Crown of the Empire

Chapter 26

Chapter 26

If someone had told me a year ago that I'd wake up in the Takedo estate—a house so large it needed a map, a staff roster that could qualify as a small army, and a husband who kissed like sin and strategized like an assassin—I would've laughed and told them to quit drinking. And yet, here I was, lying in a bed that felt less like a piece of furniture and more like a continent, staring at ceilings painted with frescos imported from somewhere in Florence, with curtains that could probably pay off the national debt if sold at auction.

And the first words I heard that morning weren't romantic declarations or soft endearments. No. They were:

"Good morning, Young Madame."

Young. Madame.

I bolted upright, hair a glorious mess, wedding band catching the sunlight, and stared at the maid who had dared utter such... antiquated nonsense. She looked terrified, tray in her hands shaking under the weight of freshly baked bread, tea, and fruit cut into perfect geometric shapes like I was about to grade them.

I cleared my throat and decided to have fun. "Young Madame? No, no, that won't do."

The poor woman blinked, horrified.

"You will call me..." I tapped my chin like I was solving a legal case. "...Her Banking Highness. Or," I added, dramatic pause for maximum effect, "Supreme Chairwoman of Sass and Interest Rates."

The tray almost fell.

I grinned, biting into a croissant. "Relax, I'm kidding. Mostly."

The staff scattered like startled birds when I swung out of bed, robe trailing, hair undone, and my feet sinking into rugs thicker than the egos of half the Vergara board. Everywhere I walked, I was greeted with bows, 'Good mornings,' and a level of reverence that made me want to laugh. Back in the Vergara estate, I was tolerated. Here? I was worshipped. And honestly, it was delicious.

Except for one man.

Nikolai Sebastian Romanov Takedo. My husband.

He strolled into the bedroom like he owned gravity itself, sleeves rolled up, tie loose, looking like sin had decided to incarnate as a CEO. He held a folder under one arm, phone in hand, already speaking in Russian to some unfortunate soul who probably owed him their sanity.

"Contracts signed. Shipments by Friday," he said, voice calm, decisive, terrifyingly precise. Then he ended the call, set his phone down, and looked at me. That look. Dark eyes, unreadable, steady.

"You're terrorizing the staff."

"They started it," I replied, sipping tea. "They called me Young Madame. Do I look like a debutante in pearls waiting for permission to speak? No. I'm a bank."

He blinked once. "A bank."

"Yes, Nikolai. I am ME Bank. Flesh and blood. Walking capital. If they're going to address me, they better say 'Founder' at the very least."

Silence. Then, the corner of his mouth tugged up, that infuriating almost-smile. "Founder," he said, testing the word on his tongue like it was meant for me.

I rolled my eyes, though my stomach flipped. Damn him.

Breakfast together was absurd. Imagine trying to eat while staff poured imported honey into golden bowls, while someone else fluffed pillows you weren't even sitting on, while two gardeners literally trimmed hedges outside into perfect spheres in case I looked out the window.

I speared a strawberry, narrowed my eyes at Nikolai across the table. "I married you for your estate, you know. Not for love. Not for passion. Just for bragging rights that I live in a house where the garage has its own heating system."