Thea had barely set foot back in Star City when she was practically ambushed by Moira, who'd been waiting for her—impatiently—for three whole days.
Moira Queen was now deep into her campaign preparations. And to win over voters, appearance was everything.
She had to look humble, relatable—certainly not like the billionaire she actually was.
In the game of politics, donating all your assets to charity was for fools. The standard trick was simple: transfer your wealth to your children. It was like taking off your pants just to fart—pointless but mandatory. Every candidate did it. The trick was to make yourself look "clean" and "poor," the sort of person who could "understand the struggles of the people."
Some went as far as moving from their mansions into run-down neighborhoods just to stage photo ops in tiny kitchens and peeling living rooms. Moira had no intention of going that far—she had limits. But to appear modest, the family fortune still had to be shuffled around.
So, the morning after Thea returned home, she found herself surrounded by nearly fifty lawyers.
Before she knew what was happening, she'd spent the entire morning signing papers—contracts, trusts, ownership transfers, legal declarations—all funneling Queen family assets under her name.
If she hadn't been afraid of causing a public scandal, she would've summoned her clones just to help with the paperwork. By noon, she'd signed her name over a thousand times. Her wrist was sore and her patience gone.
Of course, it was all legal theater. On paper, Thea was now the sole inheritor of Queen family holdings—but since she was still technically a minor, Moira remained her legal guardian. In Star City, adulthood came at seventeen, and Thea still had a year to go. So, the reality was simple: Moira still held every string of control.
Still, a victory was a victory. The first step of a long march.
As she rubbed her cramped wrist, Thea couldn't help thinking that if she found this exhausting, those ancient princes who had to fight their way to a throne must have been living on the edge of a heart attack.
Her move to absorb the Court of Owls had turned out to be a masterstroke—money, connections, manpower, all secured. If she'd waited for Queen Consolidated to naturally pass into her hands, she might've been middle-aged by the time it happened.
The morning vanished into signatures and seals; the afternoon brought a new performance.
Not at the company—Walter Steele, the ever-reliable COO, was running things just fine—but at the campaign front.
Because Thea Queen, beloved daughter, would now serve as the campaign's living mascot.
Her job? To smile, wave, and radiate youthful charm while proving what an "outstanding mother" Moira Queen was. In short: visual proof that this candidate raised good stock. Perfect bait for family-minded voters, especially suburban women.
Today's event was a community outreach rally in a low-income district.
Thea's stylist—a bearded man with the dramatic flair of a Broadway costume designer—had promised her something "subtle and wholesome." Thea should've known better. When she stepped out of the dressing room, even Moira's jaw dropped.
The pastel-red dress was lovely, yes—but the plunging backline exposed so much smooth skin it could've qualified as a public hazard.
Thea shot her stylist a glare that promised murder, but it was too late. Cameras were already waiting.
Even Moira had to admit her daughter looked stunning. The pale glow of her skin seemed to reflect the stage lights. No makeup could've achieved that kind of radiance—it was something else entirely.
In fact, Thea had changed, though she hadn't told anyone.
Before leaving Gotham, she'd eaten the strange green "fruit" the Swamp Thing had given her—a sort of pseudo-demonic seed infused with elemental energy.
Thankfully, its effects were gentle. No bleeding, no agonizing metamorphosis. Just a few days of indigestion… and then transformation.
Her lungs felt cleaner, stronger. Her body's regenerative system had sharpened to something almost supernatural. If before it took a year for her divine blood to distill a single drop of gold essence, now it would take three months.
Her resistance to toxins had doubled. Her skin had become luminous, her body subtly reshaped—muscle lines hidden beneath smooth, graceful curves. Even without trying, she now radiated vitality that made nearby women subconsciously glance away in envy.
Moira, however, wasn't worried about being outshone. Her concern was entirely maternal: My daughter is getting too beautiful. Who on earth could possibly be worthy of her now?
When Thea had sent her those beach photos from "Malibu" (actually Bruce Wayne's private coast, artfully photoshopped by Felicity), Moira had just glanced at them out of curiosity—until she spotted a familiar figure in the background.
Bruce. Wayne.
Every woman in America knew that face—the nation's number-one billionaire playboy.
Moira's imagination had immediately gone into overdrive. Had her daughter been seduced? Was Bruce Wayne some sort of silver-haired sugar wolf?
But the more she thought about it, the less upset she became. Well… they are kind of a match. He's older, but rich, accomplished… and if it doesn't work out, divorce exists.
After all, there weren't many men left in the country who could match Thea in both pedigree and potential. The poor ones weren't worthy; the worthy ones were all decades older. A mother worried about many things—but this one worried about that.
She'd quietly sent investigators to Gotham to check Bruce's background, but the results came back empty. Gotham was chaos incarnate, and Bruce's privacy defenses were practically impenetrable. So Moira shelved the matter for now, planning to bring it up with her daughter when the time was right.
Unaware of her mother's suspicions, Thea trailed one step behind Moira at the event, smiling gracefully as Moira shook hands with a crowd of enthusiastic housewives.
Her mind, however, was elsewhere—specifically, on the necklace around her throat.
A delicate piece of sky-blue crystal, it was the same one Malcolm Merlyn had given her long ago (see Chapter 13). While unpacking, she'd noticed faint inscriptions carved on the inner rim—and to her surprise, they were the same type of runic markings she'd seen on the black mist dagger.
The dagger had four basic sigils.
The necklace had fifteen.
Her pulse had spiked.
Even with her limited understanding of magical language, she could tell this was something extraordinary. The craftsmanship, the complexity—this wasn't some trinket. This was an heirloom artifact, passed down through the Merlyn line until its power went dormant.
Her glee was short-lived, though, because the more she studied the runes, the more her excitement turned to frustration.
She could decipher maybe two of the fifteen—barely. Without proper grimoires or reference texts, she was working blind, guessing meanings by feel and intuition. One mistake, and she could burn out the enchantment permanently.
Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to calm down. The necklace wasn't going anywhere. She could study it later.
For now, she had a part to play.
On stage, Moira Queen was passionately championing women's rights and child welfare, every sentence punctuated by waves of applause.
Thea clapped politely along with the crowd, her expression the perfect blend of warmth and poise.
Just smile and wave, mascot. Smile and wave.
The campaign had officially begun.