Crown of the Empire

Chapter 36

Chapter 36

The first thing I tasted that morning was bile. Not the sophisticated kind of taste my tongue was accustomed to—caviar, fine champagne, truffle pasta, wagyu flown in from Japan. No. This was raw, acidic, humiliating bile, clawing its way up my throat as if my body was staging a coup against me.

I shot up in bed, half tangled in silk sheets that probably cost more than most people's annual rent, and bolted for the en suite bathroom. For the fifth day in a row, I knelt on cold marble, retching like I had swallowed the stock market crash whole.

"Fabulous," I croaked at my reflection in the mirror, strands of hair sticking to my face. "The heiress of ME Bank, reduced to a vomit fountain. Truly the portrait of elegance."

If any paparazzo had been lurking with a long lens camera, they could have retired early just from the money shot of me hugging a toilet bowl in a Versace nightgown.

By the time I washed my face and staggered back out, the sun was streaming through the French windows of the Takedo estate, golden and brutal. The estate was built to intimidate—high ceilings, glass walls, gardens that looked like Versailles had been shipped over brick by brick—but at seven in the morning, all that grandeur meant nothing. I felt like a wilted houseplant in need of pesticide.

And then came the cravings.

I used to mock women who claimed pregnancy or stress made them crave bizarre food combinations. "Psychological," I'd say during cocktail parties, swirling champagne. "The brain wants attention, so it makes you crave anchovies with ice cream."

But there I was, a supposed goddess of logic, staring at the fridge like it had personally wronged me, muttering, "Do we have miso soup? And maybe some mangoes?"

Yes. Mangoes. With miso soup. Because apparently my stomach was playing culinary Russian roulette.

When the house staff blinked at me in confusion, I snapped, "Don't look at me like that. If billionaires can invent apps where people rent goats by the hour, you can get me mangoes and miso. Now."

They scrambled. As they should.

I collapsed on the couch in the east wing, still nauseous but too proud to show it, when Solene stormed in. She was dressed like she was about to box a senator—loose shirt, jeans, that swagger only she could pull off.

"You look like hell," she announced cheerfully, dropping into a chair.

"Good morning to you too, my beloved tomboy bestie," I said dryly. "I was going for chic but apparently ended up in 'roadkill couture.'"

Her eyes narrowed. "You've been throwing up every morning. Jules told me."

Speak of the devil—Jules himself waltzed in seconds later, a cloud of expensive cologne trailing behind him, wearing a silk robe like he owned the place. He carried a tray with dramatic flourish, as though he were auditioning for a cooking show.

"For Madame Mariya Elena Vergara—our resident dragon queen reduced to a mere mortal," he declared, placing a bowl of steaming miso soup beside me. On top of it? Sliced mangoes, glistening yellow.

"Don't mock me," I muttered, grabbing a mango slice like it was life support. I dipped it into the soup, ignoring their horrified gasps, and chewed thoughtfully.

"Mariya," Solene said, pinching the bridge of her nose, "that's—disgusting."

"It's divine," I corrected, pointing the mango slice at her like a lawyer presenting evidence. "Genius. Innovative. Revolutionary. You peasants just don't understand culinary brilliance."