Chapter 9: The Thorn Throne
The Delacroix estate had always been a symbol—of power, elegance, and prestige. But tonight, under the dim, amber chandeliers and watchful portraits of dead men in gilded frames, it felt more like a battlefield.
Elara walked through the grand hall with a grace that had returned—only sharper now. Hardened.
She wore a midnight blue gown that shimmered like liquid ink, the high slit revealing not just her leg, but the scars she'd once hidden—one from fencing, one from the accident she barely remembered. Her mother had always said: "A Delacroix woman must never bleed in public." But tonight, Elara bled. Proudly.
At the far end of the room, guests and vultures gathered. Family. Investors. Enemies.
And in the center of it all: Adrien Saint-Pierre. Her mother's second husband. The man who had orchestrated so much of her public downfall.
"Elara," he greeted, smiling with a mouth full of lies. "Didn't expect to see you on your feet so soon."
"Because you hoped I'd stay on my knees?" she replied smoothly.
Gasps. Whispers. Champagne glasses paused mid-air.
Adrien took a step forward, but Lucien was already beside her, hand resting lightly at her waist.
"You shouldn't speak to the lady of the house like that," Lucien said, voice cold as steel. "Unless you're ready to lose what little reputation you have left."
Adrien laughed, but there was an edge to it. "Still playing the white knight, Leontis?"
"No," Lucien replied. "I've always preferred kings."
He looked down at Elara. "And she's finally claimed her throne."
---
Later, in the private study behind the estate ballroom, Elara poured herself a drink—dark cognac, uncut.
"You didn't have to say that," she told Lucien quietly.
He took the glass from her, sipped instead. "But it's true. You're not just a Delacroix heiress anymore. You're the empire now."
She laughed, bitterly. "And what good is an empire built on betrayal, Lucien?"
He turned her to face him.
"Empires aren't built on love, Elara. They're built on fire. And you? You've survived it."
He leaned closer, but not to kiss her. His forehead touched hers gently. "I just want to make sure you don't burn alone."
---
Meanwhile, in a luxury penthouse across the city…
Bastien stared at the decrypted file he'd been holding back from Elara.
It was a photograph. Grainy, old—but clear enough.
Elara. As a child.
Held in the arms of someone who wasn't her father.
A man with Lucien Leontis's eyes.
He leaned back in his chair, suddenly breathless.
"This… changes everything."
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