that I have paid off your debt for you."
Lilianna's wine glass almost slipped from nerveless fingers. "What?"
"The estate debts are cleared. You are legally the Duchess of Wetdin—though given your age, a professional trustee attends the House sessions until you turn twenty-one." Clara's smile was predatory. "The trustee's fees, naturally, add to your debt to the state, which I'm also covering annually."
"A million Avalondian dollars?" Lilianna's voice was barely a whisper. "How could I possibly ever repay you?"
"By being smart. You see, darling, you and young Philip Redwood were engaged before you were even born."
The second shock hit even harder than the first. Lilianna sank back in her chair, her legendary stamina suddenly deserting her. "Engaged?"
"The contract was signed by aunt Margaret herself and witnessed by Emperor Winston and Empress Celestica at the height of their power. Quite binding." Clara's eyes glittered with satisfaction. "Your father never mentioned it?"
"Never." Lilianna's mind reeled. "Does Philip know? Does the Duke?"
"They will. Eventually." Clara rose, moving to stand behind her niece's chair. "But here's where it gets interesting. The Redwoods could break the contract for fifty thousand Avalondian dollars. Pocket change to them. Or..." She began playing with Lilianna's flame-red hair, the gesture both affectionate and possessive. "They might see the value in keeping it."
"What value?" Lilianna asked weakly. "Philip already loves someone else—Lady Elora Nernwick. Everyone knows—"
"Ha!" Clara's laugh was sharp. "Not just Elora. There's another girl too—that mysterious beauty who's been seen with him. His 'bodyguard.'" She waved dismissively. "But that matters little. When the Gerald pursued Margaret, he faced far worse odds. After all, everyone wanted to marry a Wetdin back then."
She moved to face her niece, her expression sweet yet calculating. "The Dukedom of Wetdin comes with five votes in the upper house. The Duke of Redwood would find such additional influence... appetizing."
"But the upper house is becoming irrelevant," Lilianna protested. "Imperial power is in decline. Laws barely need their approval anymore—"
"You think like a child," Clara said sharply. "Yes, political power of the aristocracy might be waning right now. But legitimacy? Status? Those never lose value. Especially to the nouveau riche drowning in money but starving for respectability. Not to mention the fact that the aristocracy is now pushing back politically."
Clara returned to her lounger, every movement displaying her perfectly maintained figure. "Gerald Redwood understands power. A second ducal title in the family? The symbolic merger with a bloodline that is six centuries old. It would be..." she paused meaningfully, "history repeating itself. After all, he married Margaret partly for that very reason."
"I don't understand."
"Never mind that for now. Focus on your options." Clara began counting on perfectly manicured fingers. "Option one: pursue Philip quietly. Use that spectacular figure of yours. The Wetdin genes bred true in you: that perfect ratio, that natural strength, that face that could launch a thousand ships. Get close to him. If there's genuine attraction, wonderful! The Redwoods would happily absorb your debt."
"And if it doesn't work out?"
"Option two: present the contract to the Duke directly. Take the fifty thousand and disappear. Retire to a comfortable life and consider your debt to me forgiven."
"But what about the Wetdin name," Lilianna said quietly, revealing her true dreams.
"Ah." Clara's smile widened. "So that IS your deepest desire. To restore our family's glory. To reclaim your birthright."
Lilianna flushed but didn't deny it. "Father asked me to—"
"Your father is dead," Clara said bluntly. "This is about what YOU want."
She rose again, moving to a glass-topped desk where she withdrew a leather folder. Inside was a photograph of an impeccably dressed Asian man, handsome in a refined way, with silver touches at his temples that suggested distinguished maturity.
"Option three: Mr. Wang's eldest son. Shipping magnate from the Pearl of the East. Net worth: three hundred million Avalondian dollars."
"Three hundred million?" Lilianna's voice cracked.
"Henry Wang is thirty-seven. Never married—focused on expanding the family empire. He's looking for a wife with bloodline, beauty, and the kind of classical training that's become rare. You could have anything you wanted. Recreate the Wetdin castle stone by stone if you wished."
"Seventeen years older than me?" Lilianna pushed the photo away. "I couldn't possibly fall in love with—"
"Love?" Clara laughed, the sound sharp as breaking glass. "Oh, my sweet summer child. The Wangs are worth more than some nations. With that kind of money, you could restore not just the Wetdin fortune. You could have …. Much more."
"But still, seventeen years—"
"Which is why," Clara interrupted, "I'm giving you three years to make it work with you childhood idol, Philip. But when time's up, you accept reality. Whatever reality deals you."
The words were soft but devastating. Lilianna felt tears prick her eyes.
"Youth and beauty don't last forever," Clara continued, still whispering. "After a certain age, despite being a duchess, it becomes exponentially harder to marry into these families. Right now, your youth is your pen to rewrite your destiny. So use it before the ink runs dry."
"But how do I even approach Philip? He'll think I'm after his money—which I suppose I am."
"Leave that to me," Clara said. " Fortunately, I have some ideas about that." She smiled mysteriously. "The key is to make him pursue you, not the other way around. Men value what they have to work for."