Part 2Rejected By Peasants Crowned By Kings

The document struck the polished marble trim of the table with a sharp, heavy thud.

Silence descended upon the dining room—the kind of suffocating, suffocated quiet where even the hum of the air circulation sounded deafening.

Marian’s brow pinched slightly, perhaps finding Theodore’s maneuver a fraction too blunt for polite company. Yet she merely tightened her arm around Genevieve’s slender waist and held her peace.

Andrew reclined deeper into his mahogany chair, arms folded across his chest, observing me with clinical detachment. He was clearly waiting for the inevitable: the hysterics, the table-flipping outrage, the desperate, unhinged plea of a girl watching an empire slip through her fingers.

Genevieve, meanwhile, launched into immediate panic. Her fingers fluttered toward Theodore’s tailored sleeve.

"Theo, please don't do this," she pleaded, her voice trembling on the edge of a sob. "Sabrina is their real daughter. The arrangement between your families was established decades ago. You can't discard it because of me—"

"Genevieve, your heart is far too soft for your own good."

Theodore caught her wrist, his grip gentle, his tone dripping with protective devotion.

"A woman of her temperament is an embarrassment to the Donovan name. What I require as a wife is a poised, cultivated partner of standing, not a bitter, uncivilized opportunist who communicates solely in venom."

He pulled his gaze away from her and snapped it back to me, the ice returning.

"And before you sign, there is one more item."

His eyes dropped deliberately to the worn canvas tote slung over the back of my chair. Clipped to its brass zipper was a smooth, lustrous disc of carved white mutton-fat nephrite—a traditional guardian pendant, radiating a soft, oily luminescence.

"Unclip that pendant," he commanded.

"That jade has been handed down through generations of Bradford matriarchs, reserved explicitly for the eldest son's bride. Mr. Bradford promised it to Genevieve years ago. Given that you’ve only just surfaced from the gutter, an heirloom of that caliber belongs in Genevieve’s care. We wouldn't want you pawning it off or losing it in a subway grate."

I followed his line of sight to the pendant.

My foster mother, Helena, had fastened it to my bag on the morning of my eighteenth birthday. She had smoothed my hair, kissed my forehead, and told me that fine jade absorbs the spirit of the wearer, shielding them from every ill wind life dared to throw.

I blinked, genuinely fascinated by the sheer audacity on display.

Not only did they want to strip me of an arranged alliance I hadn't asked for, but they also possessed the unmitigated gall to claim my personal property under the guise of dynastic preservation.

"Theo, truly, you don't have to do this for me..." Genevieve murmured, ducking her chin in demure hesitation.

"Hush. As long as I'm standing here, no one takes what is yours," Theodore promised, stepping slightly forward to shield her.

Watching this sanctimonious, high-budget melodrama play out before the salad plates, I couldn't hold it in any longer. A soft, clear laugh escaped my throat.

"God, this is moving," I mused.

I reached back, unclipped the nephrite medallion from my canvas bag, and shoved it across the smooth table alongside the cancellation agreement, sliding both directly into Theodore’s pristine space.

"Got a pen?"

I smiled up at him, bright and uncluttered.

"Since you're so passionately invested, Mr. Donovan, consider it signed. And take the stone. Think of it as an early contribution to your wedding gift fund. May you two enjoy a long, uninterrupted, suffocating eternity together."

Theodore went entirely rigid.

His mind had undoubtedly mapped out every pathetic scenario: tears, bargaining, screaming, clinging to his trousers, perhaps an undignified scene requiring security. He had prepared for everything except absolute, cheerful compliance.

He hadn't accounted for the possibility that I would treat his grand gesture like a piece of junk mail tossed into the recycling.

"Sabrina Bradford, do not flatter yourself by thinking this transparent reverse psychology will pique my interest," he spat, his voice darkening as the blood rushed to his ears. My total lack of friction felt like an open insult to his ego.

"Don't flatter yourself, Mr. Donovan."

I plucked the Montblanc pen from his paralyzed hand, uncapped it with a satisfying click, and scrawled my signature across the dotted line with a flourish.

"I've had excellent twenty-twenty vision my entire life. I don't scavenge through trash cans."

"You—" Theodore snapped, the veneer slipping.

"Enough."

A deep, commanding voice rolled down the spiral staircase.

Richard Bradford finally made his entrance. The patriarch of the Bradford estate walked with the cold, unyielding gravity of an aging king, his face carved from years of high-stakes corporate warfare. He cast a cursory glance at the signed papers on the table, displaying not a shred of regret.

"If Theodore has reached his decision, the matter is settled."

Richard took his seat at the head of the table, his heavy, calculating stare settling squarely upon me.

"Sabrina, next Friday marks the Bradford Group's annual corporate gala. We intended to introduce you to our circle during the proceedings."

Before I could even incline my head, his next words dropped like lead weights.

"However, for the sake of Genevieve's emotional stability, and to prevent baseless market speculation, we will introduce you publicly as a distant relative whom our charitable foundation has supported through school."

He folded his hands, utterly remorseless.

"Going forward, in public and within our circle, you will address me as Mr. Bradford. And your mother as Mrs. Bradford."