He was rambling. He knew he was rambling. He couldn’t stop.
"The WitchBournes have survived for centuries. Through wars. Through revolutions. Through the rise and fall of empires. But survival isn’t enough anymore. It isn’t enough. To rely survive is to slowly die. To thrive—to grow—that requires alliances. Partnerships. Connections that only blood can truly secure."
His hand was still extended. Waiting.
"This union will make the WitchBournes a hospitality powerhouse not just in Britain but across the world. Your family’s reach combined with our expertise—our reputation—our heritage—"
He stopped. Swallowed. Tried to compose himself.
"Forgive . I’m being sentintal. It’s a flaw my wife always criticised."
He smiled. Self-deprecating. Charming.
"Do we have an accord, Ms. Price?" He extended him hand.
Abigail Price looked at the extended hand.
Then at the man behind it.
Edmund WitchBourne. Patriarch. Billionaire. One of the most respected n in British high society. Old money that had survived everything history could throw at it.
And here he was, practically begging her. Trembling with eagerness. Ready to sell his daughter to a family he’d never truly understand for a chance at glory he’d never truly achieve.
Pathetic, sothing cold whispered in her mind.
Useful, but pathetic.
She reached out.
Took his hand.
Shook once. Firm. Brief. The minimum required by politeness.
Edmund’s face lit up like a child’s on Christmas morning.
He’d noticed her hesitation. The reluctance. The way her eyes had flickered with sothing that might have been distaste before she’d schooled her expression back to neutral.
He didn’t care.
He couldn’t afford to care.
This was a Legacy heiress sitting across from him. One wrong word, one perceived insult, and his lifelong dream would crumble to dust. The union between his old money house and a proper Legacy family—between centuries of British tradition and global, limitless power—would vanish like morning mist.
He would swallow any pride.
Bear any slight.
Smile through any humiliation.
I’d would rather die than let anything get in the way of this.
"Thank you," Edmund said, and ant it more than he’d ever ant anything. "Thank you, Ms. Price. The WitchBournes are honoured. Truly honoured."
Abigail released his hand. Wiped her palm against her thigh—a small gesture, quickly hidden, probably unconscious.
Edmund pretended not to see.
"The formal details will be communicated through appropriate channels," Abigail said, rising from the sofa in one fluid motion. "The WitchBournes will be inford of the eting date, the engagent announcent tiline, and the ring fitting schedule. For now—"
She straightened her coat. Checked the fall of the fabric with quick, efficient fingers.
"—the WitchBournes should inform the dia. Control the narrative. Position Eleanor appropriately. The Prices will handle the rest."
Edmund rose quickly. Too quickly. Nearly stumbled. Caught himself.
"Of course. Of course. We’ll have our communications team prepare a statent imdiately. Front page of the Financial Tis, if I can manage it. The Telegraph, certainly. Perhaps—"
"That will be sufficient."
Edmund nodded. Kept nodding. Couldn’t seem to stop.
"Ms. Price, before you go—"
She paused. Turned. One eyebrow raised fractionally.
Edmund knew he was pushing his luck. Knew he should quit while he was ahead, let her leave, celebrate privately with a bottle of the good scotch and a phone call to his solicitors.
But a man could dream.
And Edmund WitchBourne had not inherited an empire by ignoring opportunities when they presented themselves.
"I understand this may be... presumptuous," he began, choosing his words carefully. "And please, I an no offence by the suggestion. But the WitchBournes also have... eligible sons. Fine young n. Well-educated. Accomplished in their own right."
He smiled. Hopeful. Shaless.
"Should Ms. Abigail ever find herself interested in... an arrangent of her own... the WitchBournes would be honoured to present a suitor worthy of her consideration."
Sothing flickered in Abigail’s eyes.
Ms. Abigail.
Not Ms. Price.
He’d used her first na. Her real na. The one that wasn’t just a family title, a Legacy designation, a reminder of the vast machinery she represented.
For just a mont—one single, flickering mont—she was just Abigail.
A woman in her twenties.
Standing in an office that slled like old money and fresh flowers.
Being offered to a stranger like rchandise.
Like Eleanor, she whispered in her ming. Like every woman in every family like this. Traded. Bartered. Sold. The. Audacity!!!!
She crushed the anger before it could grow roots.
She had a role to play. A purpose to fulfil. The arrangent with the WitchBournes was too important to sabotage with sothing as useless as feelings.
But still.
Ms. Abigail.
Like she was a person.
"I don’t do love, Mr. WitchBourne."
The words ca out flat. Cold. Final.
Edmund blinked.
"Of course, of course. I understand completely. In families such as ours, love is hardly a prerequisite for—"
"And I most certainly don’t do marriages."
Edmund’s mouth opened. Closed.
"I won’t be starting any ti soon."
She turned toward the door. Her assistant moved to open.
"And I certainly won’t be starting with so spoilt prince whose greatest accomplishnt is being born into the right family."
The doors opened.
Abigail Price stepped inside without looking back.
"Good day, Mr. WitchBourne. You’ll hear from us soon."
The doors closed on Edmund’s frozen smile.
The elevator descended.
Sixty-five floors of silence, broken only by the soft hum of machinery and the almost-inaudible whisper of expensive engineering.
Abigail stood motionless in the centre of the car. Eyes forward. Hands clasped. The picture of perfect composure.
Her assistant—Margaux, loyal to a fault—stood one step behind and to the left. Tablet clutched to her chest. Small smile playing at the corner of her lips.
The smile of soone who knew secrets.
Abigail pulled out her phone. Dialed a number from mory.
It rang once.
"Father."
The voice on the other end was deep. asured. The voice of a man who’d spent decades learning to reveal nothing through tone alone.
"Abigail."
"It’s done. The WitchBournes have agreed. The arrangent proceeds as planned."
Silence on the line. Processing.
"Good. I’ll inform your grandfather, mother. The tiline—"
Abigail had already hung up.
Didn’t wait for his response. Didn’t need his approval. The conversation was over because she’d decided it was over.
Behind her, Margaux’s smile widened.
"If I may, Ms. Price..."
"Speak."
"We’re so close now." Margaux’s voice had dropped. Softer. Almost reverent. "So wonderfully, beautifully close. All these years of preparation. Of positioning. Of waiting. And now—"
She stepped forward. Closer to Abigail than protocol usually allowed.
"—now we simply wait for the two to beco one on the first night of union. For the sacred rite to be completed. For the ancient compact to be fulfilled."
Her eyes glead.
"And with the Virgin Blood Essence of a WitchBourne’sFirst Witch awaited reincarnation... the Price Legacy Family will increase in power on the Destined Day."
Abigail nodded.
The elevator continued its descent.
Floor forty-seven. Forty-six. Forty-five.
Outside these walls, Edmund WitchBourne was probably already reaching for his phone. Calling his daughter. Telling her the good news. That she was to be married. That she was to be a Price. That all their dreams were finally coming true.
He had no idea.
None of them did.
The WitchBournes had modernised.Evolved. Adapted to the tis like any smart family with centuries of history and a desperate need to remain relevant.
They’d traded their ancient halls for glass towers. Their hereditary rituals for corporate board etings.
Their old beliefs for new money and modern respectability.
They’d forgotten.
Sowhere in the rush to beco sothing new, they’d forgotten what they’d once been. What their na truly ant. What blood had built their fortune in the ages before electricity and automobiles and the comfortable lie that magic was just superstition.
WitchBourne.
Witch. Bourne.
Born of witches. Descended from witches. Carrying in their veins the dormant potential of their very first Matriarch—the First WitchBourne witch, whose power had founded their line and whose spirit, the old texts promised, would one day be reborn.
Eleanor WitchBourne.
Sweet, innocent, carefully educated and well-prepared Eleanor.
She had no idea what she was. What slept inside her blood, waiting for the right trigger. What ancient force would awaken on the night she gave herself to her husband—body, soul, and virgin sacrifice.
The WitchBournes had forgotten.
But the Prices rembered.
The Pricesalways rembered.
Abigail watched the numbers descend and allowed herself, just for a mont, to feel sothing like satisfaction.
Edmund WitchBourne thought he was making the deal of a lifeti. Thought he was trading his daughter’s hand for Legacy connections and global power. Thought he was elevating his family from British old money to worldwide hospitality empire.
In a way, he was right.
He just didn’t understand the currency.
The WitchBournes would get their hotels in every continent. Their expansion. Their place at tables they’d never been invited to before. The Price family would ensure it—would open doors, make introductions, grease the wheels of comrce with the kind of influence that re billions couldn’t buy.
And in exchange?
All it would take was a single ring on Eleanor’s finger.
A single night in Evan Price’s bed.
A single mont when ancient blood awakened and power transferred from one vessel to another.
The First Witch, reborn—and bound, through sacred union, to the Price bloodline and the most precious thing about her, passed down to the Price Legacy family.
Forever.
Poor fool.
He had no idea what was coming.
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