Chapter Eighty-Six

A sharp smack broke off the crowd’s chatter. Everyone turned toward the source of the sound, only to see the once-smug Lady Streeter clutching her face, staring in disbelief at the man before her.

He wore dark sunglasses that concealed half his face, his features cold and severe as he gazed down at her.

Meanwhile, Mr. Streeter, ascending the stairs with a shop assistant, sensed the sudden silence below. Anxiety prickled him, quickening his steps.

Lady Streeter stood stunned for a moment before regaining her senses. She looked at the man and asked, bewildered, “What gives you the right to strike me?”

The man gave no reply. Instead, he took a handkerchief from the butler-looking fellow nearby and carefully wiped the hand he’d used to slap her, cleaning each finger in turn. When he was finished, he tossed the handkerchief into the trash, raised his head, and met her gaze, his eyes sharp as blades. Lady Streeter shrank back, but stubbornly demanded, “Who are you, to dare lay hands on me?”

“I struck you because you deserved it. As for who I am, you’re not worthy to know.” With that, he turned and walked toward Shadowmoon, pulling her gently into his arms and asked, full of concern, “Are you alright?”

Nestled against him, Shadowmoon shook her head lightly.

Lady Streeter sneered, “Oh, so your patron has arrived, little vixen. You’re quite the seductress, aren’t you?”

At that moment, Baron Streeter, having hurried upstairs and squeezed into the throng, caught his wife’s words. His face flushed red with embarrassment, and he cursed her foolishness inwardly, about to command her to be silent—when he spotted someone who sent a tremor through his very soul.

Such dazzling golden hair! In all of Britain, only one person bore such brilliant, pure golden locks.

He swallowed his words, his voice dying on his tongue and turning into a gust of wind.

An instant later, another crisp slap rang out—“smack.”

Again, Lady Streeter was struck, but this time, not by the golden-haired man, who still comforted the frightened beauty in his arms.

Lady Streeter stared in disbelief at her new assailant, clutching the rapidly swelling cheek on the other side. Her voice rose in a mixture of grievance and rage, provoking scattered laughter among the crowd.

“Why did you hit me?” she shrieked, staring at the person who had slapped her.

“Shut your mouth, you disgrace!” Baron Streeter snapped angrily, glaring at his wife. Then, collecting himself, he turned to face the radiant young man. Bowing ninety degrees with utmost respect, he said, “Your Highness, please forgive my wife’s ignorance and foolishness. I apologize on her behalf.”

Arthur’s lips twitched imperceptibly. “My wife?” he thought to himself. “How is it that everyone’s Chinese seems better than mine?”

Arthur was displeased—and the consequences were dire.

“Do not appear before me again,” Arthur said coldly, casting a glance at Lady Streeter.

“Yes, yes, I understand,” Baron Streeter replied hastily, terrified that any delay might provoke further trouble from this illustrious figure.

Lady Streeter was utterly dumbfounded. How could it be that this man, whose complexion was fairer and more handsome than any pretty boy she’d ever seen, whose very presence exuded dominance, was—was actually the newly titled, world-renowned ‘First Duke’ by Her Majesty the Queen?

Heavens, had she hit an indestructible wall? Had her head been struck by a diamond? Had her eyes been blinded by stupidity? Such a refined, extraordinary person—she should have realized she was not dealing with an ordinary soul. How could she have been so—

Lady Streeter was wracked with regret, wishing she could vanish into the earth.

“Your Highness, if there is nothing further, my wife and I shall take our leave,” Baron Streeter said, preparing to drag his unfortunate spouse away.

“Wait—” Arthur’s voice halted him. Baron Streeter’s body trembled, and he turned back anxiously, forcing a smile. “Your Highness, what else do you command?”

“She has not apologized,” Arthur said coolly, glancing at Lady Streeter and then down at Shadowmoon, his meaning clear.

“Apologize to the young lady, at once!” Baron Streeter barked, slapping his wife on the back of her head. Lady Streeter stumbled forward, rushed to compose herself, and bowed so deeply her head nearly touched the floor. “Miss, I apologize for my vulgarity. Please forgive me.”

Shadowmoon regarded her calmly and replied, “It’s alright.”

Baron Streeter and his wife exhaled in relief and prepared to depart.

“Wait.” They were stopped once more—not by Arthur, but by Shadowmoon herself. Bitterness twisted their faces into wrinkled walnuts as they turned slowly back with ingratiating smiles. “Miss, is there something else?”

“You have not apologized to her,” Shadowmoon said, indicating the shop assistant who had earlier been slapped by Lady Streeter.

All eyes shifted to the assistant in the corner. The crowd’s gaze flicked between Lady Streeter and the assistant. Seeing herself the focus of attention—especially Lady Streeter’s venomous glare—the assistant shivered, then looked to Shadowmoon. “Miss, it’s—no need, I’m fine,” she said, bowing her head.

Lady Streeter gave her a satisfied look, as if to say, “You know your place.” But—

“No, if you’ve done wrong, you must apologize,” Shadowmoon declared firmly.

The crowd watched Lady Streeter expectantly. Baron Streeter, seeing the situation, pushed his wife forward. “Apologize, now!”

Lady Streeter surveyed the silent, turned-away faces around her. Shadowmoon’s gaze remained steady. Suppressing her anger, Lady Streeter bowed toward the assistant. “I’m sorry.” Then, she straightened and walked straight out of the shop.

Baron Streeter bowed to Arthur, then hurried after his wife.

“All right, everyone, it’s over now. Let’s disperse,” the manager said with visible relief, quickly turning to Arthur. “Your Highness, please forgive our inadequate service,” he said, bowing deeply.

“It’s fine. Go,” Arthur replied.

“Yes, Your Highness.” The manager, feeling pardoned, had the injured assistant helped away by other staff. He closed the door to the VIP room, leaving Arthur and Shadowmoon in peace.

Outside, the manager’s phone rang.

“Hello… Yes… Yes, I understand.” Hanging up, he called over a shop assistant, whispered a few words, and sent her running outside.

At the entrance, just as the Streeters were about to leave, the assistant chased after them. “Baron Streeter, Lady Streeter, please wait a moment!”

The pair paused, puzzled, and looked at her.

“What is it?” Baron Streeter asked.

After steadying her breath, the assistant spoke with careful deliberation:

“We’ve just received a call from the store manager, and—” she glanced at them, regretting her misfortune at being tasked with this message, but forged ahead, eyes squeezed shut in resolve. “The manager has decreed that, from now on, Lady Streeter is barred from entering the main Vanice store and all its branches.” With that, she dashed away.

Baron Streeter was left gaping in shock, unable to recover until Lady Streeter’s furious voice pierced the air: “What did you say? Repeat that! On what grounds am I forbidden from entering any Vanice store?”

“Shut up! Haven’t you caused enough shame? We’re going home, now!” Baron Streeter nearly fainted, feeling he had never been so humiliated in his entire life. He seized Lady Streeter by the hair and dragged her away.

Inside the VIP room, Arthur helped Shadowmoon to a seat and took an ornate wooden box from Hill.

“What is this?” Shadowmoon asked curiously.

Arthur smiled gently, “Jewelry to match your gown.” He opened the box, and a flash of violet light escaped. Shadowmoon’s mouth fell open in astonishment.

“Wow, it’s beautiful! Where did you buy it?”

Inside the box lay a jade hairpin of the rarest purple, its body crystalline and smooth, crowned with a half-bloomed violet, exquisitely crafted and lifelike in its petals.

Arthur said nothing, only smiled at Shadowmoon’s delighted face. Hill explained, “Miss, His Highness made it for you himself.”

“Arthur, you—you—”

Arthur, seeing her moved expression, replied lightly, “It’s nothing, just a way to pass the time—”

Before he could finish, Shadowmoon exclaimed, “You know how to carve?”

Arthur’s face darkened, Hill’s mouth twitched, and Arthur shot Shadowmoon a fierce look, but she only smiled, eyes sparkling. He sighed helplessly.

“Come, let me put it on for you.” Arthur took the jade hairpin, wound it through Shadowmoon’s glossy hair, and in a few turns, created a classical style.

“All done.” Arthur nodded with satisfaction at her appearance.

“So quickly? Let me see.” Shadowmoon, incredulous, stepped toward the mirror.

“Wait, there’s more.” Arthur stopped her, took another box from Hill—this one much larger, shaped like a shoebox. As expected, Arthur produced a pair of high heels.

“Wow, these shoes are gorgeous,” Shadowmoon exclaimed sincerely.

They were purple crystal shoes, unadorned but for the material: Austrian amethyst throughout, seamless, with blooming violets worked into the surface, their shapes vivid and dimensional.

“Come, put them on.” Arthur knelt, placing Shadowmoon’s delicate foot on his knee, and gently slipped the shoe onto her.

Shadowmoon blushed deeply, gazing at Arthur with shyness and tenderness beyond words.

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