Breakfast the next morning was a battlefield disguised as a meal.

Fiona sat across from Jimmie. He was swinging his legs, kicking the table leg rhythmically. Thump. Thump. Thump.

He reached for the pitcher of milk. As he poured it into his cereal, his hand "slipped."

The pitcher tipped. White liquid flooded across the table, cascading onto Fiona's lap, soaking her silk skirt.

"Oops," Jimmie said. He didn't look sorry. He looked bored. "Slippery."

Bradley didn't even look up from his tablet. " accidents happen. Go change, Fiona."

In the past, Fiona would have apologized. She would have run upstairs, crying, blaming her own clumsiness for upsetting the child.

Not today.

She didn't move. The cold milk seeped into her skin.

"Apologize," Fiona said.

The room went silent. The servants froze.

Jimmie blinked. He looked at Fiona, confused by the tone. "What?"

"You heard me," Fiona said, her voice steady and sharp as a scalpel. "Apologize. Now."

Jimmie looked at Bradley. "Dad?"

Bradley sighed, putting down his tablet. "Fiona, don't be dramatic. He's just a boy."

"He is a Prince of the Blood," Fiona said, standing up. "If he cannot handle a milk pitcher, how will he handle the Crown? The media is already calling him spoiled. Do you want them to call him feral?"

Bradley flinched. The media. His achilles heel.

He looked at Jimmie. "Say sorry to your mother, Jimmie."

Jimmie's face turned red. He glared at Fiona with pure venom.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"Look at me when you say it," Fiona commanded.

Jimmie's hands curled into fists. He looked up, his eyes burning. "Sorry."

"Better." Fiona dabbed at her skirt with a napkin. "Lee, bring me the household accounts for the last quarter. Immediately."

The butler, Lee, a man who had been in Bradley's pocket for years, hesitated. "The... accounts, Your Highness? They are with the auditor."

"I am the Crown Princess," Fiona said, walking past him. "If those books aren't on my desk in ten minutes, I'm calling the police to report embezzlement."

Lee paled. "Yes, Your Highness."

An hour later, Fiona had the ledger. It didn't take long to find it.

Ice Lily Foundation.

Monthly transfers of fifty thousand dollars. Labeled as "Consulting Fees."

Fiona snapped a photo of the page and sent it to the encrypted email Vane had provided.

Proof, she typed. He's using state funds to keep his mistress.

Later that afternoon, Fiona heard shouting from the garden.

She walked out to the terrace.

Jimmie was standing by the rose bushes. He had a slingshot. He was aiming at a stray cat that had wandered onto the grounds.

Thwack.

The stone hit the cat's flank. The animal yowled in pain, trying to limp away.

Jimmie laughed. He loaded another stone.

Fiona's vision went red. In her last life, he had blinded that cat.

Her hand was already moving, pulling her phone from her pocket. She pressed the record button, the screen's reflection shielded by the shadows of the veranda. She captured it all: the cruel laugh, the cat's cry, the second stone being loaded. Only then did she move.

She crossed the lawn in seconds. She grabbed the slingshot from his hand and threw it into the fountain.

"Hey!" Jimmie screamed. "That was mine! Dad gave me that!"

"Your father gave you a weapon to torture helpless animals?" Fiona grabbed his shoulder, spinning him around. "That is psychopathic behavior, Jimmie."

"Let me go!" He tried to bite her again.

Fiona was ready this time. She slapped his hand away.

"Stand there," she ordered, pointing to a spot on the pavement under the direct sun. "Two hours. No moving. No water."

"You can't do that! I'm telling Dad!"

"Tell him," Fiona said. "Tell him I have a video of you torturing a cat. Tell him I'm ready to send it to PETA."

Jimmie froze. He was only seven, but he already understood what bad press meant. Bradley had drilled it into him.

"What is going on here?"

Bradley came striding out of the French doors, his face thunderous. "Fiona! Unhand him!"

Jimmie ran to him, sobbing fake tears. "She threw my toy away! She's being mean!"

Bradley scooped him up, glaring at Fiona. "Have you lost your mind?"

Fiona held up her phone. She pressed play.

The video showed Jimmie laughing as the cat screamed.

"Animal cruelty," Fiona said calmly. "It's a felony in some states. Imagine the headlines, Bradley. 'Future King Raises Sadist.'"

Bradley watched the video. His face went gray.

He looked down at Jimmie. The adoration in his eyes flickered, replaced by calculation.

He set the boy down.

"Do as your mother says, Jimmie," Bradley said coldly.

"Dad?" Jimmie gasped, betrayed.

"Stand there," Bradley ordered. Then he looked at Fiona. There was a new emotion in his eyes. Fear. "Delete the video."

"When he learns empathy," Fiona said. "I'll consider it."

She walked back into the house, leaving them both in the sun.

That night, Bradley was quiet.

He sat on the edge of the bed, unbuttoning his shirt. He was angry, but he was containing it. He needed Fiona. He needed her money, and now, he needed her silence.

Fiona sat at her vanity, removing her earrings.

"Bradley," Fiona said softly. "I've been thinking."

He grunted. "About what? How to terrorize my son?"

"About my health," Fiona lied. She turned to face him, letting her shoulders droop. "I'm... I'm overwhelmed. With the foundation, the transition of my family's assets is a massive undertaking. Someone needs to manage the public-facing duties, especially with Jimmie. I don't think I can do it alone."

He looked at her, suspicious. "What are you saying?"

"I'm suggesting you need help," Fiona said. "I'm proposing we bring on a 'Special Advisor' to the foundation. Someone to help with the social calendar. Someone Jimmie trusts."

Bradley stopped moving. His hands froze on his shirt.

He was processing the political implications, the way this could be spun to the media. He saw the trap, but he also saw the opportunity.

"Who did you have in mind?" he asked, his voice carefully neutral.

"Duchess Icy," Fiona said.

His eyes widened. He dropped his shirt.

"Icy?" he repeated. "But... she's your friend."

"Exactly," Fiona said, forcing a smile. "She is so good with Jimmie. And she knows the protocol. If she moved into the East Wing temporarily... it would look like a unified family front, showing how we all support each other during my 'illness'. It would take so much pressure off me."

Fiona stood up and walked over to him. She took his hand. It took every ounce of her willpower not to recoil.

"I just want you to be happy, Bradley. I know I'm not... enough."

A slow smile spread across his face. It was the smile of a man who thought he had just won the lottery.

"Fiona," he said, squeezing her hand. "You are... incredibly generous. Are you sure?"

"Yes," Fiona said. "Call her."

He didn't wait. He kissed her cheek-a dry, perfunctory peck-and practically ran to the balcony to make the call.

Fiona turned away. She walked to the bathroom and locked the door.

She grabbed a wet wipe and scrubbed her hand. She scrubbed until the skin was red and raw.

Come in, Icy, she thought, staring at her reflection. Come into the light where I can see you.

Her earpiece buzzed.

"Inviting the wolf into the sheep pen," Demian's voice drawled. "Bold strategy."

"She's not a wolf," Fiona whispered. "She's a parasite. She needs a host to survive. I'm just changing the environment."

"And what happens when she tries to take your place?"

"I'll let her," Fiona said. "The throne is electric, Demian. If you sit on it wrong, it fries you."

The next day, Icy arrived.

She came with a caravan of Louis Vuitton luggage and an entourage of assistants. She wore a white sundress and a wide-brimmed hat, looking every inch the innocent angel.

Fiona met her on the front steps. The press was there, of course. Bradley had tipped them off.

"Fiona!" Icy squealed, rushing up the stairs.

She hugged Fiona. Her perfume was cloying-gardenias and ambition.

"Thank you so much for inviting me," she whispered in Fiona's ear. "I promise, I'll take good care of Bradley."

The threat was clear.

Fiona pulled back and smiled for the cameras.

"Welcome home, sister," she said.

Fiona led her to the guest suite she had prepared. It was luxurious, filled with flowers.

And in the base of the large potted fern in the corner, hidden under the moss, was a high-fidelity listening device.

"I hope you're comfortable," Fiona said.

"Oh, it's perfect," Icy said, spinning around. She flopped onto the bed. "So close to Bradley's study."

"Yes," Fiona said. "Very convenient."

Fiona left her to unpack.

As she walked down the hall, she heard Icy lock the door.

Fiona tapped her earpiece. "Is the feed live?"

"Crystal clear," Vane's voice replied.

Fiona smiled.

Welcome to hell, Icy.

Fiona needed air. The palace felt contaminated with Icy's presence.

"Yana, walk with me," Fiona said.

They headed toward the stables. It was the furthest point from the main house, a place Bradley rarely visited because he hated the smell of horses.

As they neared the old hay barn, Fiona heard a sound.

Crack.

Then a whimper.

Crack.

"You filthy little rat!" A man's voice.

Fiona signaled Yana to be quiet. They crept around the side of the barn.

In the dusty clearing, Lenny, the head of palace security-and Bradley's personal thug-was standing over a boy.

The boy was curled into a ball on the ground. He couldn't have been more than seventeen. He was skinny, dressed in rags, covered in stable muck.

Lenny raised a heavy leather belt and brought it down.

The boy didn't cry out. He just shuddered.

He looked up.

His eyes.

They were amber. Golden, like a wolf's.

Fiona's breath hitched.

She knew those eyes.

In her past life, two years from now, a rebel leader known only as "Wolf" would rise from the slums. He would lead the riots that nearly toppled Bradley's regime. He was ruthless, brilliant, and unstoppable.

And on the night Fiona died, as the car sped toward the cliff, she had seen a motorcycle chasing them. The rider had tried to shoot out the tires of her car to save her. It was him.

He had tried to save her then.

Now, he was just a stable boy being beaten to death.

Lenny raised the belt again. The buckle glinted in the sun.

"Stop!"

Fiona stepped out from the shadows.

Lenny froze. He turned, seeing her. He lowered the belt, but he didn't look scared. He looked annoyed.

"Your Highness," he grunted. "This doesn't concern you. Just disciplining a thief. Caught him stealing horse feed."

"Stealing feed?" Fiona looked at the boy. He was starving. "He's eating oats?"

"He's a stray," Lenny spat. "No ID. No name. Just a waste of space."

"Put the belt down," Fiona said.

Lenny sneered. "With all due respect, Princess, security is my jurisdiction. Go back to your tea party."

He turned back to the boy.

Fiona didn't think. She moved.

She walked up to Lenny. He was a foot taller than her, a wall of muscle.

She swung her hand and slapped him across the face.

The sound was like a gunshot.

Lenny stumbled back, dropping the belt. He touched his cheek, staring at her in shock.

"You..."

"I am the future Queen," Fiona said, her voice low and dangerous. "And you are a servant. If you ever raise a weapon in my presence again, I will have your hand cut off."

Lenny's face turned purple. He wanted to hit her. She could see it in his eyes. But he knew the penalty for striking a royal.

"Get out of my sight," Fiona ordered.

Lenny spat on the ground, glared at the boy, and stomped away.

Fiona turned to the boy.

He was staring at her. There was no gratitude in his eyes, only suspicion.

"Can you stand?" Fiona asked.

He didn't answer.

She reached out her hand.

He flinched, expecting a blow. When none came, he looked at her palm. It was pale, unblemished.

Slowly, hesitantly, he reached out. His hand was rough, calloused, and dirty.

He grasped her fingers.

Fiona pulled him up. He was surprisingly heavy, dense with hidden muscle.

"What's your name?" Fiona asked.

"Don't have one," he rasped. His voice was unused, rusty.

"Then I'll give you one," Fiona said. "Wolf."

His eyes widened.

"You work for me now, Wolf," Fiona said. "Not the Palace. Me. Do you understand?"

He looked at Lenny's retreating figure, then back at her.

He nodded once.

High above, a tiny drone buzzed silently, recording everything.

In the Regent's Estate, Demian watched the screen.

"She's building an army," he murmured, a smile touching his lips. "Clever girl."