"Chaos and mayhem reign supreme in the fief of Florence," the broadcast crackled through the airwaves. "Protectors continue flooding the streets, demanding the removal of the current ruling Duchy. Since the death of His Lordship Alexander Philip Sinclair, Florence's economy has faltered—initially with minor tremors, but now with full-blown collapse. Many had placed their hopes in his daughter, the late Duchess Anastasia Roseline Sinclair, whose leadership promised reform and renewal. But her conviction for murder and subsequent execution shattered those hopes, handing control of the fief to her widowed husband, Duke Aaron Dinkley, who shamelessly married her stepsister, Lady Luciana, just two weeks after the sentencing. The public suspects a calculated ploy for power. Under the new regime, chaos has only escalated. Most notably, the disappearance of the Blue Diamond Roses—the fief's and the world's most precious stones—has crippled both Florence's economy and the kingdom's. Protestors claim the Heavens are punishing Florence for its corrupt rulers, calling them greedy, shameless adulterers. And they demand their removal…"
CRASH!
CRASH!
The sound of shattering porcelain echoed through the lavish seating room of the Sinclair mansion.
Aaron Dinkley was a storm of fury—toppling furniture, smashing vases, his rage unchecked.
Leticia huddled in the corner, her silk robe clutched tightly around her trembling body. Her eyes darted between the broken glass and her husband's heaving chest, praying the wrath wouldn't turn on her.
"Son of a bitch! Son of a bitch!" Aaron roared, his voice hoarse with rage.
"Where are they? Where the hell are they!"
"Aaron! You need to calm down!" Leticia shouted from the corner. "This rage won't solve anything!"
"The hell I'll calm down!" he snarled, hurling a vase toward her feet. It shattered on impact, and a shard grazed her leg. She gasped, recoiling.
Aaron ran a hand through his hair, pacing like a caged beast.
"We searched everywhere! We turned this entire fief upside down and found nothing! They're gone—all of them! And your idiot brother and that wretched Gabriella are useless! Their Sinclair blood is worthless! A bunch of pathetic, spineless fools!"
Leticia clenched her jaw, fury bubbling beneath her fear.
This was supposed to be her victory. Her rise. She had married Aaron for power, not love—for the title, the wealth, the control over Florence. The Blue Diamond Roses had made Florence the crown jewel of the kingdom, eclipsing even Fortshire's influence. Without them, Fortshire was nothing.
She had envisioned herself reigning over a fief bathed in glory.
Now, that dream was slipping through her fingers.
She turned her gaze to Aaron, who was still pacing, still fuming, still blind to the consequences of his tantrum.
She knew she had to act.
If she didn't calm the storm, this barbaric, greedy buffoon of a husband would drag them both into ruin.
And Leticia Sinclair-Dinkley had not clawed her way to the top just to be buried beneath the rubble of his rage.
"Everyone is anticipating the upcoming Royal Bride Selection Season," the broadcast continued, its tone both celebratory and cautious. "The season in which our future queen will be chosen. While excitement fills the air, unease lingers. Crude rumors about the Crown Prince continue to swirl, leaving many to wonder—will the chosen Crown Princess survive long enough to be crowned queen, or will misfortune strike before the crown ever touches her head…"
Leticia's eyes gleamed with mischief.
A slow, knowing smirk curved her lips as she listened to the broadcast.
She stepped toward Aaron, who was still simmering with rage, and stood beside him.
"Are you calm now?" she asked softly.
Aaron didn't respond immediately. He turned to her with bloodshot eyes—rage still flickering behind them, barely restrained.
Leticia inhaled deeply. "Look, I know you're upset. Our plans aren't unfolding the way we envisioned, and I'm not thrilled either. But if we keep reacting like this—irrational, impulsive—we'll lose everything we've gained. We did it, Aaron. We took control of Fortshire and Florence. That's no small feat. Just because the Blue Diamond Roses have vanished doesn't mean Florence is worthless. There are other treasures we can exploit in the meantime."
Aaron snorted. "What other treasures? This dumb fief was built on the Blue Diamond Roses. They're the reason Florence held power in the first place."
Leticia rolled her eyes. "Is that really what you think?"
She placed her hands on his shoulders and began massaging them, her touch firm and calculated.
"I'm afraid, darling… you still have a lot to learn."
Aaron tilted his head, melting slightly under her hands. "Mmm… like what?"
Leticia leaned in, her voice low and smooth.
"For starters, the Blue Diamond Roses aren't the only treasure that Florence has. This fief is a mine filled with lots of minerals like gold, diamonds, emeralds, jade, you name them. The only reason why the people are acting up like this is because they were made to believe that the Blue Diamond Roses were the only minerals in the land."
Aaron grunted. "They're still the rarest mineral in the world. Don't forget that."
Leticia sighed. "Yes, they are. But now that they are....hard to find, we need to come up with a strategy to divert people's attention from them. The only reason why they are mad at us is because they are no more blue diamond roses but..if we show them that our economy can still thrive without them, we need to reintroduce the other minerals into the market. So that when people are finally satisfied that the Blue Diamond Roses are gone.."
She leaned closer, her lips brushing his ear.
"We'll find them. Claim them. And become the richest people in the world."
Aaron smirked, his rage cooling into ambition.
"I like the way you think. But let me remind you—wealth alone won't elevate us. Even if we control every gem in the kingdom, we'll still be seen as lesser. I don't want riches. I want dominion. I want the world. I want to be the king of the world. And you, my devious beauty… you'll be my queen. Together, we'll rule it all."
Leticia's smile widened.
"That would be divine, my Lord. And we're in luck—because fate has just handed us an opportunity. And we're going to grab it by the balls."
Aaron tilted his head toward the broadcast, eyes narrowing as the mention of the Royal Bride Selection echoed again.
His smirk deepened.
Then he turned back to Leticia.
And the storm behind his eyes began to shift into something far more dangerous.
"My sweet devious Duchess. I was right about you. You do have ways to make yourself useful. And that turns me on, even the more.."
Then he grabbed her by the hair and started claiming her lips with rough kisses. Leticia straddled him and roamed her hands around his chest whilst pushing against him. His hands already worked on the zipper on her dress, pulling it off and placing wet kisses on her nape and on top of her breasts.
And soon the room that was filled with crashing sounds was filled with loud moans as the shameless couple conducted their dirty business.
.....
Bang! Bang!
Gunshots echoed through the practice arena.
A man with black curly hair, sharp black eyes, thick brows, a flat nose, and plush lips stood poised—his medium-built frame sculpted beneath a dark brown hunting derby outfit. He fired round after round from a sleek hunting rifle, each bullet striking the bullseye with precision.
He kept shooting until the rifle clicked empty.
The final shot shattered the last target into splinters.
He straightened, lowering the rifle, his gaze fixed on the wreckage.
Clap. Clap.
The sound of slow, deliberate applause startled him.
He turned.
An elderly man in his early seventies approached, dressed in a black suit embroidered with silver silk. A polished black staff supported his steps, but his posture remained proud.
"Nicely done, Prince Eric," the man said, bowing with reverence. "You're more than ready for the upcoming hunting derby."
Prince Eric nodded in acknowledgment, his expression calm.
A servant rushed to his side, taking the rifle and offering a towel. Eric wiped the sweat from his brow, neck, and hands before handing it back.
"Lord Tyre," he said, his voice measured. "Your Grace. I'm surprised to see you here back at the Palace. I thought you'd retired from stewardship. Changed your mind so soon?"
Lord Tyre—the royal steward for over fifty years, a man who had served the palace since the King was a boy—smiled faintly.
"I didn't expect to return either. But His Majesty requested my presence. He wants me to oversee preparations for the Royal Bride Selection Season. Apparently, he trusts no one else to handle the festivities."
Eric raised a brow. "I see. I never thought Father would invest so much effort in my elder brother's marriage… especially given the circumstances surrounding him."
Tyre's smile faded slightly, replaced by a flicker of caution.
"The Crown Prince's reputation may be… complicated. But the kingdom needs a queen. And the King believes that a carefully orchestrated selection might restore public confidence."
Eric glanced at the shattered targets.
"Confidence is a fragile thing, Lord Tyre. Easier to destroy than rebuild."
Tyre nodded. "Which is why the selection must be flawless. The kingdom is watching. And so are its enemies."
Eric's gaze darkened, but he said nothing.
The silence between them stretched—filled with unspoken truths, old loyalties, and the weight of a crown that neither man wore… but both understood.
Lord Tyre could see it clearly—Prince Eric was upset.
As the second-born son, Eric stood just behind the Crown Prince in the line of succession. He wasn't destined for the throne. Instead, he'd been promised stewardship over the royal family's vast business empire.
But Eric wanted more.
He hungered for the dragon's seat.
He believed he deserved it—more than his beastly brother, who, according to whispered rumors and his mother's quiet insistence, wasn't even the King's biological son. But without proof, the claim remained baseless. Dangerous. Untouchable.
Eric had tried.
He'd attempted to orchestrate a covert DNA test, but his brother was too careful. No stray hairs. No discarded cups. No trace of anything that could be used. His mother had pleaded with the King to take the test himself, but he refused—always refused. It was obvious.
He feared his son.
His monster son.
A sudden chill crept down Eric's spine, sharp and biting. He turned slowly toward the palace.
And froze.
A figure stood in the window, cloaked in shadow, watching him.
Eric's breath caught.
He knew that silhouette. Knew the stillness. The presence.
His brother.
He swallowed hard, fear coiling in his gut. That was why he never confronted him directly. Why he whispered his ambitions instead of declaring them. He was afraid—afraid of being devoured by the beast.
He turned away, trying to steady himself.
When he looked back, the figure was gone.
Vanished.
Like a ghost.
"Is my brother attending the hunting derby?" he asked, voice low.
Lord Tyre sighed. "I don't know, Sire. But the derby is tradition. All royal family members are expected to attend. It marks the beginning of the Royal Bride Selection Season. The Masquerade Ball is held in its honor. Since it's to be his wedding… perhaps he'll appear."
Eric snorted. "I doubt it. He avoids us like the plague. Never shows up to family events. Rarely attends court. Honestly, I'd love to avoid him too. Or better yet…"
He muttered the last words under his breath.
"…finally get rid of him."
Lord Tyre didn't respond.
Eric turned, his expression shifting back to charm.
"Come, Lord Tyre. Let me offer you a glass of vintage whisky. We've much to catch up on."
He led the steward away from the practice grounds, toward the palace.
...
Meanwhile…
"Did you find out who received the poison?" asked a man standing at the window, his gaze fixed on Prince Eric escorting Lord Tyre from the practice grounds into the palace.
"No, Your Highness," replied the man behind him—golden blonde hair tousled, voice tight.
The Prince snorted, his tone laced with venom.
"I thought you were more competent than that, Blake. I can almost hear the demons screaming to have your flesh right this minute for being so incompetent"
Blake swallowed hard.
The air in the room felt suffocating, thick with tension. The Prince was furious, and Blake knew—one wrong word, one misstep, and his head could roll across the marble floor.
Sweat trickled down his spine, despite the hum of the air conditioner. It felt more like a furnace than a cooling system.
Then—
"Don't worry, Blake. Your time hasn't come. Yet." The Prince's voice softened, but the threat lingered beneath. "I'm giving you one last chance. For the sake of our friendship."
He turned his gaze to the blazing summer sun outside, eyes narrowing.
His thoughts drifted—back to the fiery red hair he'd seen two nights ago. The scent of wildflowers still lingered in his memory. Her perfect curves, her presence, the way her behind brushed against his…
Mmmmm...
He cleared his throat. To quickly snap out of his thoughts before he brewed a storm he could not control.
He cleared his throat, voice steady again.
"Keep watching the kitchen staff. One of them has to be the mole. And tighten security. I believe the upcoming events will be the perfect time for them to strike. Alert the Shadow Demons. Have them on standby in case things get messy."
"Yes, Your Highness," Blake replied, relief washing over him. "I'll see to it immediately."
The Prince waved him off.
Blake bowed and exited swiftly.
Alone now, the Prince walked to his desk.
He opened a hidden compartment and retrieved a small blue velvet box.
Inside, nestled in satin, was a shimmering blue necklace. The initials A.R.S. glowed faintly in the light.
He lifted it, letting it dangle from his fingers.
"I'm going to find you, my mystery woman," he whispered, voice low and dangerous. "And when I do… I'll burn you with flames of desire. I'll watch them consume you whole. Until you're mine. All mine."
He smiled.
The reflection of the necklace danced in his eyes—cold, calculating, and ablaze with obsession.