The audit began three days later.

  Quietly.

  Too quietly.

  Celia stood inside the Ministry of Commerce, watching clerks scramble under the sudden weight of scrutiny. Ledgers were stacked like barricades. Ink-stained hands trembled as records were examined line by line.

  Fear was spreading.

  Good.

  Fear loosened tongues.

  “Lady Valmont.”

  Her aide, Marianne, approached with a sealed envelope. “Preliminary findings.”

  Celia accepted it without turning. “Speak.”

  “Three southern shipments rerouted. Two warehouses underreported stock. And…” Marianne hesitated. “Payments redirected through shell accounts tied to minor noble houses.”

  “Names?”

  Marianne handed her a second parchment.

  Celia scanned it once.

  Then again.

  Not Harrington.

  Of course not.

  These were secondary players. Small houses. Expendable.

  He was insulating himself.

  “Has the duke responded publicly?” Celia asked.

  “Only that he welcomes transparency.”

  Celia smiled faintly.

  Of course he does.

  Transparency was only dangerous to those who had something to hide poorly.

  A commotion rose near the entrance.

  Voices. Raised.

  Celia turned.

  A woman in plain clothing had pushed past the guards. Her hair was disheveled, her face streaked with dirt and desperation.

  “My son is starving!” she cried. “They said the grain was coming! They said the duke promised!”

  The hall froze.

  Ah.

  Unscripted chaos.

  The guards moved to seize her, but Celia lifted a hand.

  “Wait.”

  The woman’s eyes snapped toward her.

  Hope.

  Celia approached slowly, measured.

  “What is your name?” she asked calmly.

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  “Lysa. From Greythorn village.”

  Greythorn.

  One of the southern provinces most affected.

  “How long have you waited for the shipments?”

  “Two weeks. They told us to be patient. They said trade routes were being… inspected.”

  The word tasted bitter in the woman’s mouth.

  Perfect.

  Celia knelt—graceful, deliberate.

  Low enough to appear compassionate.

  High enough to remain untouchable.

  “You will have grain,” she said softly. “Within three days.”

  The woman’s eyes widened. “You promise?”

  Celia held her gaze.

  “I do not make promises lightly.”

  Behind her, Marianne stiffened.

  Three days was ambitious.

  Perhaps impossible.

  But impossibility was simply resistance waiting to be broken.

  “Escort her out,” Celia ordered gently. “Ensure she is fed before she leaves.”

  As the woman was led away, whispers erupted.

  Compassion.

  Responsibility.

  Leadership.

  The exact words Celia wanted floating through the capital by nightfall.

  Marianne stepped closer once the hall settled.

  “We do not control the southern reserves,” she murmured. “Those fall under Harrington’s jurisdiction.”

  “I know.”

  “Then how—”

  “We will force his hand.”

  Celia began walking toward the records chamber.

  “Prepare an official notice,” she continued. “Publicly affirm that emergency redistribution will occur under royal directive.”

  “But the king hasn’t—”

  “He will.”

  Marianne blinked. “You’re certain?”

  Celia stopped at the door.

  “No,” she said coolly. “But Harrington will be.”

  Marianne slowly began to understand.

  If Celia publicly aligned relief efforts with the crown—

  If word spread that the king supported redistribution—

  Then if grain did not arrive…

  The blame would fall on whoever controlled the routes.

  Harrington.

  Either he complied and revealed his supply lines.

  Or he resisted and appeared cruel.

  A squeeze.

  Not fatal.

  But uncomfortable.

  Inside the records chamber, Celia closed the door behind them.

  Stacks of ledgers waited.

  Numbers did not lie.

  People did.

  “Marianne,” Celia said quietly, “send a private invitation to Duke Harrington.”

  “For when?”

  “Tonight.”

  Marianne’s eyes widened slightly.

  “Alone?”

  Celia’s expression did not change.

  “Of course.”

  That evening, the duke arrived precisely on time.

  Of course he did.

  He was escorted into Celia’s private garden—a place of pale stone paths and carefully cultivated white roses.

  No thorns visible.

  But they were there.

  Harrington studied the setting.

  “Unexpected,” he remarked.

  “I find walls tiresome,” Celia replied. “They echo.”

  He inclined his head. “You requested my presence.”

  “Yes.”

  She gestured toward a small table set with tea.

  He did not sit immediately.

  “Your emergency redistribution announcement was bold,” he said. “The king seemed surprised.”

  “He will approve it,” Celia said lightly.

  “And if he does not?”

  “Then I will persuade him.”

  Harrington finally sat.

  “You cornered me.”

  “Did I?”

  “The southern grain. If I comply, I reveal my infrastructure. If I refuse, I appear negligent.”

  Celia poured tea with steady hands.

  “You make it sound as though I am cruel.”

  “You are efficient.”

  A pause.

  They watched each other.

  Two predators measuring distance.

  “Tell me,” Harrington continued, “why involve the villagers? That woman today—was she part of your design?”

  Celia did not answer immediately.

  Instead, she stirred her tea once.

  “No,” she said at last. “But she was useful.”

  Honesty.

  A calculated gift.

  Harrington’s gaze sharpened.

  “You could have ignored her.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  Celia’s eyes lifted to meet his.

  “Because hungry people burn cities.”

  A beat of silence.

  “And burned cities destabilize trade,” Harrington finished.

  “And destabilized trade weakens the throne.”

  He leaned back slowly.

  “So this is not just about me.”

  “It was never just about you.”

  Wind moved through the roses.

  For the first time, something shifted in Harrington’s expression.

  Not fear.

  Not anger.

  Respect.

  “You’re playing a longer game than I assumed,” he said.

  Celia stood.

  “And you’re still underestimating me.”

  She stepped closer, just enough to invade his space.

  “In three days,” she continued quietly, “grain will arrive in Greythorn. You will ensure it.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  Her lips curved slightly.

  “Then the audit expands.”

  A threat.

  Simple.

  Clean.

  Effective.

  Harrington rose.

  For a long moment, neither moved.

  Finally, he inclined his head.

  “You are dangerous, Lady Valmont.”

  “Yes.”

  He turned to leave.

  “Three days,” she reminded him.

  When he was gone, Marianne emerged from the shadows.

  “You think he’ll comply?”

  Celia looked at the white roses.

  “He has to.”

  “And if he finds a way around you?”

  Celia’s expression cooled.

  “Then I escalate.”

  She reached out and plucked a rose.

  The stem bled where she broke it.

  “In war,” she murmured, “you don’t win by striking first.”

  She let the petals fall to the ground.

  “You win by making your enemy choose how they lose.”