Part 1
The rented carriage rattled through Albecaster's outer suburbs, hooves on cobblestone marking the distance from an evening that had left her feeling simultaneously wrung out and buzzing with something she didn't want to name yet.
Twelve riders in dark crimson flanked them—Gemstone Security Solutions. Clara had arranged the whole thing, paid for the entire escort out of her own pocket. Two hundred Avalondian dollars for one night, which was insane when Lilianna thought about it. But that was Aunt Clara. She didn't do anything by halves.
She's trying to teach me, Lilianna thought, watching the lead rider signal a turn. That presentation matters. That the Duchess of Wetdin arriving anywhere should look like it matters.
The irony stung—being escorted by security employed by the same corporation that now owned her childhood home. But Clara had explained it weeks ago: "You can either be bitter about reality, or you can learn to work within it. The Wetdins lasted six centuries because we adapted."
Lilianna pressed her forehead against the cool glass. The scarlet gown—borrowed from Clara's closet, altered by Clara's seamstress, worth more than Lilianna earned in three months with the cavalry—felt tight now. Like she'd been wearing borrowed confidence all evening and her own skin was trying to reassert itself.
Her reflection showed someone who looked put together. Composed. The flame-red hair perfectly styled, makeup professionally applied, posture straight despite exhaustion.
She looked like a duchess.
Inside though? Inside she felt twenty. Just... twenty. Too young to be playing these games, too old to pretend she didn't understand what was at stake.
She still wanted Philip. Wanted him with an intensity that should probably worry her. But it wasn't like when she was fourteen anymore, all fairy tales and pure devotion. Now when she thought about Philip, she thought about security too. About never selling her mother's jewelry again. About her father's friends who'd scattered like roaches when the money ran out.
Father would've hated me thinking this way, she thought. But Father's idealism got him killed. Left me with a million in debt and no idea how to survive.
Clara had saved her. Paid off the debts, secured the cavalry position, arranged the absurdly cheap lease on the steward's residence. But more than that—Clara had shown her how the world actually worked.
"Your father was a good man," Clara had told her once. "But good men who don't understand power end up destroyed by those who do. I won't let that happen to you."
The carriage turned onto Wetdin Avenue.
Even expecting it, the sight of the estate gates hit her like a physical blow.
Thirty feet of wrought iron, patterns so intricate they seemed alive in the lamplight. The Wetdin crest in the center: phoenix rising from flames, wings spread. Beneath it, the motto: Glory from Ashes.
The gates swung open. More security, black and silver uniforms managing the museum.
As the interim chair of the Wetdin Family Trust, Clara had directed the trust to acquire sufficient shares in Gemstone International Corporation to actively influence its decisions without excessive financial exposure. Some complicated financial arrangement that Lilianna was still trying to understand through her remote finance courses. Small victories, Clara called it. Positioning for when Lilianna turned twenty-one and could take over as the chairwoman of the trust.
Not that being chairwoman meant money. Her father had been chairman, and it hadn't saved him.
But Clara had explained that too. "Your father didn't understand the Trust structure. Didn't know how to use its power properly. I'm teaching you what he should have learned—how to actually leverage institutional power to achieve goals."
The carriage started up the main drive, and Lilianna's composure cracked.
The estate revealed itself in pieces. Each one a memory.
The outer gardens where Father had taught her to ride, now tourist parking. Gravel instead of grass because gravel required less maintenance.
The south lawn where Mother had hosted galas, now covered with informational signs explaining architecture to tourists who probably didn't care.
The fountain court. Neptune and marble waves. Still working, but on a timer. Museum hours only.
Forty-seven Avalondian dollars saved monthly, Lilianna had calculated once. Because she calculated everything now.
"If you don't know the numbers," Clara had said, "someone else does, and they'll use that against you."
And then the palace itself.
Six centuries of Wetdin history. Sixty rooms. Ballroom for four hundred. Library with ten thousand volumes. Sold to Gemstone International for twenty-three million Avalondian dollars.
Which sounded like a lot until you divided it by the debts. Until you realized what percentage the creditors had taken. Until you understood that even that massive sum had barely been enough.
The first tear caught her by surprise, hot against her cheek.
Then more.
She couldn't stop them once they started. Crying as the carriage rolled past the main entrance—the door she'd run through a thousand times, always met by Father's laugh and Mother's smile. Crying as they headed toward the service road, toward the steward's quarters. Crying for who she'd been, for who she'd had to become.
Better to learn it young, she thought, wiping at her face. Better to learn the truth while I still have time to adapt.
The security captain rode alongside, expression carefully neutral. He said nothing as Lilianna cried, just gestured for the formation to hold. Discretion was part of what Clara was paying for.
The carriage stopped at the residence entrance. Modest compared to the palace, but still impressive. Six and a half thousand square feet of grand architecture. Gaslight fixtures. Stone steps worn smooth.
The plaque on the door: "Private Residence—No Museum Access."
It had been built in the 1840s as the house for the steward. It was designed to show that even the Wetdin steward lived better than most middle class. Four bedrooms, formal dining for twelve, library, receiving rooms.
All of it empty except for her.
She'd sold the furniture that had value. Kept what was too damaged or outdated for anyone to want. The servants' quarters sat unused because she couldn't afford staff.
But the lease was only sixty Avalondian dollars monthly—absurdly cheap, negotiated through Clara's influence.
Clara saved me, she thought. She saved me when no one else would.
"Your Grace." Captain Hendricks opened the carriage door. "Perimeter patrol until 0600, standard protocol."
"Thank you, Captain." Her voice came out rough. "Please thank your team."
"Yes, ma'am." Sharp nod, then he was gone.
Lilianna stood alone before her door, fumbling for the key. Real metal key, because magical locks cost money she didn't have.
The lock clicked. Too loud in the quiet.
Inside, everything was exactly as she'd left it. Clean because she cleaned it. Sparse because she'd sold most of it. Empty because she lived alone.
The entrance hall echoed. The chandelier—original, crystal yellowed but still beautiful—cast shadows. The staircase curved up toward bedrooms she didn't use.
She walked straight through to the sitting room at the back.
This room was hers. Furnished with pieces too damaged to sell: worn velvet sofa, wingback chair missing one carved foot, faded Middle Eastern rug. The piano in the window alcove, wood scarred but sound still good.
She'd practiced here every single day for over a decade. Even through the worst of her days. Even when she'd been rationing meals and wondering if she'd have to sell the piano too.
That song was her refuge.
But tonight, looking at the piano, all Lilianna could think about was Philip's face while she'd played. The way he'd listened. Really listened.
And that embrace at the end—
Heat rushed to her face.
She'd felt him. Felt his body's response when she'd pressed close to whisper in his ear. No mistaking it. No pretending she'd imagined it.
The teenage Lilianna would've died of embarrassment and excitement in equal measure. But the twenty year old Lilianna recognized it for what it was: physical response. Which might mean attraction. Or might mean nothing.
But combined with that blush. The way he'd stammered.
Maybe.
The thought sent electricity through her.
Lilianna reached back, fumbling with the gown's clasps. Getting into it had required help. Getting out shouldn't, not if she twisted right—there. The fabric whispered as she stepped out, draped it carefully over the chair.
She should change properly. Wash her face, brush her teeth.
Instead she sank onto the sofa. Too exhausted. Too emotionally wrung out.
The velvet was soft. The room was quiet except for distant security patrol sounds and the house settling.
No one watching. No performance required.
Playing Chopin for Philip had been... she didn't have words. Over a decade of practice distilled into those minutes. Every note carrying her feelings, her devotion, everything she couldn't say out loud because he didn't even remember her.
And he'd listened.
Then dinner. Navigating that minefield of being interesting but not threatening, present but not possessive. Acknowledging Natalia with genuine respect because—well, because anything else would've been stupid.
Natalia.
Even hours later, Lilianna couldn't process it.
That woman couldn't be human. No one could be that beautiful. Porcelain skin. Golden hair. Proportions that belonged in paintings, not sitting across from you at dinner.
And when she'd spoken, analyzing Lilianna's piano playing with genuine insight—it had been surreal. Like perfect beauty had somehow also gotten perfect understanding.
Philip loved her. Obviously. How could any man not?
But aunt Clara said Natalia would be my ally, Lilianna remembered. That she'd help, not hinder.
Clara hadn't explained it yet. Lilianna didn't fully understand it. But she trusted Clara. Clara had been right about everything so far.
Right about Father's friends abandoning her. Right about no one caring what happened to a disgraced noblewoman unless she made herself matter again.
"Your father thought the world operated on honor and loyalty," Clara had said. "He died waiting for people to do the right thing. I'm teaching you that the only person you can rely on is yourself—and the people you've made it worth their while to support you."
Lilianna pulled her knees up, wrapped her arms around them.
That embrace with Philip played on repeat in her mind. His warmth. His solidity. The way his arms had come around her. The unmistakable evidence that some part of him had responded to her proximity.
Her own body had responded too. Pulse racing, awareness sharpening, heat flooding through her.
This is what I dreamed about, she thought. When I was a teenager. When I was naïve enough to think wanting something meant I could have it.
Except now it was more complicated. She wanted Philip, yes. But she also wanted security. Wanted her family name restored. Wanted to never be that girl again, selling jewelry to bury her father.
Was that wrong?
No, she decided. It's realistic. It's what survival requires—understanding what you need, not just what you want.
"Pretty dreams don't pay debts," Clara had said. "Pretty dreams don't restore fallen houses. You want fairy tales, read books. You want actual results, you need strategy."
And Clara's strategy was working. Sort of. Philip had blushed. Had responded. Had listened to her music like it mattered.
But then there was Natalia. And Lady Nernwick, Philip's childhood friend, who everyone assumed he'd marry. And the fact that Lilianna was essentially gambling her youth on maybe winning over a man who might not even be possible to win.
Clara had given her three years. After that, there was Mr. Wang's son. Shipping magnate. Thirty-seven years old, will be forty then, never married, worth three hundred million Avalondian dollars.
Seventeen years older than her. A foreigner, from the Pearl of the East. Someone she'd never met.
But someone who could buy her childhood home back. Could restore the Wetdin name without her having to slave her life away trying. He just wanted fame and a ticket to access the political machination of the Empire.
"Love is a luxury," Clara had said, "and luxuries are for people who can afford to gamble their entire life on a single lottery outcome. Right now, you can't."
Is that cynical? Lilianna wondered. Or just... true?
A few days ago she'd done something stupid. Taken a job at Wonder Park under false identity, dressed in common clothes. Served water at a refreshment stand near the carousel, hoping to see Philip when he didn't know she was watching.
She'd found him. Found him and Natalia, walking hand in hand like any couple. Laughing. Sharing sweets. Easy intimacy that had hurt to watch.
And she did abandoned the stand later and followed them afterwards, watching like some kind of—
Stalker, her mind supplied. You're becoming a stalker.
But was it stalking if you were trying to gather information? If you needed to understand your competition, assess the situation, develop strategy?
That's just what obsessive people tell themselves, she thought, and felt sick.
Maybe this was wrong. Maybe she should just take Clara's backup option—present the marriage contract to the Duke, collect fifty thousand Avalondian dollars, disappear.
But she'd practiced piano every day for over a decade. Every single day, even when she was hungry, even when she was terrified, even when it felt pointless. Because maintaining that connection to Philip—even if he didn't remember her—had been the anchor that kept her from falling apart completely.
How does one just stop? When it had become a habit as reflexive as breathing?
"Sunk cost fallacy," Clara would probably say. "You're letting past investment dictate future strategy. That's emotional thinking, not rational thinking."
But wasn't some emotional thinking okay? Wasn't it human?
Maybe that's the problem, Lilianna thought tiredly. Maybe Father was too human. Maybe I need to be less.
The hope from the embrace was fading now. Philip might have been attracted to her in that moment. But was it enough? Against Natalia's impossible beauty? Against his history with Elora?
Whatever she could offer, Elora could offer more. And if Philip did choose her—would she ever know if it was real? Or just political convenience wrapped in enough affection to make it tolerable?
She didn't have answers. Just exhaustion and confusion and a lingering warmth in her bosom—the ghost of Philip's embrace, his heartbeat against hers, that blush spreading across his face like dawn breaking.
Tomorrow, she'd return to being the Duchess of Wetdin. Command her cavalry, maintain the iron discipline expected of imperial guards. Clara had been emphatic that this crisis represented Lilianna's opportunity to demonstrate her reliability to the Empire's elite. After all, when ninety percent of officers from noble houses suddenly developed convenient illnesses at precisely the same moment, it hardly required tactical genius to recognize the pattern. No one wanted to take on a task that promised unlimited reputational risk for zero benefits.
But for Lilianna, their cowardice was her opening. If she could navigate this crisis with competence, she'd prove herself that rare aristocrat who could actually be counted upon when the streets burned and the comfortable fled to their country estates.
Tomorrow she'd be that woman again. The warrior. The pragmatist. The survivor.
But tonight? Tonight she was just Lilianna. Twenty years old. Tired beyond measure. Scared of wanting something she might never have. And hopeful despite years of lessons teaching her that hope was the most dangerous luxury of all.
She grabbed the blanket from the sofa back, wrapped it around herself like armor made of wool. The cushions had molded to her shape from too many nights like this—too exhausted to make it to her bedroom, too alone to care.
As sleep pulled her under, her last thought was of Philip's expression during the music. The way he'd looked at her—really seen her—not as the little girl who'd followed him around, not as the impoverished duchess desperate for recognition, but as a woman. Desirable. Worth looking at.
Maybe, she thought as consciousness faded. Just maybe.
And then she was asleep, still on the sofa, still holding onto hope like it was the only thing keeping her from drowning in everything else the world had taught her about love and loss.
Part 2
Morning light filtered through the drawing room windows with apologetic hesitance, as if even the sun understood it was intruding on Philip's crisis of conscience.
He'd been awake for hours, sitting in old Philip's favorite chair. A cup of tea had gone cold in his hands sometime around dawn. He couldn't remember when Lydia had brought it.
Margaret's words from last night wouldn't stop echoing.
"But she may be the only one through whom Natalia can meaningfully retain her place in your life."
What the hell did that even mean?
A knock at the door interrupted his spiraling thoughts. Margaret entered carrying a fresh pot of tea.
"You look terrible," she observed, settling into the chair opposite him. "I assume you've been overthinking all night?"
"Grandma—"
"Let me save you several more hours of torture, dear." She poured tea with practiced ease. "You're trying to understand why I said Lilianna might preserve Natalia's place in your life."
Philip accepted the tea silently.
Margaret's voice took on the quality of a professor delivering a lecture—clinical, precise, yet not unkind. "You have three women in your life, Philip. Three very different women representing three very different kinds of love."
She sipped her tea before continuing. "Elora represents passionate, exclusive, all-consuming romantic love. The kind poets write about, the kind that fills novels and makes young hearts race. That emotional connection, that intellectual partnership, that desire for complete union—it's beautiful to watch. She loves you with every fiber of her being."
Philip felt his chest tighten.
"But passionate love is possessive, Philip. It demands everything. It fills every corner, leaves no room for compromise." Margaret's tone remained matter-of-fact. "If you marry Elora, Natalia becomes the other woman. The best case scenario? She gets relegated to 'household servant' status, separate quarters, forbidden from touching you. The intimacy you share now—sleeping beside each other, that casual closeness—it would have to end. Are you ready to do that to Natalia?"
Philip's throat felt tight. "No."
"And Elora would be miserable too," Margaret continued. "Competing with a supernatural beauty, knowing part of your heart belongs elsewhere. It would poison everything between you. That beautiful, passionate connection would curdle into resentment and jealousy. You'd watch her suffer, she'd watch you suffer, and Natalia would suffer most of all. Three people destroying each other through no fault of their own."
She set down her teacup with a soft clink. "Now, Natalia. She represents something else entirely—the future, perhaps. A summoned entity craving her summoner's love. She loves you with terrifying sincerity, doesn't she? That devotion in her eyes."
Philip nodded, unable to speak.
"But she's not human, Philip. And this world isn't ready to accept that relationship." Margaret's gaze was piercing. "She's a Familiar. That makes her very existence a crime. She would always have to be kept from public eyes yet remain close to you. Oh, you can care for her, protect her, even love her, but she would always have to be hidden. Hence, she can never be your wife. But you are her only chance at a normal life. Moreover, as the sole heir to the Redwood estate, you need a wife."
The words stung because they were true.
"Which brings us to Lilianna." Margaret's expression softened slightly. "She is a desperate aristocrat in a changing world where one misstep would plunge her into perpetual poverty. Hence, she needs every ally she can get. But that also means she's more practical, more capable of compromising. In other words, Philip, she doesn't love you the same way Elora does."
Philip looked up sharply. "What?"
"Oh, she wants you. She's attracted to you. That was painfully obvious last night. She desires you physically, and I suspect those feelings are quite intense." Margaret smiled slightly. "But it's not the fiery, passionate, emotionally exclusive connection that Elora craves with you. It's something else entirely."
She leaned forward. "Lilianna's love for you is a combination of physical desire, a sense of familiarity, and political calculation. You are an anchor to a past that no longer exists. You represent safety, stability, a connection to happier times. She feels desire, yes, but not that burning need for complete emotional fusion that defines Elora's love. And that is actually what makes it work."
"Because...?" Philip's heart was racing.
"Because it leaves space," Margaret said simply. "Elora's love is all-consuming. Beautiful, but incompatible with Natalia's existence. Lilianna's love is more targeted and therefore more capable of compromise. She can desire you physically, care for you deeply, build a life with you—all while accepting that part of your heart belongs to someone else. Not because she's weak, but because her love prioritizes stability and goals above exclusivity."
Margaret picked up her teacup again. "Besides, Lilianna understands aristocratic marriages. She grew up watching her parents navigate those waters. She's accustomed to arrangements where both spouses maintain... companions. As long as discretion is observed and the situation serves practical purposes, she'd accept it. It's simply how things are done."
Her expression became more calculating. "And let's be practical. Natalia is a Familiar. As long as Lilianna doesn't mind—and I will convince her—Natalia can remain quite useful. Her presence alone would discourage ambitious social climbers from attempting to seduce you, and since she's infertile, there's no risk of succession complications. She could continue serving as your protection, deterrent, and status symbol—assets that would benefit your marriage to Lilianna. Most importantly, her secrets would remain safe until the legal environment becomes more favorable."
"Useful." Philip felt something cold in his stomach. "You're talking about Natalia like she's—"
"A Familiar?" Margaret interrupted gently. "Because she is, dear. A treasured one, certainly. One I've grown genuinely fond of. But we must be realistic about what she is."
She smiled, though something in it made Philip uncomfortable. "This way, Natalia would have a secure, protected place. She could remain close to you, continue to serve you, be part of your household. Isn't that what matters? Isn't that better than watching her relegated to a separate wing, forbidden from touching you, slowly withering from loneliness?"
After Margaret left, Philip sat in silence, her words echoing like accusations.
The System rematerialized, unusually subdued.
"That was harsh," Philip said quietly. "She's been so kind to Natalia, but underneath..."
"She sees her as a created being," the System agreed softly. "Useful, even treasured, but not quite human."
Philip looked at his hands. "I would never—"
"Wouldn't you?"
Philip's head snapped up. "What?"
"Philip," the System said gently, "I think you need to examine something you've been avoiding. Why do you keep holding back from intimacy with her?"
"Because she's—" Philip stopped, struggling for words. "Because it feels wrong. Like I'm taking advantage—"
"Because you think she's bonded and programmed to serve you," the System finished quietly. "Not out of her own free will. Right?"
Philip's silence was answer enough.
"But let me ask you something," the System continued, its tone unusually serious. "Did Tara really like you? Be honest with yourself, Philip. She picked you because you were the best option within her league at the time. Dedicated, emotionally loyal, with huge upside career potential. That's why later, when that potential evaporated—when your career stagnated—she left."
The words hit like a physical blow. Philip felt his face flush hot, then cold.
"I—that's not—" He stopped. Because it was true. Tara had said it herself: " We can't keep living this way. I need some security, Philip. I'm sorry." Not "I love you." Not "we'll figure it out together."
"She calculated her investment and cut her losses," the System said, not unkindly. "That's what humans do in most cases. They dress it up in pretty words—compatibility, chemistry, love—but underneath, there's always calculation. Always measuring what they give against what they get."
Philip pressed his palms against his eyes. His whole relationship with Tara, recontextualized. Three years of his life, and she'd been... what? Hedging her bets? Waiting to see if he'd pay off?
"But with Natalia," he said, voice rough, "it's worse, isn't it? Because she's literally bound to me. She doesn't have a choice—"
"Doesn't she?" The System's tone shifted. "Philip, Familiars are more perceptive than humans. Did you know that? Their perceptions are not hindered by the complex psychological concerns, moral struggles, and other calculations that reduce clarity in human reasoning."
"What do you mean?"
"They lack context sometimes, yes. But that absence of human psychological baggage? It means they often see situations for what they are rather than framing them to fit subconscious bias. They're not lying to themselves about other's motivations. They're not rationalizing or self-deceiving."
The System leaned forward. "You think Natalia doesn't know what's best for herself. That's a presumptuous assumption, isn't it? Let me walk you through something."
Philip waited, throat tight.
"Imagine Natalia as a human woman. Everything else the same—her situation, her appearance, her circumstances—but fully human with complete agency. What is she, essentially?"
"I... I don't know."
"She's equivalent to an undocumented person with no family, no background, no legal identity. Nothing except extraordinary beauty. And not just ordinary beauty, Philip—ageless beauty. She'll look exactly like this fifty years from now, a hundred years from now."
Philip felt his stomach drop.
"But she can't have children," the System continued relentlessly. "Which means if she married anyone else, questions would arise. Medical examinations. Investigations into why a woman of childbearing age remains mysteriously infertile. And she's one thorough physical examination away from being discovered as a Familiar. Which means execution for you and her."
"Oh God."
"Now, in that situation, as a fully human woman with complete free will and agency—who would be her best choice for survival and security?"
The answer was obvious. Devastating, but obvious.
"Someone who already knows what she is," Philip whispered. "Someone with enough power to protect her. Someone who..."
"Someone like you," the System finished. "A ducal heir with resources, connections, and most importantly—someone who already knows her secret and has never tried to exploit it. You've had all the power in this relationship from day one, Philip. You could have forced her to do anything. And you never did."
Philip's hands were shaking.
"So when you think she doesn't know what's best for herself, you're making an assumption. Yes, her intention might be to prioritize your safety—that devotion is real and built into her. But if her choice also happens to serve her own best interests, even if she's not fully aware of all the strategic advantages... who are you to deny her that? Who are you to assume she's wrong?"
"But the bond—"
"The bond doesn't make her stupid," the System said firmly. "It doesn't erase her ability to recognize a good situation when she's in one. Doesn't it speak to your character that when you had all that power, you never forced her to do anything she didn't want? That you cared about her comfort, her feelings, her happiness?"
Philip stared at his cold tea, seeing his reflection distorted in the dark liquid.
"You've been treating her like a pet," the System said gently. "It manifests differently from Margaret's view—for her, it's calculation, Natalia as a useful tool. For you, it's overprotectiveness. But deep down? You both view her as fundamentally different from a 'real' human. Not quite possessing full agency."
"That's not—" Philip stopped. Because it was true. He'd been so focused on protecting Natalia, on being careful not to accidentally exploit her predispositions, that he'd never actually listened to what she wanted. He'd heard her words and then dismissed them, deciding she was only saying them because she was programmed to.
"Let me ask you something," the System said, its tone almost sad. "Why do men like you chase after women like Tara when you subconsciously know she doesn't love you for who you are?"
"Because it's just natural... expected, and..." Philip blurted out, then his face turned red.
"It's because on the genetic level there's a built-in drive for procreation. For mating. So by your logic, men's desire for women is also programmed." The System paused. "Does that mean every woman with a conscience should just deny any attempt at intimacy by her male partner on the assumption that any such attempts are driven by a preprogrammed tendencies that compromises true free will?"
The question hung in the air.
Philip's mind supplied the answer before he could stop it.
No.
Then the System continued, "The real issue is that your mind implicitly assumes everything she does is merely out of programmed qualities to please you. Subconsciously, you view her as nonhuman and therefore incapable of self-agency or genuine consent. That's the real problem, Philip. Not the bond. Not the power imbalance."
Philip buried his face in his hands.
He thought about Natalia upstairs, probably still asleep. Natalia, who told him clearly what she wanted but whom he constantly second-guessed. Natalia, who expressed her feelings with painful honesty but whom he treated like she was merely striving to please him.
Natalia, whom he loved but subconsciously condescended to.
"What should I do?" he asked finally.
"For starters, maybe actually listen when she tells you what she wants instead of deciding you know better," the System suggested. "Radical concept, I know. A Familiar knowing what she wants."
"I do listen—"
"You listen and then dismiss. You hear her words and then decide she's only saying them because she's programmed to, or doesn't understand what she's doing." The System's tone was firm. "If you really saw her as human, you'd trust her to know her own heart. Even if those choices were influenced by her nature."
Philip stood, his body stiff from hours in the chair. Through the window, he could see smoke still rising from distant buildings—evidence of yesterday's chaos continuing.
"I need to do better," Philip said quietly.
"Yes," the System agreed. "You do. Question is—are you brave enough to actually change? Or will you just feel guilty while continuing the same patterns?"
Philip didn't have an answer.
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. Lydia entered, her expression apologetic.
"Forgive the interruption, Master Philip, but there are two matters requiring your attention."
Philip turned. "What is it?"
"Albert called earlier. He wishes to inform you that given the recent increased trade tensions between the Continental Republic and the Empire, he's decided to accept Garrett's proposal." She consulted her notes. "He proposes lowering the total portfolio price to 1.6 million Continental dollars—this excludes the profits from already sold units—and reducing individual unit prices by an additional ten percent to stimulate purchases in the meantime."
Philip's business mind engaged despite his emotional exhaustion. "He wants a decision by when?"
"Tomorrow evening. He'll send the revised documents through the encrypted capsule system once you confirm."
Philip nodded slowly. "Tell him I'll review the numbers and respond by tomorrow afternoon."
"Of course, Master Philip." Lydia hesitated. "There's one more thing."
"Yes?"
"Lady Elora called. She heard about the chaos at the capital yesterday and wanted to ensure you're alright." Lydia paused, her expression carefully neutral. "She's on the phone now, waiting."
Philip's heart clenched. Elora. Of course she'd called.
The System materialized briefly beside him, visible only to Philip. "Well," it said quietly. "Time to face the music."
Philip straightened his rumpled clothes, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "Tell her I'll take the call in my study in a few minutes."
"Yes, Master Philip."
As Lydia withdrew, Philip stood frozen for a moment, staring at the door. Elora was waiting. Elora, who loved him with that passionate, exclusive devotion. Elora, whose love was everything he could have dreamt of back in Bortinto.
And he had no idea what to say to her now, despite being so eager to visit her and Kendrick earlier.
The System watched him with unusual solemnity. "Honesty comes first," it said softly.
Philip nodded and walked toward his study, each step feeling heavier than the last.
Behind him, the morning light continued filtering through the windows, indifferent to his crisis.
The phone was waiting.
And so was Elora.