ALISTAIR

  The knight found the queen in the clubroom with her loyal rook. Her secretary, Patrice, stood beside her as she wrote with her usual, maddening elegance.

  "You look nice, Patrice." He noticed she was dressed even more exquisitely than usual. Fit for tea with nobility.

  Colour rose up Patrice's neck, blooming all the way to her ears. She shifted, caught between flustered delight and embarrassment, fully aware that he rarely gave compliments.

  "You're making her uncomfortable," Corin said without looking at him. Her pen danced over the parchment in looping, enviable strokes. "What do you need?"

  Alistair eased himself onto the edge of the table, letting his gaze linger on the graceful slant of her handwriting. "She's not going to Harrowhal Hall, is she?"

  Her pen froze. Not dramatically, just enough to tell him he'd hit the exact mark.

  "This business with a certain thoroughbred you want to give your pet," he murmured, "but you don't want the Chairman tracing it back to you. Hence, Henrietta."

  "Leave us," she said, and Patrice quietly left.

  Corin twirled the fountain pen between her fingers. Alistair knew that if he misspoke, the sharp nib would be in his hand. Or his throat. So he waited for her to ask.

  "How did you know?"

  "Not hard for someone who's aware, you don't like Victor having his fun," he told her.

  She clearly loathed the idea of Lucien riding Victor's horse. Vandercourt loved playing foul. He'd poison a mare, sabotage a saddle, without a flicker of guilt. Lucien would fall, he would call it an accident, and everyone else would pretend not to notice the malice.

  And Corin... never liked it when other people break her toys. Every one could sense it, even the blind ones could see her interest in that Green boy. For pleasure or business, that remained to be seen.

  "Send me instead," Alistair offered. "I can get along with Henrietta better than Patrice ever could."

  She leaned in, fingers playing with the end of his tie. A small gesture, gentle even, yet it curled heat down his spine. She didn't know what she did to people. Or maybe she did. With Corin, it was always a coin toss.

  "Don't you have class?" she asked, voice smooth.

  "Politics and taxes," he replied with a soft shrug. "You know I take those classes just to pass time. We both learned those earlier than most."

  She rose, but she didn't step back. Neither did he. The space between them stayed close enough to breathe each other in, reminding him how good she smells.

  "And what would you want?" she asked.

  He grinned, slow and quiet, because he knew how she hated assumptions and how she hated being wrong even more.

  "Why do you always assume that?" he said. "You forget—I'm always at your service."

  "Everyone always wants something."

  His hand moved—not boldly, just enough. His fingers brushed against hers on the desk, a near-touch that sparked like flint.

  "Dinner would be nice," he said.

  She studied him for a moment. Corin never rushed her conclusions. Her eyes sifted through him as though searching for a lie tucked beneath his skin.

  Finally, she reached for the letter. She dripped wax onto the fold, pressed the Clarendon seal with steady precision.

  "Tomorrow, then," she said. "Right here."

  She placed the letter in his hand. Her fingers lingered a heartbeat longer than necessary. It was enough to unsteady most men.

  He suspected she knew that, too.

  ***

  The drive to Harrowhal Hall stretched beneath a canopy of ancient oaks, their branches tangled like bony fingers reaching overhead. The car rolled along the gravel path, winding past manicured lawns and statuary that watched the world with blank, aristocratic judgment. The estate rose at the end of the drive—tall, sun-washed stone, too beautiful to be kind, too old to pretend innocence.

  Alistair didn't blink at the sight. He had grown up in homes like this, where the echo of power soaked into the walls, where lineage mattered more than happiness. Harrowhal was simply another monument to an old world that refused to die.

  Servants stood in perfect formation at the entrance, their posture straight, their eyes forward. No whispers, no shift in expression—trained with iron discipline. Yet their eyes flicked, almost against their will, to the crest on the car. Billard's emblem always stirred curiosity. They were likely expecting Her Majesty herself to step out.

  Today, they got her knight.

  "Welcome to Harrowhal Hall, Mr. Ascor," the butler said, bowing with a grace that belonged to a century gone.

  "Good to see you, Heatherrow."

  A ripple of bows followed. Harrowhal still loved its rituals; even with the monarchy gone, the house moved with the precision of a court.

  Inside, the air carried the soft sweetness of roses and polished wood. His childhood memory of this house was a cold, severe place with taxidermy glaring from every corner. He still remembered the sensation of the walls watching him, of something old pressing against his small lungs.

  But the old lord was dead now.

  The Lady had redone everything. Whimsy lived here now in bright tapestries and sunlit corners, a rebellion against the house's dark pedigree.

  "How is Lord Ascor?" Heatherrow asked as they walked.

  "Quite well. Senator Ascor now," Alistair replied.

  Heatherrow smiled, faint and warm. "He'll always be a Lord. At least to us here at Harrowhal."

  The doormen pushed open the drawing room doors, announcing Alistair's presence with ceremonial flourish. He stepped inside to find Henrietta rising from her velvet chaise, her smile wide, genuine, and just a touch theatrical. He took her hand and brushed a polite kiss against her knuckles.

  "Lady Harrowhal."

  She let out a delighted, booming laugh that filled the room more thoroughly than the sunlight. "She sent a gentleman! A pleasant surprise. The maids downstairs must be beside themselves."

  Her eyes roamed his face, curious and fond. "So much of the Ascors in you. Has anyone told you how strikingly similar you are to your grandfather at your age? Fetching and regal."

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Alistair smiled, a soft thing with just enough charm to be dangerous. "I should have grown tired of it by now with how often I hear it. But from you, my lady, the compliment feels entirely new."

  She laughed again and guided him toward the sun-lit seating by the window. Silk cushions, ornate carvings on the furniture, porcelain cups waiting on silver trays.

  "Tea, Heatherrow, for our guest," she said.

  "Yes, my lady."

  Alistair handed her the letter once Heatherrow disappeared through the doors.

  Everything about Harrowhal—and Henrietta most of all—felt like time had stopped and chosen to stay in a century far more glamorous, cruel, and intoxicating. Here, if you wanted a favour, you wrote it in ink and sealed it with wax. Polite society might have abandoned the rituals, but Harrowhal never did. Tradition clung to these walls like ivy.

  Henrietta broke the red seal with the silver letter opener. The Clarendon crest cracked cleanly. A faint smile flickered on her lips as she read.

  "She wants a prize mare for him," she said. "I can understand the fascination. Lucien is quite charming—for a dog, at least. But did she truly think I'd part with my horse for just a letter?"

  Henrietta would never missed that horse. What she loved was the leverage.

  "Is there anything you might name as your price?" he asked.

  She clicked her tongue, delighted. "Oh, Alistair. I won't name it today." She folded the letter neatly, like evidence. "But make no mistake. Taking a Harrowhal thoroughbred means taking a debt. A personal one."

  "Meaning?" he said, his voice softening.

  "You owe me, dear boy." Her smile sharpened. "When I call for it, you'll grant it. Without hesitation."

  "Is that all?"

  "For now." Her eyes glittered like something alive beneath the surface. "I'll have the horse delivered tomorrow at Billard."

  She leaned back, studying him. "But tell me, why do you accept errands from her? You know the peerage is counting on you, not on new money heirs."

  "Lady Harrowhal—"

  "Henrietta," she reminded, wagging a playful finger.

  "Henrietta," he repeated. "The peerage was abolished a long time ago. This is a new world."

  She let out a crisp, knowing laugh. "We simply call each other different names now. The old powers still hold. The Clarendons remain the most powerful family in this country, even though they were disgraced as monarchs decades ago. Gordon Clarendon may not wear a crown, but half the nation runs on his money."

  Alistair stayed silent. It wasn't exactly a revelation. Reverence around Corin wasn't superstition, it was lineage. If the monarchy still existed, she would've been heir apparent.

  Calling her "Her Majesty" had begun as a jest between her and him. But underneath the humour was something solid, closer to the truth.

  "You can't tell me the Ascors don't want Clarendon Industries," Henrietta went on. "An Ascor heir to the empire. Salazar Ascor is far too ambitious a man to surrender that chance."

  He leaned into the cushions. The tea tray clinked softly as Heatherrow returned. He served her first, then moved to Alistair—only to hesitate mid-pour. Something in the air must have shifted; even the staff at Harrowhal had a sixth sense for tension. He bowed and slipped out quietly.

  Henrietta sipped her tea with a pleased little hum. "You want more, don't you?"

  Alistair lifted his cup, letting the steam warm his face. Earl Grey. The same bergamot blend Corin loved. It dragged a memory across his senses—a soft inhale, a smile she tried to hide, the scent on her wrists when she pushed hair behind her ear.

  Henrietta's eyes caught it all.

  "Her, perhaps?" she pressed.

  Alistair simply drank.

  Henrietta set her cup down with a click, lips curved with amusement that didn't soften. "Then a word of warning."

  He looked at her.

  "Stick to the empire," she said. "Wanting a Clarendon rose is tricky business. Roses with crowns tend to bleed the men who covet them."

  "A little blood is nothing," Alistair said. "You'll find me tougher than you think. I'm an Ascor, after all."

  "Bleed but never fall," she said. "Your grandfather's words."

  Alistair raised a cup to that.

  The next day, at dinner, he was early.

  Their private clubroom was quiet, the usual noise stripped away. Faust and Victor were both tied up with practice, which left the entire evening open—just the two of them, just as he wanted. He'd asked the kitchen to bring up dinner, though most of the preparation had been his. Charm wasn't the only thing he excelled at.

  He arranged everything himself: the silver, the flowers, the pale candles throwing soft pools of light. Corin's usual menu, though tonight he'd added wine. She never drank anything not sanctioned by school regulations—Head Girl habits die hard—but he'd pressed his luck. He had earned a small indulgence.

  The mare had arrived from Harrowhal that afternoon with her groom, and Corin's reaction had been worth every ounce of trouble. They placed the horse in the Clarendon stable rather than the polo club's. Corin didn't say anything then, but her eyes had lingered, warm in a way she rarely let show.

  Her expression when she entered the room now told him the rest.

  "What's all this?" she asked, gesturing to the table set like a private celebration.

  "Dinner," Alistair said simply.

  She drifted closer, voice lowering. "You're always so thorough. Never wanting them to suspect you're having more than venison tonight."

  Her fingers brushed the lapel of his blazer. "Your cute socks are fooling everyone but me."

  Alistair smirked. "You like them? I picked the roses today." He lifted the hem of his trouser just enough to show the embroidered petals. Quirky. Innocent. Exactly the disguise she accused him of.

  Her mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but something near it.

  "Shall we start with the hors d'oeuvre?" he murmured, leaning in.

  "Go on," she breathed.

  Alistair stepped closer, slipping an arm around her waist before she could pull back. His mouth traced along the line of her neck, slow deliberate tasting, one hand sliding beneath the hem of her skirt to the softness of her thigh.

  "What did she want?" Corin asked, breath thinning as he continued his careful, hungry work.

  "I took care of everything, take your mind off it," he said against her cheek. "We're having a six-course dinner, by the way."

  Corin caught his tie and dragged him closer, the fabric slipping free of his collar. Then her fingers gripped the front of his shirt, pulling.

  "A little greedy, are we? You must be particularly hungry."

  "Starved, Majesty," he whispered, cupping her face with both hands, wanting, aching, to kiss the mouth he wasn't allowed to touch.

  "Let me kiss you properly."

  She anchored her arms around his neck, leaning close enough he could feel the warmth of her breath. "Three courses," she said. "That's it. I have a paper on Organic Chem."

  His faint hope dimmed.

  "And no kissing me on the lips."

  Alistair swallowed the disappointment. Rothwell could kiss her like that. But he couldn't. He didn't have a history with her. No childhood summers in Clarendon House. No playing house in secret corridors or riding ponies together. He'd only met her at Billard, first year, when she walked past him in the colonnade without sparing a glance. Somehow, he still believed that was why Faust had earned more of her.

  "Don't demand." Her breath fanned over his throat, while her hands slipped beneath his shirt.

  Henrietta's voice slid back into his mind like a blade: You want more, don't you? Her, perhaps?

  Maybe he did. Maybe he wanted her more than the keys to her father's empire. But that was the kind of wanting Corin despised. If she ever sensed softness from someone bred to be an heir, she would cut it out of him without hesitation. She liked him sharp. Useful. Unsentimental.

  So he stayed that version of himself. The one she could use.

  "Kneel." Corin pushed him down onto the floor to continue with the main course.

  Her fingers slid into his hair, controlling, guiding his mouth where she wanted him. The gesture should've humiliated him. Instead it grounded him, made him feel chosen in a way he'd never admit aloud.

  Corin's breath began to hitch, hands tightening on him, "Alistair—"

  She moaned his name and the sound hollowed him out like a victory and a punishment all at once.

  He swallowed the wanting along with her taste.

  She pulled him up then and kissed him on the cheek. He exhaled shakily, hands tightening on her hips.

  "Corin," he whispered her name before he can stop himself.

  "You're doing well," she murmured against his skin. "Very well. Shall we go to the next one?"

  She placed his hands on her waist, her lips brushing near his jaw. "Undress me."

  He reached for her shirt, and started undoing the buttons one by one, hands looking absurdly reverent.

  "Do you still sleep with him?" he asked.

  A quiet line dropped in the air between them. Corin didn't need clarification. Faust's name sat there without being spoken.

  "What's with the question?" she said.

  He paused at the last button. Then he saw it—the flash of blue.

  She never wore blue for nights like this. Black was for Faust. White was for him. Blue meant neither of them. It meant she dressed for herself.

  "Just curious," he murmured, fingers tracing the edge of the fabric, brushing her skin like he wasn't afraid of burning.

  She caught his chin, lifting his face toward hers. Her fingers were cool, steady.

  "Rothwell is a habit," she said simply.

  "And me?" he asked. He wasn't sure when the question escaped him—only that it had already left and he couldn't take it back.

  Her gaze didn't soften. It sharpened, always sharper when emotions tried to crawl out of him.

  "What do you want to be?" she asked.

  "Yours." The word fell out before he could wrestle it down.

  Stupid. So stupid.

  Her eyes glinted, not tender—dangerous. She slid her nails along his cheek, a warning disguised as touch.

  "Don't upset me before dessert."

  The sting of it melted into his skin.

  "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "It won't happen again."

  Of course it would. He knew it. She knew it. This wanting was a sickness he couldn't admit, so he buried it where she couldn't see. This was all transactional to her. A clean exchange of pleasure and power. He was a fool to imagine he could coax a heart out of someone born to command without one.

  He unhooked the lace and bent down to kiss her collarbone.

  She whimpered and begged for more. And he understood, it wasn't softness or care that she wanted. But service.