Part 1
Philip collapsed onto the chaise lounge, chest heaving. A private tennis court. Complete with maids stationed to retrieve balls. Can't believe this is my life now.
The maids stood by the far fence—perhaps fifty meters away. Close enough to respond when needed, distant enough for complete privacy. Philip had watched one gracefully retrieve a ball earlier, returning it with a curtsy before retreating.
Natalia approached him with perfect timing, offering a pristine towel and ice water.
"Thank you," he gasped.
Lydia approached from the opposite side, tennis whites impossibly crisp despite having demolished him in three consecutive sets. Not even breathing hard. She might have been returning from afternoon tea rather than systematically crushing him in every set.
She must be at least two decades my senior, Philip thought, studying her with grudging admiration. Yet she moves like someone in their twenties. That physique—every inch an athlete—and that boundless stamina, at an age when most would be panting from just a short jog. He glanced at his own soft midsection. Or is my body just pathetically out of shape?
The contrast was humbling.
"Master Philip," Lydia spoke as she approached him while drinking from the water bottle in her hand. "Your stamina has deteriorated significantly."
Philip grimaced, drinking deeply.
"Though you're on leave and considering early retirement," she continued thoughtfully, "stamina remains crucial to long-term health. And it could have the added benefit of solidifying your marriage, whoever you choose. After all, fitness prevents certain activities from being... done earlier than expected."
Philip's hand froze mid-drink.
Natalia tilted her head with genuine curiosity. "Master, is that why that night at the hotel, you were done before we started?"
"We never started..." Philip interrupted with indignation.
"Indeed, that confirms my understanding," Natalia said brightly, pleased he confirmed her observation. "You were already done, so we couldn't start. I saw the phrase in three different books and it seems to describe our situation that night?"
Lydia chuckled, a rare sound, but she mercifully changed subjects. "In any case, regular exercise will serve you well. Shall we make this a routine?"
Philip nodded, settling back as Natalia reclined on a nearby chaise lounge, content to bask in the afternoon sun.
The respite gave him time to think—something he'd been doing quite a lot since this morning's conversation with his grandmother.
Grandmother. The word still felt strange. But Margaret Redwood, Duchess of Redwood, had been surprisingly direct during their talk.
"I'm impressed with your intellectual growth, Philip," she'd said, those sharp eyes missing nothing. "This sudden leap in intellectual curiosity and pursuits—it's quite a welcomed transformation."
Then she'd leaned forward, ensuring he absorbed every word.
"However, you must understand: the hardest part is never about identifying the problem and finding the solution. The real challenge lies in balancing conflicting interests while pushing reforms in the correct direction with minimal social disruption."
Her expression had grown almost sad.
"The timeline is also critical. If the correct reform was not implemented within the effective timeline, then it might come too late. The country it was meant to save might have already collapsed before the reforms take effect. Look at the decaying Empire that once ruled what is now the United Eastern States. But if you push too fast? It might hasten the collapse, like with the Worker's Republic that once dominated the Eastern hemisphere."
Reforms must start with small steps and compromises, she'd explained, but in the right direction, then gradually accelerate. Hence, the real hard part is foresight.
Philip absently wiped his face with the towel, her words echoing.
To meet critical deadlines—given how slowly reforms can be implemented safely—you must foresee problems a decade or more in advance. With these constraints, you should understand why a backup plan is essential.
But that wasn't all. Margaret had continued with masterful insight into political reality.
"It also requires manipulation," she'd said bluntly. "Distasteful, but essential when used for the right purposes. You must analyze deeper interest webs to understand hidden vested interests—and how to compensate them in other ways so they'll willingly surrender what must be given up for reform."
She'd fixed him with a penetrating stare.
"Never assume you're smarter than others. What you see and conceive, others have already considered. The only reason it's not implemented yet is because interests haven't aligned, mistrusts couldn't be bridged, and even the truth couldn't be agreed upon."
Her voice had softened then, almost maternal.
"So write down your ideas, Philip. Keep them to yourself and observe the trends. Someday, when the moment is right, your ideas—especially the implementation details—might become useful. But timing is everything."
Then the shocking revelation.
"After all, that's how idealist heroes fall. Like old Duke Nernwick—Kendrick and Elora's great-grandfather. He went from legend to tragic hero, leaving behind that famous motto: security through obscurity."
Margaret's expression had grown distant, touched by old memories.
"He understood what needed to be done to salvage the Empire at the time, but never bothered to understand the intricate web of vested interests and popular perceptions involved. That's why he paid the price in personal tragedy. And ironically, his reforms had to be pushed through by my father—his chief political rival at the time."
Philip took another drink, the cold water doing nothing to cool the thoughts burning through his mind.
I need to master the art of persuasion and truly listening to others. Logic alone isn't sufficient in this complicated landscape.
In his old life, the worst that could happen was getting fired. Embarrassing, yes. Career-limiting, certainly. But survivable.
Here? Philip's mind flashed to assassination attempts. Bodies in the rain. Professional killers. The hotel shooting. The riot where Julian was shot.
If I'm not careful, I could be killed. And those I care about will go down with me.
His gaze drifted to Natalia, reclining peacefully, eyes closed, face turned toward the sun. That innocent contentment made his chest ache.
Natalia. Lydia. Albert. Elora. Lilianna. The Duke and the Duchess. All of them could become targets because of a single misstep from me.
The Duchess was right. If anything happens to me, what about Natalia? What about all of them?
Next, a familiar presence tickled his awareness. That particular shimmer only he could perceive.
Oh no.
The System materialized in an outfit best described as "technically athletic." The white sports bra showcased alluring contours. The matching tennis skirt revealing more than half of her upper thigh. But her midriff truly captured attention—sculpted abs that looked personally chiseled by a Renaissance master.
She held a tennis racket with exaggerated reverence, executing a slow turn he alone could see. Her hips swaying left and right with the kind of deliberate allure that belonged in a music video rather than a tennis court.
"My, my," she purred in his mind, her voice dripping with theatrical admiration. "What a magnificent afternoon for athletic pursuits."
Would it kill you to wear slightly more clothing?
Her laugh tinkled through his consciousness. "Where's the entertainment in that? I'm dressed perfectly appropriately for tennis. Not my fault if modern athletic wear is so delightfully... efficient."
She leaned forward with her racket, arching her back in a pose that seemed anatomically improbable, her athletic posterior rising with such deliberate provocation that further raised Philip's already rapid heartbeat.
"Tell you what, dear Host," she purred, her voice taking on a teasing lilt. "You manage to win even a single set against Miss Lydia there, and I'll demonstrate exactly how much less clothing can be tastefully arranged on an athletic frame."
I'm not taking that bet.
"How disappointing. I had several more efficient wardrobes planned." Her expression shifted to mock sadness. "Though I must say that you've become remarkably desensitized to physical beauty. When we first met, you bled and had physical reactions left and right each time you saw me. Now constantly surrounded by alluring ladies every day, you are fully immune."
She pressed one hand to her forehead with excessive drama. "My little Host is all grown up. Soon you won't miss my presence at all!"
What are you really here for? Philip thought with the tired patience of someone who'd learned that the System's theatrical arrivals inevitably preceded information he probably didn't want to hear.
The System's expression shifted—playful teasing melting into something more professional. She produced a glowing ledger with a flourish only he could see.
"Straight to business! How efficient." She flipped through ethereal pages. "I'm here to congratulate you on completing the transition of dear Natalia to blue mana. Quite the accomplishment! No more hemorrhaging ridiculous sums every time she breaks a sweat."
Philip felt genuine relief.
"Of course," the System continued with deceptive casualness, "this brings us to your outstanding cosmic credit line."
How much do I owe?
"Oh, nothing to concern yourself with immediately." The System waved one hand airily, her smile taking on a distinctly shark-like quality. "I'll simply inform you once you've acquired the actual capacity to repay such cosmic obligations. In the meantime, I'll charge you a remarkably reasonable interest rate of four percent annually, commencing tomorrow."
Philip's mental voice rose to a strangled pitch. WHAT?
"Oh, don't be so dramatic. Four percent is quite generous by mortal financial standards. Some of your contemporaries are paying 7% percent on basic tax arrears." She examined her nails with studied indifference. "Besides, you can settle the entire amount once you start making some real money. Which if all goes well, you will."
Philip's mental voice came weak. I hate financial surprises...
"Oh, don't fret!" The System waved dismissively. "Though speaking of finances, shall we discuss your current compensation situation? It's absolutely fascinating. You will soon be receiving back pay as your sick leave had just been approved."
She produced another document with theatrical flair.
"As a cavalry captain, your annual salary is a princely 1,500 Continental Dollars per year!"
Philip blinked. That's... that seems really low?
"Oh, you sweet out-of-touch child." The System's grin turned predatory. "That's precisely the point. You see, cavalry captains are expected to maintain a certain lifestyle—uniforms, horses, social obligations, entertaining fellow officers. The kind of lifestyle that costs, oh, easily three times their actual salary."
Then how—
"They subsidize it with income from personal wealth or family estates, of course!" The System executed a dramatic flourish. "It's the Empire's delightfully stealthy method of class stratification. Make the position financially untenable for anyone without abundant means, and voilà—you've created an exclusive rich scion's club without looking elitist and discriminatory."
Philip felt his jaw tighten. That's... deliberately exclusionary.
"Currently, since you're on illness leave, you're receiving eighty-five percent of your salary—a generous 1,275 Continental Dollars annually." The System's voice dripped sarcasm. "And once you retire? Given your short service period and the fact your illness wasn't service-induced? You'll receive a meager 500 Continental Dollars per year."
She paused for maximum effect.
"But look at it on the bright side—you'll be making what most Yorgorian workers make by doing absolutely nothing! How exceptionally..." she smiled with saccharine sweetness, "...considerate of the Empire."
Philip processed this. Then why would anyone of means take these positions instead of just managing their estates?
The System's theatrical persona dropped slightly, replaced by something more serious.
"It's about power and connections, Philip. This is a different world—or maybe not so different—but here the connection between power, network, and wealth is... let's just say, more blatant. More obvious. More visible. More publicly accepted."
She settled onto her invisible chair, crossing her alluring long legs.
"Plus, when one isn't particularly competent with financial matters—as many noble scions aren't, due to their inherent lack of interest in such mundane things—it serves them much better financially to leave estate and asset management to professionals. Meanwhile, they throw themselves into the grandeur they've been subtly conditioned to aspire to since childhood."
Her expression grew knowing.
"All while swimming closer to the center of power in the process. After all..." her voice dropped to something almost ominous, "...excessive wealth without protection by power tends to meet unfortunate fates."
Philip absorbed this, adding it to his growing understanding of the Empire's intricate mechanisms.
"Anyway," the System interrupted breezily, "a note for improvement. Specifically, your conversation with Lady Margaret this morning."
Philip's confusion must have broadcast clearly.
"Your discussion about Familiars," she clarified. "Analyzing their economic roles, rights, minimum wages, tax implications—very analytical, very strategic, very... impersonal."
I was trying to frame it in terms she'd understand—
"I comprehend your intentions perfectly," the System assured him. "Very pragmatic. Very... Philip."
She leaned forward, theatrical persona dropping.
"But here's the thing, dear Host. If you really care about Natalia, perhaps be mindful when you discuss Familiars—especially when you discuss them as economic units to be optimized."
The words hit like ice water.
"Be mindful that Natalia is a Familiar too. Even though she's different in ways you'll discover. But right now she perceives herself as a Familiar just like the others you were discussing so analytically."
I didn't think about how that sounded to her—
"No, you didn't. You were so focused on your eureka moment—finding the right policy framework—that you forgot emotional subtext entirely."
I was trying to help. I wanted solutions that could actually be implemented. I wanted to minimize the exploitation of both Familiars and humans.
"And your heart was exactly right. But tell me something. In your mind, when you think about Natalia, do you think of her as a 'Familiar'? Or as a person?"
Philip went very still.
I think of her as a person. I forget she's a Familiar because to me she's just... Natalia.
But she didn't seem uncomfortable. She was engaged with the discussion, even contributing ideas.
"She didn't exhibit discomfort because internally, your happiness and intellectual fulfillment override her own emotional responses—which she barely understands anyway. When you were describing your plan in that excited eureka state, she was resonating with your perspective rather than processing deeper implications about her own status."
The System's expression softened.
"Think of it like early-stage consciousness development. She's learning to recognize and name her own emotions, but connecting abstract policy discussions to personal identity? Making that link between 'Familiars as a class' and 'I am a Familiar'? She hasn't gotten there yet. Her sense of self is still primarily 'extension of Master Philip' rather than 'member of Familiar class.'"
So I hurt her without her even realizing it?
"Not hurt, exactly. But in the future, it might."
Philip sat in silence, absorbing this.
I need to be more tactful. Not just when discussing politics and reform. But overall.
"Now you're thinking properly," the System said with approval. Her theatrical persona snapped back. She stood with fluid grace, striking one final pose.
"Remember, dear Host, your original mission." She blew him a kiss and did a knowing wink.
Then she vanished.
Philip released a long breath.
His right hand dropped to the bench to steady himself and landed directly on soft, warm skin.
His head snapped sideways with whiplash-inducing velocity.
Natalia had shifted—silent as always during his mental exchanges—from her chaise lounge to sit directly beside him. Her tennis dress had ridden up as she settled, and his palm now rested on smooth thigh just above her knee.
Her face transformed into the most adorable shade of pink. Not the artificial flush from exertion, but something deeper. Genuine. Surprised. Her blue eyes grew impossibly wide, pupils dilated with an expression conveying both surprise and something else. Receptiveness? Anticipation?
Philip's brain stopped completely.
His hand froze for one critical second too long.
Natalia's hand descended with butterfly gentleness atop his, slender fingers curving around his palm where it rested on her thigh. The touch sent his heart racing.
Part 2
The evening sun stretched long shadows across the northern Avalondian wilderness as it settled toward distant hills. From the greenhouse terrace—a glass and wrought iron structure extending from the estate's eastern wing—Kendrick Nernwick watched the light fade with the quiet desperation of a man imprisoned in his own body.
A month. Maybe two. Time blurred in this beautiful cage where exotic plants bloomed and the air smelled of jasmine and something he couldn't name. Regret, perhaps. Or failure. He'd lost count somewhere between the medical facility's sterile halls and this estate's carefully cultivated beauty.
The terrace itself spoke of aristocratic excess: night-blooming jasmine from the Eastern colonies, roses bred in Continental Republic greenhouses, climbing vines bearing fruits worth more than most families earned in a year. His wheelchair sat positioned where glass met wrought-iron rails—a careful placement by servants whose names danced just beyond his damaged memory's reach.
His speech had improved. The brutal stuttering had diminished to occasional hesitations, words that required effort rather than the humiliating struggle of those first weeks. Dr. Hawthorne called it "remarkable progress." Kendrick knew better. Progress implied movement toward becoming whole. This was merely becoming less broken.
The sunset demanded nothing of him. It didn't flinch when words tangled in his mouth. Didn't try to finish his sentences with kindness that felt like pity. The sun simply set.
He flexed his right hand, watching fingers respond with agonizing sluggishness. Better than last week. But improvement felt like climbing a mountain barefoot only to discover it was merely the first foothill in an endless range.
Mental fatigue pulled at him. Just existing, watching the sunset, maintaining awareness—it exhausted him.
A voice drifted up from the garden path below—feminine, young, carrying that musical lilt common to northern Avalondia's valleys.
I know that voice.
The certainty hit like a physical blow. He knew it. Recognized it. But the name remained locked away, frustrating and just out of reach.
His hands clenched—or tried to.
Before, he would have known instantly. Would have remembered hiring her, her family, everything.
A second voice joined the first—older, measured, carrying authority. Another familiar timbre he couldn't quite place.
The voices grew clearer as footsteps approached along the garden path beneath the terrace's overhang. Kendrick held very still, grateful his uncooperative body made him quiet. Easy to overlook.
Martha glanced around the empty garden path, shadows deepening in the evening light. The young lord was supposed to be resting indoors.
"Lady Martha," the younger voice said—anxious, urgent. "The last forty replies came in this afternoon."
A pause. The weight of silence.
"All forty declined?" Martha asked quietly.
"Yes, ma'am."
Declined.
"That leaves the total acceptances at four, then," Martha said. "Out of seventy-three invitations."
Kendrick's thoughts assembled slowly, trying to process. Invitations. Four accepted. Seventy-three sent.
"Should I inform Lady Elora now?" The younger voice—Lily, the name finally surfaced—trembled slightly.
"No." Martha's tone carried gentle finality. "Give her one peaceful evening, at least. She had an... episode yesterday after we received the previous batch. Let her have tonight. You can report tomorrow morning."
Elora. Breakdown. Yesterday.
The pieces clicked together slowly. His sister. Suffering. Over these invitations. The guilt hit before understanding fully formed.
"Besides," Martha continued, "I suspect she already knows what to expect. The pattern has been... consistent."
Their footsteps had stopped somewhere directly below—perhaps at the terrace's foundation, where garden met architecture.
"It's just so unexpected," Lily said, tears in her voice. "These are Lord Kendrick's closest friends. The ladies who used to visit almost weekly before he left for the mission. And the people he saved during his various campaigns—the ones who wrote those grateful letters, who swore they owed him their lives."
His friends. His admirers. People he'd saved.
Memories flickered, incomplete and frustrating. Faces without names. A sense of... connection? The details wouldn't come.
The understanding formed slowly. Elora had invited them. His friends. His former admirers and lady friends. The people he had saved before. She'd asked them to come visit, to provide encouragement and motivation for recovery.
And most declined.
Why?
"Even the young Earl of Dylanshire?" Lily's voice carried genuine disbelief. "But he and Lord Kendrick were like brothers at the academy. Didn't Lord Kendrick carry the Earl from the battlefield when they were serving in the Middle East?"
Sebastian. The name surfaced with effort. Best friend. Academy. The memory flickered—incomplete, fragmented—but the emotion cut through clearly. Warmth. Brotherhood. Trust.
Sebastian said no.
"The Earl's excuse was rather... creative," Martha observed with careful neutrality. "Sudden urgent matters requiring his immediate presence in the southern provinces. Very urgent, apparently."
"And Lady Catherine Thornbury?"
"Her father's secretary sent a very polite letter expressing her deep regret. Unavoidable prior commitments. Though between you and me, I heard from her lady's maid that Lady Catherine actually wanted to come. Argued with her father for days."
A pause. The sound of fabric rustling.
"But the Thornbury family holds substantial Imperial defense contracts," Martha continued. "And Lord Thornbury made it clear to his daughter that visiting General Nernwick would be... politically inadvisable at present."
Wanted to come. Father said no. Politics.
"I don't understand," Lily said, passion rising in her voice. "Lord Kendrick served the Empire! He was nearly killed negotiating on behalf of the Empire. The Empire promoted him to general for his sacrifices—how is visiting him politically inadvisable?"
Martha's sigh carried the weight of years. "Because, my dear, any visits to Lord Kendrick might draw media attention. Especially visits by those of political significance—like the Earl. Their visits would be noticed. Photographed. Written about in the papers."
"But that's—"
"Think about it," Martha interrupted gently. "Any media coverage now would draw public attention back to the incident. The public would start asking questions about the investigation. About why, so many weeks after the Empire announced it began investigating, there are still no results. No blame assigned. No diplomatic reactions."
"But surely they've completed—"
"Of course they have," Martha said, her voice hardening slightly. "Anyone with forensic knowledge would know the investigation was probably complete weeks ago."
"Then why—"
"They're waiting for instructions on what to do with the results. What diplomatic escalations to pursue."
"Instructions from who?" Lily asked, genuinely confused.
"From what I've heard whispered in certain circles," Martha said carefully, "they're waiting for the Continental Republic and Arussia to finish their secret backdoor negotiations. Any overt diplomatic actions now might affect the outcome and displease the Republic."
A sharp intake of breath. "No way! The Empire couldn't possibly be accountable to those rude loudmouths across the ocean? The Empire loves their investment, true, but they need our protection—"
"Shh!" Martha's voice cut through sharply. "Keep your voice down, child!"
Kendrick heard the rustle of fabric, footsteps shifting, as if Martha was glancing around nervously.
"I'm sorry, ma'am," Lily whispered, chastened.
"Oh, my naïve child," Martha said, and there was a rustle of fabric, as if she was settling in for a longer explanation. "Let me tell you what's really happening. The Empire isn't what you think it is anymore."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean," Martha continued, her voice taking on a careful, measured cadence, "that from what people say in the great houses, the Continental Republic isn't the rich yet powerless partner who needs our military protection. They're the senior partner. In fact, they've been keeping our entire Empire running for decades."
"How can they be the senior partner when they depend on our military!" Lily protested in a fierce whisper.
"Because our military depends on the Republic's factories for our weapons," Martha interrupted quietly. "Our military equipment is maintained with the Republic's technical support. Powered by the Republic's investment. Do you know where the steel for our latest aircraft carrier came from? The Republic's mills. The advanced antimissile defence systems? Republican manufacturing, just with Avalondian brands stamped on them. Even the magical amplifiers—Republican innovation. Or so people say."
Republic. Weapons. Control.
It felt true. Felt like something he'd known but forgot.
"Word is," Martha continued, her voice dropping lower, "that our end of the bargain is to maintain the facade of strength and enforce stability across our globe-spanning empire. We're very good at that. The Republic supplies us with the weapons needed to keep our military strong while we maintain the stable business environment with our bloodied hands. This way, their conglomerates expand and reap profit across the imperial territories without the associated social and reputational risks."
"So we are like... like a puppet?" Lily sounded genuinely shaken.
"More like a partnership," Martha corrected gently. "With the Continental Republic as the... senior partner. At least, that's what people whisper among themselves."
"But surely we can—"
"Can what? Rebuild our independence? With what money? Our colonies are restless, our homeland population is shrinking, our industries are outdated. We're living off past glory and current debt." Martha paused. "But please, keep this to ourselves."
Kendrick heard her steal a few glances around, checking their surroundings.
The conversation fell silent for a moment, broken only by the evening breeze through the plants.
"So when Lord Kendrick's friends decline to visit," Martha said softly, "they're just doing what aristocrats do best. Risk assessment. They weigh the potential burden against sentimental desire. The media attention, the questions, the reminder to the public of an incident the imperial administration desperately wants forgotten for now."
Liability. Distance. Excuses.
The understanding formed in Kendrick's chest rather than his mind. Not thoughts but feelings. Heavy. Dark.
I am a liability now.
"But surely, they can't all be because of that?" Lily asked. "What about the less politically exposed ones. All those people who supposedly owed Lord Kendrick their lives," Lily's voice broke slightly. "Who wrote those grateful letters swearing undying gratitude."
"Gratitude has limits," Martha said quietly. "Particularly when tested against self-interest."
The pieces assembled slowly, painfully:
People he'd saved.
People who'd sworn devotion.
All finding excuses.
All declining.
All except four.
The pain moved through him in waves—not sharp but dull, grinding, relentless.
"So it's all about money? About politics?" Lily sounded genuinely heartbroken. "Not even a little bit about actual caring?"
"Oh, I'm sure they care," Martha said, and her voice carried a compassion that made her next words cut deeper. "In their way. They probably feel genuinely bad about it. But caring and acting are two different things. When caring costs something—when it conflicts with self-interest—most people discover their caring has very definite limits."
The greenhouse fell silent except for the fountain's gentle burble. Kendrick's damaged mind struggled to process the weight of what he'd just heard.
"What about the ladies?" Lily asked after a moment. "The ones who used to send him flowers and letters?"
Martha's tone shifted, carrying something that might have been pity. "Ah. Those admirers. Do you know what Lord Kendrick was to them?"
"A... a hero? The most eligible bachelor in the Empire?"
"A fantasy," Martha corrected gently. "Safe to admire from distance. Safe to write letters to, to dream about. Half the unmarried women in Avalondia had fantasies about catching his attention. They could dream safely—admire from afar, write letters, compete for his smiles—all without any real obligation. No real risk."
Kendrick felt something cold forming in his chest.
Fantasy.
"But now," Martha continued, "if they visit, if they show concern, if they demonstrate any continued affection, they risk something. People would talk. Expectations would form. Suddenly their harmless fantasy becomes an expectation. A potential obligation."
"You mean they're afraid people will expect them to—"
"To commit. To a man who needs constant care. Who may never fully recover." Martha's clinical assessment hung in the air.
They're afraid. Afraid their sympathy will be mistaken for commitment. Afraid they'll be stuck with me.
"But isn't that what they wanted all along?" Lily asked.
"Before, yes. He was an impossible dream. Now he's an actual possibility—and a profoundly inconvenient one."
The clinical assessment of his value—or lack thereof—as a marital prospect hung in the air.
They don't want to choose me.
I'm not worth choosing anymore.
"That's calculating," Lily whispered.
"That's human nature," Martha corrected. "They enjoyed the fantasy. They don't want the reality. Because fantasies are controlled and predictable while reality is often unpredictable."
The thought led somewhere unexpected. His mind, moving with agonizing slowness, traced back through memories—incomplete, fragmented, but emotionally resonant. All those ladies. All that admiration.
He'd felt guilty about it, about never committing. About enjoying attention without offering permanence. About maintaining that famous arrangement where everyone knew about everyone else and somehow he'd charmed them all into accepting it.
His mother had disapproved. His father had looked the other way. Elora had worried he'd never find real happiness.
And he'd felt... remorse. Some part of him had whispered that he was wrong. Selfish. That he should choose one lady and be faithful, traditional, respectable.
Yet his innate fear of being trapped in an arrangement like his parents had made commitment mentally impossible.
The conversation paused. Kendrick sat frozen, his damaged brain struggling to process everything while his heart understood perfectly.
Everyone left. Everyone found excuses. Everyone except four.
And Elora. Elora stayed.
The thought cut through everything else. One truth that mattered.
His jaw clenched—or tried to. The determination formed slowly, painfully, in the parts of his mind that still worked.
I have to recover. For Elora.
For the one person who stayed.