Chapter 353: Price Family Plot: First WitchBourne Witch

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

merely 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 me. I’m being

sentimental.

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 men 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

, something 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 something 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 meant it more than he’d ever meant 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 informed of the meeting date, the engagement announcement timeline, 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 media. 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 statement immediately. Front page of the Financial Times, 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 mean no offence by the suggestion. But the WitchBournes also have...

eligible sons

. Fine young men.

Well-educated.

Accomplished in their own right."

He smiled. Hopeful. Shameless.

"Should Ms. Abigail ever find herself interested in... an arrangement of her own... the WitchBournes would be honoured to present a suitor worthy of her consideration."

Something flickered in Abigail’s eyes.

Ms. Abigail

.

Not Ms. Price.

He’d used her first name. Her

real

name. The one that wasn’t just a family title, a Legacy designation, a reminder of the vast machinery she represented.

For just a moment—

one single, flickering moment

—she was just Abigail.

A woman in her twenties.

Standing in an office that smelled like old money and fresh flowers.

Being offered to a stranger like merchandise.

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 arrangement with the WitchBournes was too important to sabotage with something as useless as

feelings

.

But still.

Ms. Abigail

.

Like she was a person.

"I don’t do love, Mr. WitchBourne."

The words came 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 time soon."

She turned toward the door. Her assistant moved to open.

"And I certainly won’t be starting with some

spoilt prince

whose greatest accomplishment 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 someone who knew secrets.

Abigail pulled out her phone. Dialed a number from memory.

It rang once.

"Father."

The voice on the other end was deep. Measured. 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 arrangement proceeds as planned."

Silence on the line. Processing.

"Good. I’ll inform your grandfather, mother. The timeline—"

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 become one

on the first night of union. For the sacred rite to be completed. For the

ancient compact

to be fulfilled."

Her eyes gleamed.

"And with the

Virgin Blood Essence

of a

WitchBourne’s

First 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 times 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 meetings.

Their

old beliefs

for new money and modern respectability.

They’d

forgotten.

Somewhere in the rush to become something new, they’d forgotten what

they’d once been

. What their

name

truly

meant.

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

remembered.

The

Prices

always

remembered.

Abigail

watched the numbers descend and allowed herself, just for a moment, to feel something like satisfaction.

Edmund WitchBourne thought he was making the

deal of a lifetime

. 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 commerce with the kind of influence that mere 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 moment 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

.