The Underworld Queen's Second Contract

The marble floor was so cold, it sent a tremor straight through Selene, bone-deep and immediate.

She'd knelt here a hundred times before-her wedding day in her spotless white dress, those stiff-backed council meetings, funerals for men she wouldn't bother to remember in prayers. But this? This was new. Now she was shaking, bleeding, and the crowd of faces she once called her own just watched as she came apart.

Light sliced down from the chandelier, shards scattering across the chamber. Selene blinked, biting back the pain, counting faces-people she trusted, people she'd sheltered, people she'd risked wars for.

Not one of them looked back.

Reginald Cross spoke, syrupy and false as ever, his voice trying and failing to soften the knife wedged under her ribs. "You understand why this has to happen. The Syndicate can't be led by a woman the blood doesn't recognize."

She nearly laughed. Five years holding it all together, patching up every wound Aldric left behind, guiding every strategy, signing off on every deal using her own damn name. Five years of secrets and scars she earned herself. And none of it mattered. All they saw was blood-perfect excuse to shove her out.

"Bianca." She turned, desperate for loyalty, just one person to remember what she'd built. "You saw everything. You were there."

Bianca wouldn't even meet her eyes. Guilt flooded her expression.

That hurt more than the knife.

For a moment, things were quiet-a single scuffed shoe broke the silence. She knew the sound: Damian.

Selene fought the urge to collapse. Her muscles screamed, but she forced herself up. Not here. Not in front of him.

He stepped into the circle, eyes locked with hers for a heartbeat.

She searched his face, hungry for anything-a flicker of anger, a shock, some trace of the partner who'd fought at her side through hell for years. Just stand up for me. Now.

But Damian went iced-over. He didn't speak. Didn't move.

That was it. Five years fighting for a throne that was never hers. Five years tied to a man who'd watch her bleed just to keep the council happy.

"Say something." Her voice barely scraped out-still a command, her last, not a plea.

Damian's jaw tightened. That was all.

Pain crashed through her, shoving her down onto the marble. She slumped, cheek pressed to the floor, staring at Damian's shoes. Spotless. Not a single drop of her blood on them-like he'd always known how to stay clean.

Even now, you won't step closer. Won't risk staining yourself.

Behind her, voices picked up. The council was already dividing her seat, talking over funeral plans, debating whether Marco or Isabel would grab her job. Tearing up the Syndicate before her heart even stopped.

Fear stayed away. Only fury cut through now-knife-cold, eating her up inside. She'd handed everything to the Syndicate: her name, her years, every future that might've been. And they spat her out like she was nothing but a bad bet.

If I ever get another chance, she promised herself as the pain closed in tight, I swear-it won't be for a crown that comes with a chain.

Darkness swept her under before the thought finished.

She jerked awake. Sheets twisted around her hands, heart pounding inside a body that felt whole again.

Moonlight washed across unfamiliar walls and a ceiling she couldn't place. Just another night in a life she didn't recognize.

And on the nightstand, untouched, her name waited-scrawled over dotted lines.

A marriage contract. Signed three years before the night she died.