The Wrong Billionaire or Not

Dionne POV:

Clang!

The heavy oak door of my dim side-bedroom burst open without a knock, and the Browning Clan's head steward, Vane, marched straight toward my dressing table with an insolent sneer twisting his lips.

I sat motionless before the tarnished bronze mirror, holding a wooden comb, running it slowly through my long silver-gold hair. My reflection was calm, serene.

Vane slammed a velvet-lined black iron tray onto my dressing table, rattling the mirror . Resting upon the cloth was an Oath Ring forged of crude cold iron—the lethal, cursed metal that seared elven flesh and withered spiritual veins .

To an elf, an Oath Ring was more than status; worn upon the finger, it was identity itself, legal proof of life and lineage attuned by blood . A Noble House flaunted gleaming Electrum and Silver . This ring was a fourth-tier Dull Ring of pitted cold iron—the mark of an outcast cast down to the dirt, an insult designed to burn an elf's pride down to the marrow .

"First Miss, Clan Lord Curtis has signed the decree," Vane barked, thrusting his chin out. "Your sacred betrothal to Warlord Holden has been transferred to the Second Miss. In three days, you will be sent down to the Low Marches to wed High Lord Adrien. This fourth-tier outcast ring is what you deserve."

He leaned in, his murky eyes dripping with condescension, clearly waiting for me to shatter.

"Don't even think about hanging yourself from the rafters again," Vane sneered, his voice loud enough to carry into the corridor. "The Clan Lord said that if you try to die a second time to guilt Warlord Holden, he won't even grant you a burial shroud!"

I slowly set the comb down, turned around, and looked at Vane.

There was no grief in my eyes. No heartbreak. No hysterical despair. Only an abyss of freezing stillness.

"Have you finished barking?" I asked softly.

Vane blinked, momentarily unnerved by the chilling indifference in my voice, but his arrogance quickly flared back up. "You useless, Spiritless cripple—how dare you speak to—"

"How dare you!" Tessa lunged from the shadows, her eyes rimmed with red as she threw her small frame between me and the steward. "You're just a servant! How dare you insult the First Miss!"

"Out of my way, little wrench!"

Vane scoffed, raising his heavy hand to backhand Tessa across the face, channeling a sharp gust of spiritual wind from the green-tinted Verdant Ring on his finger.

Before his palm could touch a single strand of Tessa’s hair, my hand moved.

Crack!

The sharp, sickening sound of bone splintering echoed through the bedchamber.

My fingers had clamped around Vane’s wrist like a vise of solid steel, thumb digging mercilessly into the nerve cluster along his spiritual artery. His spiritual wind collapsed in an instant.

"Aaargh!" Vane dropped to his knees, his face turning pale green from the blinding agony. "My wrist... my bones! Let go!"

I didn't let go. Instead, I twisted his arm down another fraction of an inch, forcing his forehead against the icy floorboards. Leaning down, I whispered into his ear, my voice smooth and lethal:

"Go back and tell Curtis: I accept the marriage. But if he sends another dog to bark in my room, I will snap its neck and leave the carcass at his study door."

With a flick of my wrist, I hurled his arm back.

Vane scrambled backward across the rug, cradling his limp, bruised wrist. Terror dilated his pupils as he stared at me from the floor. He couldn't understand it.

"You... you've gone mad..." Vane rasped, scrambling to his feet and stumbling out the door in sheer panic, slamming it shut behind him.

The room fell dead silent.

Tessa stood frozen, trembling from head to toe, her jaw slack. "M-Miss...?"

I ignored the iron ring on the table, walked back to the dressing mirror, and picked up the comb again. "Come here, Tessa. Fix my hair."

Tessa swallowed hard, walking over with timid steps. As she took the comb, her hands were shaking, her eyes brimming with tears. "Miss... you really shouldn't have agreed to it! The Clan Lord is heartless! Warlord Holden was meant to be yours! Everyone knows you loved him more than your own life... and now they force you to give him to the Second Miss, while exiling you to the Low Marches to marry that crippled High Lord!"

She sniffled, wiping her nose with her sleeve, overwhelmed by the injustice.

"They say High Lord Adrien won't even survive the month! If you go there, you'll be a widow before the season ends! Why didn't you cry? Why didn't you fight back? When you woke up from the hanging, it was as if... as if..."

Tessa paused, staring into the bronze mirror at my calm, unbent profile.

Looking at the girl's bewildered, terrified expression in the reflection, the corners of my lips curved into a faint, enigmatic smile.

She had every reason to be terrified. In this pyramid kingdom of Eldamar, the World Tree was everything. Altitude was destiny. The higher your clan nested within the sacred canopy, the more your veins were bathed in the celestial radiance of the Crown and the sacred Silverdew that kept elven souls from fading. Up here in the High Court, noble houses flaunted shimmering Electrum Rings, scheming over seasonal dew allotments and playing at courtly intrigue.

And down below?

Down at the decaying roots lay the Low Marches—the frozen, fog-choked borderland where outcast clans scraped by on moldering bark, acting as a meat shield against the horrors crawling from the Abyssal rifts.

To exile me there with a fourth-tier Dull Ring of cold iron was not merely a demotion; it was a death sentence. For elves, an Oath Ring worn upon the finger was legal proof of life and lineage, attuned only by the bearer's true blood. Forcing a band of cursed cold iron onto my hand was an insult engineered to sear elven flesh and wither spiritual veins from within.

And as for my supposed bridegroom, High Lord Adrien Ortega—the so-called Sword of the Crown... He had spent his life holding the frontier against the Abyss, only to take a demon’s cold-iron blade through the chest and limbs a year ago. Cold iron was the ultimate poison to elven vitality, devouring the Tree Spirit until the flesh rotted alive. The High Court had written him off as a walking corpse, and sending me to his deathbed was Curtis's way of burying two inconveniences in a single shallow grave.

"Cry? What is there to cry about?" I murmured, watching my fingers trace the tarnished bronze surface. "Tears are the most useless poison in this world."

"B-but..."

"Shh," I cut her off gently, tilting my head toward the quiet courtyard. "Listen."

Creak.

In the deep hush of the night, the outer gate of my dilapidated courtyard swung open.

Tessa gasped, stepping forward to look through the screen. "Who could be coming here at this hour? The whole clan is over at the Second Miss's banquet..."

"Go into the inner alcove and stay quiet," I instructed, laying the comb flat on the polished wood. "No matter what happens, do not come out."

"Miss?"

"Go."

The absolute authority in that single syllable left no room for argument. Tessa bit her lip and quickly vanished behind the heavy tapestry.

A few moments later, the sweet, cloying aroma of rare spirit incense drifted through the hallway, carried by the arrogant rustle of silk. The bedroom door was pushed open with a deliberate clatter.

Framed in the doorway stood Jacalyn. My stepsister.

She wore a dazzling, custom-woven spirit-silk gown of brilliant crimson, tailored for the bride of a Warlord. Her almond eyes were wide and misted with feigned innocence, but the triumphant smirk pulling at the corners of her lips was impossible to hide.

Seeing me sitting alone before the tarnished mirror, Jacalyn arched a delicate brow and let out a light, mocking titter.

"Oh, my dear sister," Jacalyn drawled, stepping across the threshold with her gold-threaded slippers tapping softly against the floorboards. "Such an important night, yet your servants have all run off to sleep? How utterly pathetic."