The confrontation with Theodore left a bitter taste that lingered for days. Lysander found himself second-guessing his every commercial move, paralyzed by the fear of causing more unintended consequences. He stood at the window of his office, watching the bustling commerce on the Thames, and felt like a giant trying to navigate a world made of glass.
His usual method, the aggressive, pre-emptive strike based on foreknowledge, now seemed reckless. He had been playing chess while everyone else played checkers, but Theodore's words had revealed the terrible truth: the other pieces had feelings, dreams, and destinies of their own that could be shattered by his careless moves.
He needed a new strategy. Not of control, but of influence. Not of prediction, but of cultivation.
He turned his attention to his publishing empire. Instead of simply "rediscovering" revolutionary ideas, he began to foster them. He started a literary review that championed promising but unknown thinkers. He established scholarships for young men of science, not telling them what to discover, but giving them the tools to discover it for themselves. It was slower, messier, and far less profitable than his previous methods, but it felt... cleaner. Like planting a forest instead of merely carving a statue from existing wood.
It was in this new, more contemplative frame of mind that he approached his next meeting with Elara. He had a proposal for her, one that was a radical departure from his usual micromanagement.
She arrived at his office, her portfolio under her arm, her expression professionally neutral. "Mr. Brentwood."
"Miss Vance. Please, sit." He gestured to a chair. "I have a new project. But it is... different from the others."
She raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "How so?"
"I do not wish to commission specific illustrations," he said, leaning forward, his hands steepled. "I wish to commission you."
She blinked. "I... don't understand."
"I am starting a new journal. A periodical dedicated to the intersection of art, science, and philosophy. I want you to be its art editor. You would have full control over the visual content. You could seek out new artists, experiment with new printing techniques, illustrate the articles you find most compelling. Your only mandate would be to... inspire wonder."
He saw the shock in her eyes, followed by a slow-dawning, brilliant light. This was not a task; it was a trust. It was an acknowledgment of her mind, her judgment, her vision.
"You would give me that authority?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
"I would," he said. "Because I believe your vision is precisely what this endeavor needs. I have been too... directive in the past. I see now that true progress is not about one man's foresight, but about creating a garden where many minds can bloom."
He was speaking his truth, cloaked in business terms. He was telling her he was letting go of his need to control their shared narrative.
She was silent for a long moment, studying him as if seeing him for the first time. The guarded, professional distance in her eyes softened, replaced by a genuine, deep curiosity.
"You are full of contradictions, Mr. Brentwood," she said finally. "One moment, you are the most calculating man in London, with an answer for everything. The next, you speak of gardens and wonder." She paused, then a genuine, unguarded smile touched her lips. "I accept. On one condition."
"Name it."
"That you allow me to illustrate you."
The request was so unexpected it stole the air from his lungs. "Me? Whatever for?"
"Because you are the greatest contradiction of all," she said, her artist's gaze now fixed on him, analytical and piercing. "You carry yourself with the weight of a man three times your age. Your eyes have seen things they should not have. I have tried to capture the soul of planets and the flow of electricity, but you... you are the most complex system I have ever encountered. I should like to try to understand the machinery inside the clockwork."
Lysander felt utterly exposed. She wasn't asking to draw his likeness; she was asking to map his soul. To study the scars left by countless lifetimes. It was the most intimate request anyone had ever made of him, and it terrified him. But it was also the first time in this cycle she had actively sought to bridge the gap between them, to know him.
He could not refuse.
"Very well," he said, his voice rough. "When would you like to begin?"
"How about now?" she said, already opening her portfolio and pulling out a fresh sheet of paper and a piece of charcoal. "The light is good."
And so, he sat. He, Lysander Brentwood, the architect of tomorrow, the prisoner of time, sat silently in his own office while the woman he loved studied him, her eyes missing nothing, her hand moving across the paper with a soft, scratching sound that was the only noise in the room. He was not directing. He was not controlling. He was simply being seen. And in that surrender, in that delicate art of letting go, he felt a peace he had not known in decades. He was no longer building a cage for her; he was offering her the key to his own.