Her Family Sold Her to Pay Their Debts — But When Kora Faced the Ruthless Duke Who Had Quietly Chosen Her for Reasons Beyond the Harbor, He Leaned Close and Whispered, “You’re My Destiny.”

PART 6

Morning came to the Cornish coast — not with sunlight, but with a cold, gray, bruised light that crept over the horizon. The storm had broken, leaving behind a profound stillness broken only by the distant, rhythmic crashing of the waves against the seawall.

Sebastian woke to the agonizing throb in his shoulder. He shifted on the mattress, his breath catching as the stitched flesh pulled tight. He was in his own bed. But he was not alone.

Kora sat in the armchair by the window. She had not slept. She still wore the blood-stained wool skirt from yesterday. A thick wool shawl was wrapped around her shoulders. In her lap rested a heavy leather-bound ledger. She was reading the columns of numbers in the pale morning light, her brow furrowed in concentration.

Sebastian watched her for a long time. The memory of the previous night — the confession, the desperation of her mouth against his, the sudden, terrifying realization that he had actually won the only gamble that mattered — settled heavily in his chest.

“You are reading the payroll,” he said, his voice thick with sleep and the lingering edge of pain.

Kora looked up. She closed the book. “I am trying to find a traitor.”

Sebastian slowly pushed himself up against the headboard, wincing. “Leave it for the foreman, Kora.”

“The foreman is currently organizing the burial of two men.” She stood up and walked to the edge of the bed. “I went down to the site at dawn while you slept. The blasting master found the remaining fuse wire. It was not standard miner’s taper. It was military-grade quick match — the kind used in naval cannons.”

Sebastian’s eyes narrowed. The pain in his arm receded, replaced by the cold, calculating focus that had built his empire.

“Northern Star Shipping operates old naval frigates refitted for freight.”

“Exactly.” Kora dropped a small, charred piece of waxed cord onto his lap. “And according to your payroll, a man named Miller joined the blasting crew three weeks ago. He listed his previous employer as the Bristol Docks — Davenport’s territory. Miller is missing this morning.”

Sebastian picked up the charred cord. He rubbed the soot between his thumb and forefinger. He looked at Kora. She was magnificent in her ruthlessness. There were dark circles under her eyes. Her hair was a tangled mess. And she had just handed him the rope to hang his enemy.

“You did not sleep,” he observed.

“I have the rest of my life to sleep.” Kora pulled the shawl tighter. “Right now, someone has attacked my husband and murdered my workers on my land. I want to know how we ruin him.”

A slow, dark smile curved Sebastian’s mouth. It was a terrifying expression — devoid of humor, full of absolute promise.

“We do not ruin him, Kora. Ruin implies survival in a lesser state. We are going to erase him.”

He threw the covers back and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He swayed slightly as he stood, his face slick with cold sweat. Kora stepped forward immediately, pressing her hands to his uninjured chest to steady him.

“You are in no condition to travel.”

“We are going back to London.” Sebastian’s hand came up to cover hers, pressing her palm against his racing heart. “Davenport thinks he struck a fatal blow. He thinks the port will be delayed by six months, and his shipping line is safe. I want him to believe that. I want him comfortable. And then —”

He leaned down, resting his forehead against hers.

“— I am going to buy the air he breathes.”

The journey back was brutal. Sebastian burned with a low-grade fever for two days, sleeping fitfully in the carriage while Kora changed his bandages and forced water past his lips. She did not offer him comfort or platitudes. She offered him the steady, unyielding anchor of her presence. When he woke in a cold sweat, muttering about collapsing rock, she simply gripped his good hand until the ghosts faded.

By the time they reached the Mayfair townhouse, the fever had broken. Sebastian was pale and gaunt, his left arm bound tightly to his chest in a black silk sling. But the fire in his eyes was absolute.

They did not rest. The moment they crossed the threshold, Sebastian summoned his solicitors, his bankers, and the foremen of his coal mines. The study doors were locked.

Kora did not wait in the drawing room. She sat beside him at the great oak desk.

“Davenport is overleveraged.” Sebastian told the room of grim-faced men. He pointed to a map of the trade routes spread across the desk. “He poured a fortune into bribing harbor masters in the East Indies to exclusively take Northern Star ships. But his vessels are old. They require constant repair. His credit is still good in the city —”

“Your Grace,” a banker murmured nervously. “No one will call in his debts. He is a lord.”

“Credit is an illusion based on confidence.” Kora spoke up.

The room went silent. The men stared at her — unaccustomed to a woman, even a duchess, speaking in the inner sanctum of commerce. She ignored their stares. She looked at Sebastian.

“If his ships are old, they rely on your coal to make the steam-assisted journeys fast enough to compete. What happens if the price of Wickliffe coal doubles for the Northern Star Line?”

Sebastian’s gaze snapped to hers. The brilliance of it caught him.

“It is illegal to price-gouge a single company,” the solicitor objected.

“It is not price gouging.” Kora countered smoothly. “It is a logistical necessity. The White Cliff mines are redirecting their primary supply to the new Cornwall port. Supply in London is artificially scarce. Therefore, the price rises for everyone buying in London. Davenport’s fleet docks in London.”

Sebastian let out a short, rough laugh. “It will bleed his operating capital dry in a month.”

“He will try to borrow to cover the difference,” the banker said.

“There is a second current beneath that ocean,” Kora said, before Sebastian could answer. She looked around the table of grim-faced men, unflinching. “When men drown, they do not simply borrow. They sell. Shares, first — quietly, through brokers who never learn who is truly buying. My father’s name is worth nothing in London anymore, which makes it perfect. No one watches a ruined man’s holding company.”

Sebastian’s gaze cut to her, something sharpening behind the winter gray.

“A shadow buyer,” he said slowly.

“A shadow buyer,” Kora agreed. “Let Davenport believe his only enemy is a stack of unpaid bills. He will never think to guard his own boardroom.”

Sebastian looked at the solicitor. “Draw up the holding company. Thomas Hemsley’s name on the papers, my capital behind it, and Kora’s instructions on every purchase. I want every share Davenport’s investors are frightened enough to sell.”

“Let him,” Sebastian added, turning back to the banker. “Because I am going to silently buy up every promissory note he signs. When he is drowning, I will be the ocean.