By the time the debt collectors limped away (one clutching his thigh, the other questioning all his career choices), Seraphina was already sketching floor plans on the back of a tax notice.
Across the cracked dining table, Rhys—still shirtless, mildly bleeding, and apparently fine with both—watched her work in silence.
"Is this… a brothel?" he asked, finally.
She didn't look up. "It's a multifunctional luxury entertainment facility."
He leaned closer. "With whipped cream rooms?"
"Yes."
"...And the cat tower in the corner?"
"For emotional support."
Rhys stared at her for a moment. She stared back.
He was the first to look away.
Across the room, the fat gray cat—now officially dubbed Lord Snobberly—leapt onto a stool and began licking his paw like a smug investment banker.
"So," Rhys said. "Are you always like this, or is today special?"
Seraphina placed her quill down and folded her hands.
"Let me make this clear," she said. "You work for me now. You will smile, nod, and look dangerous while I break the spine of this noble economy and rebuild it into something far more profitable. You will also be required to occasionally wear tight clothing and serve drinks while half-scowling at wealthy patrons."
He blinked. "That's... oddly specific."
"Oh, and also flirt with the crown prince."
"I—what?!"
She smirked. "You have the cheekbones for it."
Before he could argue further, the front door creaked open again. A gust of cold air swept through the ruined hall.
A tall figure stood silhouetted in the doorway. Cloaked. Silent. Hair white as snow. Boots that made no sound.
Rhys tensed immediately.
Seraphina didn't.
She stood, calmly brushing dust from her sleeves, and smiled like she already owned the man's secrets.
"Ah," she said. "My accountant has arrived."