Chapter 8: Deals, Drama, and Daylight

The capital's weather was perfect for outings today. Beneath the towering skyscrapers, the crisscrossing roads buzzed with traffic. 

Beep—! Honk—! Toot—! 

A symphony of car horns played in the congested streets. 

Inside his car, Lucian Drayden dialed his friend's number. After a long wait, the call connected, greeted by a groggy, irritated male voice and a woman's sleepy murmur. 

"You sick bastard, Qi! What's your problem calling this early? Shouldn't you be cuddling some woman instead?!" 

The reaction was expected. 

Lucian remained unfazed. He waited for the rant to end before bringing the phone closer. "Tristan, are you… lacking vitality?" 

Silence. 

Liam: *!* 

Liam's grip on the steering wheel faltered as he glanced at his boss through the rearview mirror. 

Tristan Xavier was infamous in their circle as a playboy who cycled through women like seasonal trends. Asking him this? Savage! 

After a pause, Tristan's voice returned, dripping with venom. "Are you trying to die, Drayden?" 

Lucian leaned back, radiating smug calm. "Just answer the question." 

"I recently met a traditional medicine master with a secret recipe. Guaranteed to fix your… issue." 

He glanced at Liam, who kept peeking at him, and added, "Liam here tested it. Works wonders." 

Liam's eyes bulged as he mouthed soundlessly: Me?! 

Lucian smiled brightly. Yes, you. 

Liam: … 

The beleaguered assistant swallowed his dignity, forced to bear the shame of this fictional "deficiency." Who would believe it? I'm a 26-year-old virgin! 

While Liam mentally imploded, Lucian smoothly transitioned to negotiations. 

"How much? A million per dose?!" Tristan nearly hurled his phone. "Are you robbing me?! I'm rich, not stupid! Tell that quack to—" 

"I'll give you the Jiangcheng land bid." 

Dead silence. 

In a presidential suite, Tristan shoved off the woman clinging to him, suddenly alert. "Deal. But tell me—what's your stake in this 'master'?" 

Since when does Lucian Drayden give up profits? 

Lucian swirled his wine glass. "She's my wife." 

Tristan shot upright. "…Your what? Since when do you marry herbalists?!" 

"Wire the money." Eon needs funds. 

After cursing through the transfer, Tristan called back. "You're a menace, you know that?!" 

Lucian smirked at his newly accepted WeChat request. "Call it charm." 

Tristan: "…You're insane." 

*Ravencroft Manor, Garden* 

Beside the mini herb garden sat a new rattan lounger. Eon lay there, eyes closed, soaking in the sunlight—a luxury she'd once fought gods to protect. 

Her thermos held bitter tea, brewed extra strong to match her current mood. Bitter sips for a bitter existence. 

The serene moment lasted until Vivian and Alaric Ravencroft returned from shopping. 

Eon trailed behind Caelan to greet them, still half-asleep. 

"Darling, we're home!" 

A perfumed embrace jolted Eon awake. Instinct screamed to push away, but she froze at the word "Mom."

Vivian Ravencroft tightened her embrace, her voice laced with southern charm. "Darling, you're so warm." Born in the misty water towns of Jiangnan, she epitomized classical Chinese beauty—a fact that made Sera's resemblance to her all the more striking in their shared elegance and grace.

The key difference lay in their features: where Sera's delicacy echoed the refined gentility of the region, Vivian's bold, symmetrical features radiated the timeless beauty of imperial consorts immortalized in classical paintings.

"I've been sunbathing in the garden," Eon replied, her body instinctively stiffening at the unfamiliar intimacy.

As the family moved toward the manor, a procession of luxury vehicles disgorged an army of boutique staff carrying armfuls of designer shopping bags. Alaric Ravencroft gestured grandly at the haul. "Your mother picked these out for you. Let's see what you like."

The couple defied middle-aged stereotypes—Alaric's tailored suit accentuating his athletic frame, Vivian's qipao-hugged waistline putting women half her age to shame. They looked like romance novel protagonists who'd aged into dignified perfection.

"Thank you," Eon said automatically.

Vivian's eyes glistened. "No need for thanks, sweetheart. We'll return anything you dislike. Have you eaten yet?"

Their entry into the grand foyer revealed a peony bouquet blazing crimson on the tea table—Vivian's signature flower, now repurposed as a peace offering. The vibrant blooms drew Sera's nails into her palms until crescent marks appeared.

"Mother, Father," Sera interjected softly, "Julian and Mr. Drayden visited this morning."

Alaric's teacup clinked against its saucer. "Lucian Drayden?"

When all eyes turned to Eon, Sera feigned hesitation. "It's my fault—Julian became concerned after I mentioned the original engagement arrangement. As for Mr. Drayden..." She trailed off dramatically, turning to Eon. "Sister, may I explain?"

"He's here because I called him." Eon's tone could freeze magma.

The parents exchanged startled looks. Eon preempted their questions with rehearsed nonchalance: "We're acquainted. The rest isn't important."

Vivian squeezed her daughter's hand. "We'll host your debutante ball next week. Choose any celebrity you like—we'll have them perform!" Her conspiratorial whisper carried across the marble floors. "Your brother Rowan runs an entertainment empire. His boyband members have such nice cheekbones..."

Lunch unfolded with surprising ease. Caelan found himself clearing his plate—an unprecedented occurrence he attributed to newfound familial warmth rather than the invisible stabilization array Eon had etched beneath the dining table.

*Afternoon Shadows* 

The knock at Caelan's study door revealed Eon holding a murky green concoction. "Drink this."

He grimaced at the odor but drained the glass under his sister's impassive gaze. "Impressive," she deadpanned, disappearing as abruptly as she'd come.

Only as drowsiness claimed him did Caelan wonder: Since when does wheatgrass juice taste like burnt sage and regret?

*Garden Operations* 

Liam returned at dusk with Lucian's "care package"—live medicinal herbs with root balls intact, plus several crates of jade artifacts humming with residual energy. The staff exchanged knowing looks; Miss Ravencroft's gardening obsession was becoming legendary.

As workers deposited the shipment by the herb garden, Eon ran a thumb over a jade hairpin. The faint spiritual pulse beneath its surface sparked the ghost of a smile.