Shackled To The Enemy King-Chapter 93: For You, My Queen

Presidential Suite, Laurel Heights Hotel — Stonehaven, just outside the Laurel Creek Region

Fresh from the shower, Dorian stood by the window in nothing but a bathrobe, city lights glinting against the glass.

His phone screen glowed.

7 missed calls: Grandfather.

Of course. He scoffed.

He walked to the table leisurely, lit a cigarette, inhaled slowly, sat on the chair overlooking the cityscape, and then finally returned the call. It connected on the first ring.

"Where are you?" Edward Blackwood barked; no greeting, just fury.

Dorian didn’t answer. He crossed one leg over the other, leaned back into the chair, and exhaled smoke toward the ceiling.

"I told you not to pursue that ranch piglet," Edward continued, voice rising. "Yet you went to meet her brother. You skipped the meetings I ordered you to attend!"

Silence.

"Answer me!"

The shouting tipped into coughing.

Dorian tapped ash into the tray. Calm. Unbothered.

"I went to the office this morning," he said at last, voice low. "And who do I find?"

A pause.

"The woman I fired," he continued softly. "Still at her desk. Smirking at me."

The temperature in his voice dropped.

He had terminated Mrs. Lowe. His grandfather had undone it. Apparently, the CEO of Blackwood Holdings could not dismiss an employee who had served Edward for decades.

"You’d fire a loyal woman over that tramp?" Edward scoffed. "Do you think the Blackwoods survive on stockmen money?"

Dorian’s eyes sharpened.

"Then perhaps you should clarify," he said evenly, "what I am permitted to do as CEO. How long do you plan to micromanage my life?"

"Until you settle down!" Edward thundered. "Until you rid yourself of that street-level mentality!"

A faint smirk tugged at Dorian’s lips.

Street-level.

His mother, Edward’s daughter, had married a city hall staffer for love and got disowned for it. When Edward’s other children died, and no heir remained, he had dragged Dorian back into the fold after his parents’ fatal "accident."

An accident Dorian had never believed was accidental.

Now the old man surrounded him with loyalists. Spies disguised as staff. Invisible leashes.

Pity.

Edward had no idea who his grandson truly was.

"This is the second time you’ve called me street-level," Dorian said quietly.

On the other end, the fury cooled.

"Dorian..." Edward’s tone shifted, smoothed over with false patience. "Grandfather knows best."

"I know. Grandfather knows best," Dorian echoed, his gaze turning glacial. "About Mrs. Lowe?"

There was silence. Then after a short pass, "I’ll send her on vacation," Edward conceded.

"I’ll hire my own assistant tomorrow," Dorian said. He needed to gain his independence.

"Temporary," Edward snapped.

The call ended.

Dorian lowered the phone slowly.

"A little longer..." he murmured to himself.

Just until the R&D department receives approval from his grandfather. Just until the final signature is his.

"All for you, my Queen..."

A faint smile curved his lips as he closed his eyes... an expression too soft for a man like him.

He drew in one last breath of smoke, watching the ember glow bright against the dark.

Then he crushed the cigarette between his fingers. The ember burst. Sparks kissed his skin.

He did not flinch.

Beyond the glass, the night lay stretched and silent, deceptively calm.

And in the distance... flames began to rise beyond the fence of Laurel Creek Ranch.

-----

Tuesday morning unfolded like clockwork.

Catherine got ready for the university with Maximilian. The dog trailed after her obediently now, responding to her every command as if she had always been its chosen master. She’d half-expected Maximilian to sulk about it.

He didn’t.

If anything, he looked faintly amused.

Somewhere along the way, she had also started caring for the baby—feeding her, bathing her, choosing her tiny clothes with absurd seriousness, playing with her when she was awake.

And while she did that, Maximilian cooked and cleaned. He also air-fried almonds because she liked them that way.

They even grocery-shopped together every other day for fresh produce.

It was... domestic.

Suspiciously domestic.

Now, seated in his faculty office, Catherine nibbled on the almonds he’d packed for her and suddenly froze.

Aren’t we acting far too much like a married couple? And worse... I don’t entirely hate it.

Her entire body shivered.

No. Absolutely not. This must be what it would be like to have a roommate.

Her gaze dropped to the bracelet around her wrist. She tugged at it again, trying to pry it open.

It didn’t budge.

The distance between them remained steady—thirty meters at most. Their constant bickering had, ironically, kept things controlled. Measured.

Safe.

Good.

He would remain at a safe distance tomorrow when she met Dorian.

Her eyes drifted to Maximilian.

He sat at his desk, sleeves rolled neatly beneath a fitted sweater, glasses low on his nose as he worked on his laptop. Calm. Focused. Infuriatingly composed.

Who would have thought the sharp-tongued prince from her past life, the one who wielded a sword like a storm and spilled blood without blinking... could look so... civilized?

Soft, almost.

She squinted.

He did look annoyingly handsome in wool suits and winter sweaters. No wonder half the female students walked into doors when he passed.

Catherine shook her head quickly, as if physically dislodging the thought.

Absolutely not.

She refused to let the bracelet misinterpret anything and shrink the distance between them.

Thirty meters was perfect. Thirty meters was safe. Thirty meters meant her heart would behave.

Right?

Just as she prepared to begin her usual routine, curling up on Maximilian’s office couch for a strategic "five-minute" nap that always turned into forty, her phone buzzed.

Once.

Twice.

Then relentlessly.

Her brow furrowed. She unlocked it. Notifications flooded her screen.

Laurel Creek Ranch — stock plunges at market open.

Her stomach dropped. Markets fluctuated. She knew that much. But this wasn’t a fluctuation. This was a cliff. The graph looked like it had tripped and fallen face-first.

She wasn’t a stock expert, but she wasn’t blind either.

This was bad.

Very bad.

She called William immediately. He picked up on the second ring.

"Is this an emergency, Bitty Bean? I’m drowning here," he muttered, distracted, voices buzzing faintly in the background.

"I saw the market," she said quietly.

A pause.

"I’m handling it. Don’t worry." His tone was steady—too steady. "Did you have breakfast?"

Catherine frowned.

"Yes."

"Good. I’ll call you later."

"Alright... Billy."

The line ended.

She stared at her screen. Her brother had used that tone before. Calm on the surface. Fractured underneath.

That was worse.

If he was worried, then this wasn’t just numbers on a chart.

What could have caused such a fall?

She opened the news. Scrolled, and refreshed.

Nothing.

No scandal.

No investigation.

No visible disaster.

Then why was the market bleeding? Stocks didn’t collapse for no reason.

Her fingers tightened around the phone.

Something had happened.

Something no one was reporting yet.