บททั้งหมดของ The Billionaire’s Marked Mate: บทที่ 21 - บทที่ 30

The long dining hall of the estate was a cathedral of shadows and gold. Chandeliers poured light down like judgment from above, glinting off polished silver and crystal glasses filled with deep red wine that looked more like blood than drink. Zaria sat at Lucien’s right, her posture perfect, her gown a river of midnight silk that clung and flowed in ways that whispered elegance without effort. To anyone watching, she was poised, composed, an ornament at the side of the master of the estate. But beneath the veil of civility, her mind worked with the precision of a blade — every smile catalogued, every gesture dissected, every word weighed as though the night itself were a trial. This was not dinner. It was a battlefield with linen-draped tables. The rival factions had gathered under the guise of celebration. At the far end of the table sat Lord Veynar, a man whose silvered hair and serpent’s grin concealed ambition sharp enough to cut steel. Beside him, Lady Mirelle leaned lazily in

The estate hummed with quiet tension. Every polished floorboard, every gleaming chandelier, every whispering corridor seemed to pulse with anticipation. Zaria felt it in her chest, a rhythmic thrum that matched the bond pulsing against her skin. Lucien had retreated to his study, ostensibly to plan, but she knew better. The golden flare of his eyes as he left had left a lingering imprint, a reminder that the bond tethered them no longer just physically, but strategically. She stood in the grand hall, scanning the faces of the staff and visiting aristocrats who had arrived earlier than expected. Their polite smiles barely masked the calculations behind their eyes. And there, leaning subtly against the doorway, was Selene—her presence carefully measured, her gaze sharp, appraising. Zaria’s pulse skipped. This was no ordinary rival. Selene had the kind of poise that unnerved people without overt aggression, and Zaria had already learned that underestimating her would be a grave mistake.

The echo of the shadow’s hissing still lingered in the ornate corridors of the estate, a whisper that refused to fade. Candles flickered in their wall sconces as if disturbed by the residual energy, and the polished marble floors reflected every movement, doubling the sense of unease. The council had retreated to private chambers, murmuring in tight circles about the sudden surge of supernatural activity, leaving Zaria and Lucien alone in the grand hall. Zaria’s chest was tight, the bond pulsing stronger than ever. It wasn’t just the lingering threat of the shadow that unsettled her—it was the knowledge that this encounter had shifted the entire balance of power within the estate. Every flicker of movement, every whispered glance among the staff and council members, seemed loaded with hidden meaning. She felt it all through the bond: the fear, the fascination, the subtle calculations of strategy. Lucien’s golden eyes scanned the hall, alert and unyielding. His hand brushed hers almo

As Zaria closed her eyes, steadying herself in Lucien’s embrace, a knock shattered the moment. A servant bowed low in the doorway, trembling. “My lord… my lady… there’s been an incident. A body was found—” He swallowed. “Dead. In the east wing. No wounds. No sound. Just… gone.” Zaria’s eyes flew open. Lucien’s grip on her tightened. And somewhere in the corridors, Cassian’s laugh echoed, soft and haunting. ⸻ The scream tore through the estate at dawn. Zaria’s eyes snapped open, heart thundering before her mind could catch up. The sound wasn’t distant; it reverberated through the marble walls, carried along the echoing corridors until it reached her chamber like a physical strike. Lucien was already on his feet. He didn’t flinch, didn’t startle—he simply moved with a preternatural calm that made the silence between heartbeats feel louder than the scream itself. “Stay behind me,” he murmured, his tone clipped, but his hand brushed hers in the darkness as if tethering her to him

The chamber doors closed behind the last departing noble, their robes whispering across polished stone. Silence bled into the hall like smoke, but Zaria felt the undercurrent thrumming beneath it — whispers, daggers, and accusations were already being sharpened in the corridors. Lucien’s eyes caught hers. No words were spoken, but she felt the bond hum, like a courtroom gavel striking in the stillness. They would not wait for the next dinner to defend themselves. Tonight, the trial would begin on their terms. “Move the pieces,” Lucien murmured finally, voice a blade’s edge softened only for her. Zaria nodded, her mind already arranging the factions like witnesses on a stand. If this estate wants a trial, then let them have one — but we’ll write the opening statement. ⸻ The Bait. By the time the first bell tolled midnight, servants carried hushed messages through the manor. A private gathering, whispered as an “informal tribunal,” would take place in the lesser court hall. Atten