Part 1
Philip stood outside the Borboni Terrace, tugging nervously at his cravat while processing Lydia's morning ambush. Over breakfast, she'd casually dropped, "Oh, we're meeting your lawyers for lunch about the Sapphire Sanctuary sale."
"My lawyers?" He'd nearly baptized himself with coffee.
"Winbergfield & Associates. Albert arranged everything the moment you mentioned selling." Her innocent smile hadn't fooled anyone. "Didn't I mention it?"
"Dining with the woman you accidentally groped in front of Greater Yortinto's entire media corps!" the System sang gleefully. "Nothing awkward about that!"
The Borboni Terrace commanded the Lakeside Tower's crown, its floor-to-ceiling windows transforming Lake Yortinto into liquid amber under the afternoon sun. Mana-light chandeliers cast ethereal glows over tables where fortunes changed hands between courses. The air carried whispers of truffle, aged wine, and enough concentrated wealth to fund a small war.
"Lord Redwood," the maître d'hôtel's bow could have measured angles. "The Azure Room awaits."
The Azure Room. Philip's anxiety ratcheted higher. The restaurant's sanctuary for sensitive negotiations, complete with soundproofing enchantments and blind spots from every angle. Perfect for privacy.
"I had Natalia remain home," Lydia murmured, reading his thoughts. "The last thing we need is every eligible bachelor in the capital suffering whiplash trying to glimpse her leading to nosy matrons investigating her background."
As they approached the mahogany door, Philip caught sight of a young woman adjusting crystal goblets on a silver tray just inside the private chamber's antechamber. Something about her profile—the delicate angle of her jaw, perhaps, or the way she tilted her head—tugged at memory's edges like a half-forgotten melody.
"Philip!" Harvey rose smoothly, every inch the senior partner. Behind him, Laura stood with the rigid precision of someone defusing explosives. Her navy suit screamed "respectable lawyer" so loudly it practically came with legal citations.
"Master Philip," Laura extended her hand with surgical steadiness. "Thank you for your continued confidence in our firm."
Her slight tremor didn't escape notice. Philip lowered his voice. "Of course. Your work's been exceptional. And congratulations on the wedding?"
Laura's professional mask cracked, revealing genuine surprise. "Oh! Yes... Elora was quite helpful clarifying matters with Ben."
"Helpful," Harvey murmured, "is certainly one word for it."
Before Philip could pursue that intriguing comment, the third person at the table thrust out a business card dense enough to qualify as light reading. Garrett Ashford's credentials occupied more real estate than some purchase agreements: Licensed Real Estate Broker, Certified Property Appraiser, Chartered Surveyor, Accredited Estate Agent, J.D., MBA, and—apparently running out of space—Doctoral Candidate in Urban Development Theory.
"I also have International Property Standards certification," Garrett pumped Philip's hand enthusiastically, "but the printer said the font couldn't get any smaller without requiring magnification enchantments."
Lydia gracefully rescued Philip's circulation. "How wonderfully... credentialed. Shall we?"
As they settled, Philip caught Laura's eye. "I'm genuinely glad Elora helped."
Laura's composure softened into something almost vulnerable. "She staked her own honor on your integrity."
Philip's water glass paused midway. "She did what?"
"Ben was... resistant to my working with you again. But Elora was quite persuasive in reassuring him." Laura's smile held equal parts gratitude and bewilderment. "She's remarkable."
As she spoke, memories from a few days ago flashed back.
She and Elora had stood in the stately drawing room of Ben's family manor, Laura shifting uneasily as Ben paced the room, tension radiating from every step he took.
"I simply cannot allow her to work on a deal for Redwood again," Ben had insisted, his voice strained with frustration. "How am I supposed to relax, given what happened before?"
Elora's eyes had flashed with unwavering determination. "Ben, accidents happen—it was nothing more than an unfortunate incident. Laura cannot avoid every case involving male clients—Philip or otherwise—simply on the slim chance that someone might stumble into her. She's exceptionally talented and deserves the right to pursue her career without being held back by the clumsiness of others."
Ben had opened his mouth to protest, but Elora silenced him with a firm gesture. "Listen to me," she'd asserted calmly. "I promise you, on my personal honor, that whatever Philip does to Laura—accidental or otherwise—you have my permission to do the same to me."
Laura had stared at Elora, stunned by the lengths her friend was willing to go to safeguard her professional autonomy.
Ben had gaped at Elora, clearly torn between disbelief and reluctant admiration. Finally, he waved a dismissive hand. "Fine, fine," he muttered, clearly uneasy but conceding. "I trust you, Elora. Let's leave it at that."
Laura blinked, pulling herself back to the present as the door opened, admitting their dedicated server and saving Philip from responding. The young woman moved with unconscious grace, each gesture flowing into the next like water finding its path. Philip's breath caught involuntarily.
She couldn't be older than twenty, yet she carried herself with the poise of someone raised in society's highest circles. Her hair, a rich auburn that caught the light like burnished copper, was pinned in an elegant chignon that emphasized the swan-like curve of her neck. But it was her face that made Philip's memory itch—delicate features arranged in perfect harmony, skin like fresh cream, and eyes...
Those eyes. Deep blue as mountain lakes, fringed with dark lashes that cast shadows on her cheeks when she lowered them. They swept over their group professionally before settling on Philip with an intensity that made him shift in his seat.
The Borboni uniform—a creation of midnight blue silk with subtle gold threading—had clearly been designed for elegance. On her, it achieved something closer to artwork. The fitted bodice emphasized a figure that would have inspired lesser poets to unfortunate metaphors about hourglasses and Venus. The way the fabric moved when she walked suggested excellent nutrition throughout her youth—the kind of unconscious grace that came from never wondering where the next meal would come from.
"Sweet mother of compound interest," the System whistled. "Someone's been blessed by the genetic lottery!"
"Good afternoon," she said, her voice carrying a faint accent Philip couldn't place—something that softened her consonants and lengthened her vowels into music. "I'm Mira, and I'll be taking care of you today."
The way she said "taking care" while looking directly at Philip made Garrett shift forward with interest.
"May I start you with wine?" she continued, though her gaze hadn't moved from Philip's face. Something flickered in those remarkable eyes—recognition? Longing? Before he could analyze it, she'd schooled her expression back to professional pleasantness.
"The '97 Château d'Avalon," Harvey ordered automatically. "The reserve."
"Of course." Mira moved around the table to distribute menus, bringing with her a subtle perfume—roses with an understated note of something more expensive. Myrrh, perhaps, or white amber. The kind of scent that whispered of better days rather than shouted about them.
When she leaned past Philip to place his menu, her hand trembled almost imperceptibly. A strand of auburn hair had escaped her chignon, and Philip found himself studying the delicate shell of her ear, the way her pulse fluttered visibly at her throat.
"She's staring at you," Garrett whispered, immediately after Mira left the room, with all the subtlety of a herald's trumpet. "Must be another admirer! The Borboni's servers are handpicked for beauty, you know. Management understands that visual appeal enhances the dining experience..."
Laura choked delicately on her water.
Harvey's eyes gleamed with barely suppressed mirth. "Shall we focus on why we're here? The market grows more challenging daily."
"Indeed," Lydia agreed, though Philip caught her studying Mira with the intensity of someone solving a puzzle.
"Assessment?" Philip asked, grateful for any distraction from the way that escaped strand of hair had brushed his shoulder.
Garrett practically vibrated with excitement. "Macroeconomic headwinds are severe! Military expenditures crowding out private investment, supply chain disruptions from the European conflict and the Pacific tariff war creating inflationary pressures that—"
"In comprehensible terms," Harvey interrupted, "property values are about to take a significant tumble."
"We're modeling 25-30% real decline from the peak over the next three years," Garrett produced charts from thin air. "Current comparable average 1.9 million but aren't moving. My doctoral thesis suggests it could be worse if monetary authorities mismanage the fiscal-monetary policy mix considerations..."
Mira returned with their wine, moving with that same dancer's precision. As she poured, she positioned herself with impeccable professionalism—except when serving Philip. Then she lingered just a heartbeat too long, the bottle trembling slightly in her grip. Her proximity brought another wave of that expensive perfume, and Philip caught himself noticing the way the Azure Room's intimate lighting turned her skin to alabaster.
"Have you decided?" she asked, and something in her tone suggested she was asking about more than the menu.
They ordered quickly—Philip barely glancing at offerings he couldn't have named afterward—and returned to business. Mira retreated to her station by the service door, hands clasped, posture perfect, but Philip could feel her gaze like a physical touch.
"The Trust needs complete liquidation," Lydia stated. "All 167 units, preferably to a single buyer."
Laura's pen moved in precise strokes. "Ambitious in current conditions."
"Foreign capital?" Garrett suggested. "Arussian flight money seeking stability?"
"Ah yes, 'stability,'" the System snorted. "Nothing says stable like a dominion everyone forgets exists until they need to park—I mean, INVEST their money."
"Though the new permit requirements for foreign ownership complicate matters," Laura noted.
"I have connections in the permit office," Garrett offered eagerly. "Also International Real Estate Law certification with cross-border specialization..."
Throughout their discussion, Philip couldn't shake his awareness of Mira's presence. She moved silently around the room's periphery—adjusting curtains, refreshing water glasses before they emptied, anticipating needs with uncanny precision. But always, always, her attention circled back to him.
There was something almost desperate in those blue depths when she thought he wasn't looking. A quality that transcended professional interest or even romantic attraction. It was more like... recognition mixed with loss. As if she were memorizing his face against future absence.
And something else—confusion? Her gaze kept returning to his face with tiny furrows between her brows, as if comparing what she saw with some remembered image that didn't quite match. Once, when refilling his water glass, she paused infinitesimally, studying his profile with such intensity that Philip felt heat creep up his neck.
Lydia noticed too, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. Behind her calm smile, calculations churned: Another of Young Master's forgotten escapades? But she seems so young... and there's something familiar about her...
"She seems familiar," Lydia murmured during a lull, watching as Mira arranged fresh flowers in a crystal vase with practiced elegance. "Her bearing, perhaps..."
"No doubt another heart Philip captured during his cavalry days," Laura said dryly, then flushed. "Apologies, that was—"
"Quite alright," Philip managed, though heat crept up his neck. The truth was, something about Mira did seem familiar, but like a song heard in childhood—the melody recognized but the words forgotten.
"Young officers did cut dashing figures," Lydia noted carefully, that peculiar intensity still in her gaze as she studied the girl.
Harvey cleared his throat. "Perhaps we should discuss the special purpose vehicle financing?"
As they refined details, Mira approached to clear the first course plates. This time, reaching for Philip's dish, her fingers briefly brushed his hand resting on the table—the contact seeming accidental but lingering a fraction too long, her skin surprisingly soft, almost fevered in its warmth.
"I hope everything is to your satisfaction, my lord," she said softly, and there were definitely layers to those words. Her eyes held his for a moment, and in them Philip saw a swirl of emotions—admiration, nostalgia, and something that looked suspiciously like hero worship tempered by resignation.
"Yes, excellent," Philip managed, increasingly unsettled by her attention and that nagging sense of almost-recognition.
She retreated to her station, but Philip caught her stealing glances whenever she thought he wasn't looking. Each time, that same expression flickered across her lovely face—as if she were seeing not who he was, but who he had been. As if she were saying goodbye to someone she'd never really had the chance to hello.
"That young woman seems quite taken with you," Harvey observed with barely concealed amusement after Mira had refreshed their wine with hands that trembled only when near Philip.
"Perhaps we should request a different server," Laura suggested tartly.
"No need," Lydia interjected, her thoughtful expression deepening. "Though I could swear I've seen her somewhere before... something about the eyes... the shape of her face..."
Before anyone could pursue that thread, Garrett launched into enthusiastic exposition about his latest certification in Sustainable Urban Development, complete with thesis highlights on post-war reconstruction.
As the meeting progressed, Philip found himself hyperaware of every movement Mira made within the room. The way she glided between service station and table, the subtle shift of silk against her figure, the escaped tendril of hair that she kept tucking behind her ear only for it to escape again. When she bent to retrieve a dropped napkin, the movement was so graceful it seemed choreographed, yet when she straightened and caught Philip watching, color bloomed across her cheeks like watercolor on cream paper.
Her beauty was undeniable—the kind that would have made her a fortune as a courtesan or a marriage to minor nobility—but it was the emotion in those blue eyes that unsettled Philip most. The way they widened with something like wonder whenever he spoke, the way they traced his features as if matching them against some treasured memory.
They were finalizing timeline details when the room's enchanted mirrors suddenly dimmed—the Imperial News sigil flashing as an urgent broadcast commandeered every screen, reserved only for news that could reshape the dominion's fate.
Part 2
"—Breaking news from the Vakerian neutral zone." The broadcaster's voice carried that particular tension reserved for war correspondence. "Following days of speculation, Imperial Intelligence has confirmed that the peace delegation compound was struck by multiple hypersonic missiles."
The Azure Room fell silent. Even Mira paused in her graceful orbit around their table, the wine bottle trembling in her hands.
"Hypersonic?" Harvey's legal mind immediately parsed the implications. "That's... exceptionally limited technology."
"Indeed," Garrett said, leaning forward and momentarily abandoning his certification portfolio. "According to my Advanced Strategic Weapons Analysis certification—completed last month at the Imperial War College—only three nations possess operational hypersonic capabilities."
The broadcaster continued with studied neutrality: "The strike occurred during what sources describe as a 'critical juncture' in negotiations between the Arussian and Coalition delegations. Among those confirmed present were Prince Vlan of Arussia and General Nernwick, recently promoted to lead Avalondia's peace mission."
Philip's water glass halted midway to his lips, a cold dread spreading through his chest. "General Nernwick? Isn't that Elora's last name?"
Lydia nodded gravely. "That's Kendrick. The Arussians filed a formal protest about his previous rank. They claimed negotiating with a mere colonel while they sent royalty constituted a deliberate insult. The promotion was... expedited."
"From colonel to general in an afternoon," Harvey added with dark amusement. "The military historians will have conniptions. Though given young Nernwick's recent performance in Yorgoria, perhaps not entirely unwarranted."
"Statistically unprecedented," Garrett interjected, producing a leather-bound notebook. "According to my research for the Military Advancement Patterns certification, such rapid elevation occurs in only 0.03% of cases, typically during—"
"The hypersonic weapons' origin remains unconfirmed," the broadcaster interrupted, "though intelligence sources note that most Coalition representatives had departed the compound hours before the strike, citing 'irreconcilable differences' with the Arussian position."
Lydia's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "How remarkably convenient."
On screen, grainy footage showed the devastation—a crater where ornate buildings had once stood. The Empire's most advanced detection systems had failed to prevent the strike, raising uncomfortable questions about either their effectiveness or their operators' intentions.
"Arussian military sources report detecting 'anomalous mana signatures' moments before impact," the broadcaster added.
Philip felt his hands begin to shake, carefully setting down his water glass before he could drop it. "But Elora told me..." His voice came out strained, almost a whisper. "Just a week ago, she called and said the Empire assured her he was safe, that they had found him and he was not in the compound."
The others exchanged meaningful glances. Harvey cleared his throat delicately. "The Empire has been known to... manage the flow of information regarding sensitive diplomatic missions."
"You mean they lied," Philip said flatly, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the table. Images of Kendrick flashed through his mind—that ridiculous theatrical bow when they'd first met, the way he'd literally waded through blood to protect Philip's estate, his genuine concern beneath all that flamboyant posturing. "They sent him there knowing—"
"Search and rescue operations continue," the broadcaster's tone suggested little hope, "though given the nature of hypersonic weapons and the total destruction of the compound..."
"They're giving him up for dead," Philip said, his voice hollow. The room seemed to tilt slightly. Kendrick—brilliant, infuriating, impossibly loyal Kendrick.
"Now, Master Philip," Lydia cautioned, moving closer with evident concern. "General Nernwick has survived situations that would fell lesser men. His tactical brilliance—"
"Won't stop a hypersonic missile," Philip finished bleakly. He pushed back from the table abruptly, needing to move, to do something. "Elora... oh God, Elora. She must be..." He couldn't finish the sentence. The twins were inseparable despite their different paths. And if Philip, who merely considered Kendrick a dear friend, felt this crushing weight in his chest, what must she be experiencing?
"Should I attempt to reach Lady Elora?" Lydia asked quietly.
"No," Philip cut her off, running a hand through his hair. "No, I should... I need to go to her myself. She probably needs someone there with her now." He paused, struck by a terrible thought. "Unless she already knows. Unless the Empire has already—"
The broadcaster's voice continued its relentless recitation of facts and speculation, but Philip no longer heard it. All he could think about was Elora's face when she'd assured him Kendrick would be fine, the pride mixed with worry in her voice when she'd spoken of his diplomatic appointment. How many lies had the Empire fed them? How many young nobles like Kendrick had they sent to die while proclaiming imminent peace?
"Master Philip," Lydia said firmly, placing a steadying hand on his arm. "Whatever has happened, we must think clearly. If Kendrick is... if the worst has occurred, Elora will need your strength, not your panic."
Philip nodded mechanically, trying to pull himself together. But inside, something had fractured.