Crown of the Empire

Chapter 24

Chapter 24

The first thing I heard when I woke wasn't birdsong, wasn't the rustle of silk sheets or the hum of the estate's staff moving quietly beyond the walls. It was the ding.

The ding of my phone.

Correction: the constant, relentless, never-ending ding of my phone, vibrating like a nervous intern trying to impress me.

I cracked an eye open, sunlight cutting across the ceiling in golden streaks. My hair was a disaster, my body sore from the kind of tension only a hundred pairs of eyes—and my father's absence—could bring. Nikolai's estate was built for tranquility, with its high ceilings, warm oak panels, and gardens that looked like they'd been stolen out of a fairytale. But tranquility didn't exist when your notifications sounded like a war drum.

I reached for my phone, already bracing myself. And there it was.

The headlines.

ME Bank? Mariya Elena Vergara Declares Independence

Vergara Heiress to Build Her Own Empire with Takedo Fortune

From Disowned to Untouchable? Inside the Engagement Party

That Rocked the Banking World

Karsten Vergara's Daughter Deals a Savage Blow to Vergara Banking

Oh. This was good.

I scrolled, sipping the leftover champagne on my nightstand because water was overrated, and watched the world unravel in real-time. Analysts dissected my every word, whispering about how the Cassiopeas' presence solidified everything. Financial Twitter was already trending with #MEBank, half cheering me on, half predicting my spectacular failure.

And in my head, I saw him.

Karsten Vergara.

My father.

I imagined him in his study, veins popping, his precious allies around him, all pretending not to smirk while he raged. He would see the headlines. He would see me. Not his obedient heiress, not his bargaining chip, but the woman who had the audacity to walk into a ballroom and declare war with nothing but a glass of champagne and a smile.

I laughed. Out loud. Alone. It felt delicious.

The bed dipped beside me, and I didn't even need to look to know who it was. Nikolai didn't do theatrics. He just existed—quiet, steady, infuriatingly unbothered.

"You're laughing." His voice was low, still rough with sleep.

"I'm trending," I corrected, thrusting my phone in his direction. "Look. Queen Mariya dethrones King Karsten. It's practically Shakespearean."

He scanned the screen with those unreadable eyes, the kind that always seemed to see ten steps ahead. Then, calmly, "This is only the beginning."

"I know." I rolled onto my back, staring at the ornate ceiling. "Which is why I'm enjoying this moment. Before the patriarchy starts foaming at the mouth."

"They already are."

Of course they were.

He reached for the silver tray that had magically appeared on the side table (the staff here worked faster than divine intervention), lifting the coffee pot. He poured into a porcelain cup like it was ritual, like caffeine was armor. Then he handed it to me.

I took it, inhaling the scent, and grinned. "If you weren't so annoyingly composed, I'd think you were actually human."

That earned me the faintest twitch of his mouth. Which, in Nikolai-speak, was basically a belly laugh.