Florence's fingers dug into the arm of the settee in Eulothorne's parlor, knuckles whitening as sweat slicked her palms. Her nails clawed at the velvet cushion beneath its delicate fabric, as though the furniture alone were anchoring her to the room. From the adjoining chamber, Eulothorne paced, astonishingly calm preparing tea with his own hands, the quiet clink of porcelain echoing like a measured taunt.
Though spring reigned beyond the windows, the air felt stifling. Florence could not tell whether the heat pressed in from the night itself or from the violent pounding of her heart, each beat thundering against her ribs as if desperate to escape.
At last, Eulothorne approached. He set a pink porcelain teacup upon the center table between them with deliberate care. Florence stared at it without touching it, lifting her gaze only to meet him with a cold, guarded stare.
"I do not know why you resent me," Eulothorne said, his voice steady, resolute, "But this marriage will proceed."
She could not comprehend him, neither in her past life nor now. She stood forever at the edge of understanding, searching for the reason behind her suffering, for why the Oberons had made her existence so small and cruel, for why even her death had felt prearranged, as though written long before she ever lived.
She did not wish to marry him. Yet her nails remembered the stone path where she had died, remembered the vow she had carved into herself; that Eulothorne would one day receive what he deserved. To overturn their fates, she knew she would have to bind herself to him. Otherwise, his continued existence would render everything meaningless.
And still, she wanted answers.
Florence lifted the teacup at last and sipped.
"This is Darjeeling," she said quietly. "Blended in China, is it not?"
For the first time, Eulothorne looked taken aback. Not able to understand what she meant.
"I have neither the standing afford to put such tea in my mouth," she continued, her voice steady. "Nor the reputation to deserve your insistence upon this marriage."
Eulothorne's gaze locked onto hers, unblinking. "You are Gillian Loxley's heiress."
"And why do you believe that benefits you?" Florence countered. She wore her mother's practiced composure well, though the settee bore witness to how rigidly she braced herself. "What gain is there in me being his child?"
In her former life, Eulothorne had never laid hands upon her—but he had watched. Mocked. Her silence and helplessness had been trophies polished for his mother's pride. He had fun watching her helpless.
"I hear that the old man is dying," he said coolly. "And that you are his sole inheritor."
He crossed his legs, chin tilted upward, eyes fixed upon her as though she were dirt beneath his boots and he some distant heaven.
"He does not know me well enough to place me in his will," Florence said. It was a lie, and he knew it.
That very morning, the will had been delivered to her hands. Unlike her previous life, Gillian Loxley had already died. Florence still struggled to grasp how everything had come to her so swiftly, so unnaturally. Elizabeth had vanished the moment she glimpsed her former lover again then, leaving Florence alone with a fortune she had never wanted.
Eulothorne had known. He knew it was the perfect opportunity; to settle the will, to place it into his mother's grasp, to finally still her relentless demands.
He had not realized how far he had gone then, but history, after all, was merciless in its repetition.
Eulothorne's fists clenched. His voice remained cold, clipped, as he asked, "Do you not require assistance navigating the legalities?"
Florence looked down at the envelope bearing her father's seal, her fingers trembling despite herself. All at once, the lamplight seemed to falter, its glow paling as her resolve wavered, thin as a dying wick. A sudden chill swept through the chamber, the breeze sharpening into a cruel, wintry touch that seeped into her bones. Yet from that cold despair, her will surged anew; her yearning to break free, her hunger for vengeance rising like a dark lullaby that gathered her fractured spirit and cradled it back into grim, unyielding strength.
"I may be ignorant of the law," she said firmly, tightening her grip, "But I will not play along with your schemes."
He laughed, sharp, derisive. "And how do you suppose you will manage? You are a woman without standing. Your worth begins and ends with that will."
He rose and strode to the window, drawing the curtain aside. Below, carriages rolled past, and among them waited one adorned with the Loxley crest.
"Without me," he added, "you will not keep it for long."
"Then let my death be the price," Florence said.
He turned, startled by her audacity. Yet she did not see the truth: greed was merciless, and the Loxleys were never kind to those who stood between them and what they desired.
"You are naive," he said softly, almost amused. "Your death would achieve nothing. You would only hand your inheritance to vultures."
Florence stood, no longer willing to endure his contempt. "I have no time for your games. You will not force me into marriage."
She reached for the door, it as never long after her hand touched the knob, Eulothorne spoke again, his voice low and intimate.
"Your mother," he murmured. "She sold you to me."
Florence froze. Tears rushed to her eyes as disbelief and recognition collided. Elizabeth was capable of it—she had always been—but knowing did nothing to soften the blow.
"Do you know for how much?" Eulothorne asked.
Her spine shuddered. She did not wish to hear it. The price would reveal how little she had ever been worth. Florence's breath faltered, stilled as though she hovered on the brink of death itself, longing not for oblivion but for deafness. Her vision softened and swam, the edges of the room dissolving into shadow, while her senses recoiled inward—retreating, numbing themselves in a futile attempt to smother a truth too cruel to endure.
He closed the distance between them, his presence suffocating, until she could feel his breath. "Five sovereign coins, Florence."
The world tilted. Five coins, no more than a laborer's monthly wage.
She had known her mother did not love her. Still, the truth crushed her. As though nine months beneath Elizabeth's heart had meant nothing at all.
"Last night, Elizabeth demanded more," Eulothorne said evenly. "That, too, was resolved—with my mother."
Florence's hands curled into tight fists. She could not name what churned within her—resentment, grief, or something far darker—but the tears burning at the corners of her eyes bore witness to the price her mother had set upon her existence.
"The dress she bought you," he continued, almost idly, "was paid for with the money she received for selling you."
The words hollowed her. She had not known. For all her vows to be ruthless in this second life, she remained painfully unguarded. The realization sickened her. This rebirth had not sharpened her as she had promised herself it would. She bowed her head, hair spilling forward to veil her face from the lamplight, thoughts spiraling endlessly—long enough for Eulothorne to watch in silence.
He stepped back and settled against the armrest of the settee, posture composed, gaze unhurried. He waited. Florence murmured to herself, breath catching, but no sound formed into words.
"You may take all the time you need," Eulothorne said at last.
He reached for his coat, clearly intending to leave. Patience was not his nature, yet he understood the art of pressure—of retreating just far enough to force her hand.
He brushed past her toward the door, her slight frame scarcely reaching his arm. In the dimness, his dark eyes seemed swallowed by the night itself, his breath heavy with the air of evening. He paused only a fraction of a second, stealing a final, unreadable glance over his shoulder, before widening the door and letting the darkness in.
"Wait…" Her fingers caught at the edge of his sleeve, clutching as though the fabric were the last thing tethering her to the room.
It was not that her resolve lacked iron—only that fear had always lived deeper within her. Florence knew herself to be a coward. She carried a well of hatred for Eulothorne, dark and festering, yet in his presence it thinned and weakened, rendered useless. He possessed an uncanny power over her, one that stripped her defenses bare and bent her will until manipulation felt almost inevitable.
Her thoughts recoiled to her father's final moments, his words still sharp and vivid, as clear as the pale morning sky that bore witness to his death. She had not known he was capable of warning her. Florence had stood unmoved as Gillian's breath faltered and slipped away, watching without tears as his fingers reached for hers. In his eyes she had seen something unfamiliar—gravity, remorse, even concern—so unlike the cold austerity she had always known. She had drawn her hand back, gently but firmly, and the sorrow in his gaze had lingered like a bruise.
"If ever you find yourself bound in a marriage you cannot flee as I have," he had whispered, voice fraying with his last strength, "build your empire from my ashes."
She had not understood then. Before meaning could take shape, Elizabeth had already turned away, and her father's life had been quietly claimed, unseen by any living soul.
Florence thought that was the most precious thing he had left her. Resolutely, Florence gave her final answer.
"I have decided."