Reborn Princess: Burning Her Scornful Crown

The heavy oak door didn't make a sound. The thunder outside was too loud, shaking the very foundations of the Crown Prince's Palace, masking the turn of the brass handle.

She pushed it open.

The study was warm, smelling of old leather and expensive scotch. And smoke.

Bradley was standing by the fireplace. He wasn't looking at the storm raging against the floor-to-ceiling windows. He was watching a stack of papers curl and blacken in the flames.

Fiona recognized the heavy, cream-colored vellum and the distinctive crimson ribbon Bradley had forced her to tie around the bundle herself just yesterday. The fire licked at the edges, and for a split second, she saw the Orozco family's wax seal-a two-headed serpent entwined around a sword-melt and vanish into the flames.

Her trust fund documents. The final authorization for the transfer of her family's assets.

"Bradley!"

The scream tore from Fiona's throat, raw and burning. She rushed forward, her hands reaching into the fire, ignoring the heat, desperate to salvage what was left of her grandfather's legacy.

A hand grabbed her shoulder. Not to pull her back from the danger, but to shove her away.

Bradley didn't use much force. He didn't have to. Fiona stumbled back, her heels catching on the thick Persian rug, and fell hard onto her tailbone. Pain shot up her spine, but it was nothing compared to the coldness spreading in her chest.

"Stop it, Fiona," Bradley said. His voice was calm. Terrifyingly calm.

He dusted off his hands, brushing away imaginary ash from his pristine navy suit. He adjusted his cufflinks, ensuring the gold glinted just right in the firelight.

"It's done," he said, looking down at her.

There was no love in his eyes. The warmth, the practiced adoration he displayed for the cameras, the gentle smiles he reserved for charity galas-it was all gone. In its place was a flat, bored indifference. Like he was looking at a piece of furniture he intended to replace.

"You... you stole it," Fiona whispered, her breath hitching. "That money was for the foundation. For the children."

"It's for the Crown," he corrected smoothly. "And since I am the Crown, it's mine. You were just the vessel, Fiona. A vessel with a very convenient bank account."

Her stomach lurched. Bile rose in her throat. Three years. Three years of marriage. Three years of trying to be the perfect Crown Princess, of enduring his cold shoulders and long absences, believing he was just stressed, just burdened by duty.

"I am your wife," Fiona said, her voice trembling. "I have supported you. I have loved you."

Bradley laughed. It was a short, sharp sound. "And that was your mistake."

He turned to the intercom on his mahogany desk and pressed a button. "Send him in."

The door opened again.

Jimmie walked in. Her ten-year-old adopted son. He was wearing his silk pajamas, his hair tousled, but his eyes were wide awake. There was no sleepiness in them.

"Jimmie," Fiona gasped,