The letter to Lady Araminta left before full nightfall, borne by two Celosia riders in unmistakable livery. Subtle and impossible to ignore.
The estate shifted in tone as the sun set—hallways humming with a tension that wasn't anxiety, but anticipation.
Seraphina tried to focus on correspondence but her mind kept returning to the conversation in the waning candlelight—its honesty, its fragility, its strange, budding warmth.
Partnership, he had called it. Not performance. Not convenience. Something chosen. She had never once expected warmth from him again. Not in this lifetime. Not after the last.
᯽
The morning brought unwelcome news in the form of Captain Dareth himself.
Seraphina ate her breakfast alone in the small sitting room adjoining her chambers—berries, honeyed bread, tea cooled to the exact temperature she preferred. She was annotating a list of the Tournament's scheduled events when the door opened without warning—to find James's most trusted officer standing in the doorway. He was a solid man in his early thirties, with the weathered face of someone who'd spent more time on horseback than in drawing rooms. His uniform was travel-stained, and there was something grim in the set of his jaw.
"Miss Araminta," he said, bowing with military precision. "I apologize for the intrusion. I was told Lord Celosia was with you?"
Seraphina froze. She hadn't prepared for this. She'd known, abstractly, that Dareth existed of course—alive, loyal, serving under James—but seeing him in the flesh was something else entirely. In her last life, she had watched him die, his blood pooling beneath him.
Seraphina's fingers tightened on the edge of her teacup, knuckles whitening. For a moment she wasn't in the Celosia estate at all; she was back in the echoing stone courtyard, torches burning late into a night that had rewritten everything.
He bowed to her—bowed, as if he hadn't once died defending the very man standing upstairs.
"Miss Araminta," he said. "My apologies for the intrusion." His voice was the same. A precise, clipped cadence. It hit her like a blow.
Seraphina swallowed hard, forcing her expression to settle. No tremor. No slip. If Dareth noticed anything, he gave no sign. "He's not—" Seraphina began, then caught the urgency in Dareth's expression. She set down her tea. "What's happened?"
Dareth hesitated—battle-worn, sleep-starved, the cut on his cheek still fresh. This, too, was new. In her last life, she had only ever seen him broken at the end. "The investigation." Dareth's hand rested on his sword hilt, an unconscious gesture that spoke of tension. "We've found something. The Commander needs to know immediately."
Seraphina was already rising. "He's in his study. I'll take you."
Dareth fell into step beside her as they crossed the eastern hall, boots striking the polished stone with practiced precision. Seraphina moved slightly ahead—not because she needed to guide him, but because she needed the space to breathe.
Every footstep echoed with memories she couldn't afford.
She remembered the way he had stood in front of her during the fall of the last timeline—shielding her until the end even as he seethed she had betrayed James. She remembered the way he had laughed, quietly, the rare times he did. She remembered binding the wound on his ribs once, when she'd still been a pawn and hadn't realized she would lose all of them. Now he walked beside her, solid and living and unaware of the grave she'd seen him lying in.
"Are you well, Miss Araminata?"Dareth's voice broke the silence.
Seraphina blinked, realizing her fingers had curled too tightly around a roll of parchment she hadn't meant to carry. "Yes," she said quickly. "Just thinking."
He studied her a fraction longer than comfort allowed—soldier's intuition—but then nodded. "I understand. It's been a… difficult week."
Difficult. He had no idea.
They moved through the corridors quickly, Dareth's boots clicking against marble with military rhythm. Seraphina's mind raced ahead, cataloging possibilities. The investigation into James's ambush had been ongoing for two weeks, but there'd been little progress—or at least, little that had been shared with her.
She knocked once on James's study door before pushing it open. He looked up from a stack of correspondence, violet eyes sharpening when he saw Dareth's expression.
They reached the east study. Sunlight slid across the floor in thin, cold sheets—winter light sharpened by glass. James stood near the window, posture straightening the moment he saw them.
"Report," James said immediately, rising from his desk despite the careful way he moved.
"We found the ambush site, Commander." Dareth closed the door behind them, his voice dropping. "Northern road, about fifteen miles from the border checkpoint. Exactly where you said you'd been hit."
"And?" James prompted when Dareth hesitated.
"There were shadow traces, Commander. Residual magic. The kind that doesn't fade naturally." Dareth's expression darkened. "A shadowcaster was involved. A skilled one, based on the pattern dispersal our mage consultant identified."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees.
Seraphina felt ice settle in her stomach. Shadowcasters were rare—their magic was difficult to master, dangerous to wield, and heavily regulated by the Crown. Only a handful existed in the kingdom, and most were registered, monitored, employed by noble houses wealthy enough to afford their services.
Or by someone with access to resources that transcended normal limitations.
"How many attackers total?" James's voice was perfectly controlled, but Seraphina caught the tension in his shoulders.
"Best estimate? Twelve to fifteen. Professional soldiers or mercenaries—the weapon marks suggest military training. But the shadowcaster..." Dareth pulled out a small leather journal, flipping to a marked page. "Our consultant says the magic signature is consistent with high-level manipulation. Not just concealment shadows or minor illusions. This was combat-grade work—disorientation spells, coordination disruption, possibly even targeted fear effects."
"That's how they got through my guards," James said quietly. It wasn't a question.
"Yes, sir. Your men wouldn't have seen the attack coming until it was too late. The shadows would have confused their senses, disrupted communication between units, maybe even made them see threats that weren't there while missing the real danger." Dareth's jaw clenched. "It's a miracle you survived at all. Most men hit by a coordinated shadowcaster assault don't."
Seraphina's hands clenched in her skirts. She remembered the raw wounds she'd seen when James first returned—the savage efficiency of the attack, the precision that spoke of planning rather than opportunistic ambush. But shadowcasters changed everything. This wasn't just an assassination attempt. This was a military operation conducted with rare magical support.
The kind of operation that required significant resources.
The kind of operation that pointed toward someone with deep pockets and deeper connections.
"Can we trace the shadowcaster?" James asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.
"Unlikely." Dareth closed his journal with visible frustration. "The magical signature tells us the skill level, but not identity and even if we could identify them, shadowcasters have... protections. Legal ones. Most serve noble houses under contracts that include non-disclosure agreements and immunity clauses."
"Convenient," James said dryly.
"The consultant did note one thing." Dareth hesitated, glancing at Seraphina before continuing. "The shadow pattern suggests someone trained in the eastern style. There are only three shadowcasters in the capital with that particular training lineage. One serves House Valen. One is attached to the Royal Guard. And one..."
"The Third Prince's household," Seraphina finished quietly.
Dareth nodded. "Master Korvain. He's been in Prince Ilyas's service for eight years. Eastern-trained, highly skilled, known for discretion."
The silence that followed was heavy with implication.
"That's not proof," James said finally, though without conviction. "Eastern-style shadow work could be replicated by any skilled practitioner. And Korvain isn't the only shadowcaster who could have done this."
"No, sir," Dareth agreed. "But combined with the other circumstances—the timing of the attack, the precision of the intelligence about your route, the military-grade coordination—it paints a picture."
"A picture isn't evidence," Seraphina interjected, forcing herself to think tactically rather than emotionally. "If we accuse the Third Prince based on shadowcaster speculation and training patterns, we'll look desperate. Paranoid. Exactly the kind of instability his faction would love to exploit."
James's eyes met hers, and she saw grim acknowledgment there. He understood what she was saying—that the truth didn't matter as much as what they could prove, what they could present to the Council without appearing to be conspiracy theorists.
"What about the actual attackers?" James asked, turning back to Dareth. "Any bodies recovered? Equipment that might trace back to a patron?"
"Three bodies. Professional mercenaries, based on their gear—nothing distinctive, nothing that couldn't be purchased in any of the border markets. No identification, no unit markings." Dareth's frustration was evident. "Whoever hired them knew how to cover their tracks. The weapons were standard military issue, the kind sold surplus after conflicts. The horses were unmarked. Even their clothing was generic enough to be untraceable."
"So we have shadow magic that suggests one of three possible sources, dead mercenaries with no identifying features, and a perfectly executed ambush that required insider knowledge of my travel plans." James moved to the window, staring out at the estate grounds with the distant focus of someone reassessing assumptions. "The only concrete thing we know is that someone wants me dead badly enough to employ a shadowcaster and a trained assault team."
"There's one more thing, sir." Dareth's voice took on a different quality—reluctance mixed with duty. "The consultant found evidence of a secondary spell layer. Something subtle, woven beneath the combat magic."
"What kind of spell?" Seraphina asked when James remained silent.
"Tracking magic. The kind that lets someone monitor a target's location over distance." Dareth met James's eyes. "Whoever orchestrated this wasn't just trying to kill you in the moment, Commander. They'd been following your movements. Probably for weeks."
The implication hung in the air like smoke.
Someone had been watching James for weeks. Tracking his movements. Waiting for the perfect moment to strike. And they'd chosen the northern road—a route James rarely took, one he'd only committed to because of last-minute Council business that required his presence at the border checkpoint.
Business that had been added to his schedule barely three days before his departure.
"Who knew about my border assignment?" James asked quietly, still staring out the window.
"It was Council business," Seraphina said, her mind racing through the implications. "That means at least a dozen people knew—all the Council members, their primary aides, the palace staff who handled the scheduling..."
"And anyone those people chose to tell," James finished. "Or anyone skilled enough to access Council correspondence without authorization."
Which brought them back, inevitably, to the Third Prince. Ilyas had his own network of informants, his own methods of acquiring information that should have been restricted. And he had the resources to employ a shadowcaster, to hire professional mercenaries, to orchestrate exactly the kind of sophisticated ambush that had nearly killed James.
But they couldn't prove it.
Not without evidence that would survive Council scrutiny. Not without witnesses who would testify against a prince. Not without the kind of concrete proof that Ilyas was far too careful to leave lying around.
"The Tournament," Seraphina said suddenly, pieces clicking into place. "This changes everything about our approach to the Tournament."
James turned from the window, understanding already forming in his expression. "Because if they tried once..."
"They'll try again," Seraphina finished. "Especially if we present strongly. If we demonstrate unity, strength, political sophistication—if we succeed at becoming the kind of consolidated power that threatens the Third Prince's faction—then we become an even more attractive target."
"So we're walking into a trap," Dareth said bluntly. "The Tournament is three days of concentrated exposure, limited security, and opportunities for 'accidents' that could be blamed on tournament injuries or unfortunate coincidences."
"We're walking into a battlefield," James corrected, and his voice carried the cold certainty of a military commander assessing tactical reality. "One where the enemy has already demonstrated capability and intent. The question isn't whether to attend—Aldric's mandate means we have no choice. The question is how we attend without making ourselves easy targets."
Seraphina moved to the desk, pulling forward the Tournament planning notes they'd worked on the previous day. Everything she'd carefully outlined—the parade, the poetry competition, the gift exchange—suddenly looked different through the lens of active threat assessment.
"Security," she said, forcing herself to think practically. "We need to revise every element of our plan with security as the primary consideration. Not just guards, but magical protection. Counter-surveillance. Controlled environments where shadowcasters can't operate effectively."
"Shadowcasters need darkness or at least shadow to work their magic," Dareth added, clearly following her logic. "Bright spaces, well-lit areas, open ground where shadows are minimal—those limit their effectiveness."
"Then we stay in the light," James said, moving back to the desk with renewed energy despite his injuries. "We arrange our Tournament schedule to maximize time in well-lit, open spaces. We avoid enclosed areas, darkened halls, anywhere that gives a shadowcaster tactical advantage."
"The evening salon," Seraphina said, scanning her notes. "That's traditionally held in the palace's western wing—all those dim corridors, shadowed alcoves, perfect for an ambush."
"We skip it," James said immediately.
"We can't skip it," Seraphina countered. "That's where half the political negotiations happen. If we don't attend, we might as well announce we're afraid."
"Then we attend late, leave early, and never separate while we're there," James compromised. "And we bring Dareth with us. In full armor, not court dress."
"That will raise questions," Seraphina warned.
"Let it raise questions," James replied flatly. "I'd rather look paranoid and stay alive than look confident and get assassinated for my trouble."
Dareth nodded approvingly. "I can arrange additional security, sir. Men I trust personally, veterans who know how to watch for magical interference. We'll need to be careful about who we tell—if there's a spy in your household or the palace staff—"
"Assume there is," James interrupted. "Assume someone is reporting our movements, our plans, our security arrangements. Build redundancy into everything. Multiple guards who don't know each other's positions. False schedules mixed with real ones. Decoy movements."
This was the Commander of Valenfort speaking now, not the political novice trying to navigate court rituals. This was James in his element—assessing threats, building defensive strategies, preparing for conflict with methodical precision.
Seraphina watched him work, watched the transformation from wounded noble to military tactician, and felt something complicated twist in her chest. In her first life, she'd never seen this side of him. Had never understood what it meant that he was called the Beast of the Battlefield, what skills and instincts that title represented.
She'd underestimated him. Had thought his military reputation was just violence and brutality, hadn't recognized the intelligence beneath it.
Had paid for that underestimation with his life.
Not this time.
"We need a signal," she said suddenly. "Between us. Something non-verbal that means 'danger' or 'leave now' without alerting anyone watching."
James looked at her with sharp approval. "Agreed. What do you suggest?"
Seraphina thought quickly, mind cycling through court gestures and their meanings. "If I adjust my left earring—not just touch it, but deliberately adjust it—that means I've identified a threat. If you touch your right cufflink twice in quick succession, that's your signal."
"And if either of us gives the signal?" Dareth asked.
"We leave immediately," James said. "No explanations, no apologies. We extract to predetermined safe positions and regroup."
"The First Prince should know," Seraphina added reluctantly. "About the shadowcaster. About the tracking magic. If someone's targeting you specifically, Aldric needs to be aware in case the threat extends to him."
James nodded slowly. "I'll send word. Carefully. Through channels that can't be easily intercepted." He paused, something darker crossing his expression. "This also means we need to reconsider our gift exchange strategy. If we're signaling alliances with certain houses, we're potentially painting targets on them too."
The implication was chilling. Their Tournament presentation wasn't just about their own survival anymore. Every house they approached, every alliance they suggested, every political connection they forged—all of it could become leverage for their enemies.
"Then we're careful about who we engage with," Seraphina said firmly. "We focus on houses that already have security measures in place, that aren't easy targets. And we warn them—subtly—that association with us might carry risk."
"That defeats the purpose of building alliances," Dareth pointed out.
"No," James said thoughtfully. "It changes the nature of those alliances. Instead of pursuing political convenience, we're identifying which houses are brave enough to stand with us despite the risk. Those are the allies worth having—the ones who won't fold the moment pressure is applied."
It was, Seraphina realized, a typically James approach. Turn the limitation into a filter. Use the threat assessment as a way to identify genuine loyalty versus opportunistic fence-sitting.
"We should also consider," she added carefully, "what happens if someone does make an attempt during the Tournament. How do we respond in a way that doesn't destabilize the entire event but also doesn't make us look weak?"
"We make an example," James said flatly. "Anyone who attempts violence during a Crown-sanctioned event is attacking more than just us—they're attacking the King's authority. We use that. We make it clear that we're not just defending ourselves, but defending the sanctity of the Tournament itself."
"That could work," Dareth mused. "Especially if we coordinate with the First Prince beforehand. If Aldric makes it known that any violence will be treated as treason against the Crown, it raises the stakes considerably."
"And puts him at risk too," Seraphina warned. "If Aldric becomes too openly our protector, he becomes a target himself."
"He's already a target," James said grimly. "The Third Prince has been undermining him for years. This just brings the conflict into the open." He looked between them, his expression hardening into something that belonged on battlefields rather than in planning rooms. "We're past the point of subtle maneuvering. Someone tried to kill me. They used expensive, rare magic to do it. They'll try again if we give them the opportunity. The only question is whether we hide and hope they lose interest, or we face them directly and make it clear that we're not prey."
"You want to use the Tournament as bait," Seraphina realized, ice and fire warring in her veins. "Present ourselves as targets to draw them out."
"I want to use the Tournament as a statement," James corrected. "We attend. We present strongly. We demonstrate that their attempt failed—not just to kill me, but to intimidate us into submission. And we make it clear that any future attempts will be met with consequences."
It was aggressive. Potentially reckless. Exactly the kind of bold tactical decision that had made James's reputation on battlefields.
It was also, Seraphina had to admit, probably their best option. Hiding would look like weakness. Canceling would be admission of defeat. But attending with full awareness of the danger, with security measures in place, with allies prepared to support them—that was a power move that might actually work.
"I hate that this makes sense," she said finally.
"Welcome to military strategy," James replied with dark humor. "Where all the options are terrible and you just choose the least catastrophic one."
Dareth was already making notes in his journal, his handwriting cramped and efficient. "I'll need three days to arrange proper security. We'll need magical consultants—counter-spell specialists who can detect shadow magic before it's deployed. We'll need secured routes to and from the Tournament grounds. And we'll need contingency plans for extraction if everything goes wrong."
"You have two days," James said. "We need one day for final preparations and rehearsals. Seraphina and I need to be able to move through our Tournament presentation smoothly, and that requires practice."
"Sir—"
"Two days, Captain," James repeated, and his voice carried the absolute authority of command. "I understand the security challenges. I also understand that appearing uncertain or unprepared will be almost as dangerous as inadequate security. We need to look confident. That requires preparation time."
Dareth nodded reluctantly. "Yes, sir. I'll make it work."
"I know you will." James's expression softened fractionally. "And Dareth? Thank you. For the investigation, for the warning, for everything you've done. I know this puts you at risk too."
"You're my commander," Dareth said simply. "Where you go, I go. That's not complicated."
The simple loyalty in those words—uncomplicated by political calculation or personal ambition—seemed to affect James more than any elaborate declaration could have. He nodded once, crisp and military, acknowledging the bond between them before he clasped his hands behind his back.
"You're too valuable to remain a field captain. Effective immediately, I'm elevating you to Vice Commander of the Celosia Regiment."
Dareth froze.
"My lord… that position—"
"Is overdue to be filled," James cut in. "And you're the only one qualified. I'm not asking for your acceptance. I'm informing you of your role."
Shock flickered across Dareth's features only once before discipline smoothed it away. But his voice, when it came, was rough at the edges as he slammed a fist to his chest.
"I… I am honored, Commander. I won't fail you."
"I know," James replied simply. "That's why I'm giving it to you."
Seraphina felt something twist in her chest.
"Then let's make sure we all survive this Tournament," James said. "Dismissed, Vice Commander. And send word when you have the security arrangements finalized."
He turned to leave, expression firm, posture elevated by responsibility—and pride but before he stepped through the doorway, he paused and looked briefly at Seraphina. There was no recognition in his eyes—no echo of the man she had watched die—but there was respect. And something like gratitude for how she had steadied the conversation, how she had kept the moment from unraveling.
"My lady," he said with a nod.
Seraphina swallowed. "Vice Commander."
His mouth twitched—almost a smile—and then he bowed and left, his boots echoing down the corridor with purposeful rhythm.
The silence he left behind felt heavy with unspoken tension.
"A shadowcaster," Seraphina said quietly, still processing the implications. "They sent a shadowcaster after you."
"They did." James moved back to the window, his posture rigid with controlled emotion. "Which means whoever orchestrated this has resources I hadn't fully appreciated. Shadowcasters don't work cheap, and they don't work for just anyone. The combination of magical support, professional mercenaries, perfect intelligence about my route..." He trailed off, then turned to face her directly. "This was expensive, Seraphina. This was the kind of operation that requires significant investment."
"The Third Prince has those resources," she said, giving voice to what they were both thinking.
"So does my father," James replied, and his voice was carefully neutral. "So does the Council itself, if enough members pooled resources. So do half a dozen major noble houses with the motivation and means to want me dead."
But they both knew who the most likely candidate was.
Seraphina thought of Ilyas—sophisticated, charming, always three moves ahead in the political game. In her first life, she'd watched him orchestrate James's destruction with precise, methodical calculation. Had seen him arrange circumstances that led inevitably to tragedy while keeping his own hands perfectly clean.
This fit his pattern. The expensive resources. The careful planning. The plausible deniability.
"If it was him," she said carefully, "then the Tournament becomes even more dangerous. Because he'll be there. Watching. Looking for opportunities to finish what the ambush started."
"Then we watch him right back," James said grimly. "And we make sure he knows we're watching. Sometimes the best defense is making it clear that any attack will have consequences they can't afford."
"That's a risky strategy."
"Every strategy is risky when someone's trying to kill you." James's lips curved in something too sharp to be a smile. "At least this way, we're taking initiative rather than waiting for the next knife in the dark."
Seraphina studied him—the set of his jaw, the cold calculation in his violet eyes, the military commander's assessment of acceptable losses and strategic trade-offs. This was who James Celosia truly was beneath the courtly polish. This was the man who'd earned his reputation on battlefields, who'd survived two decades of military service through skill and ruthless pragmatism.
This was the man she'd failed in her first life.
"Then we need to revise our entire Tournament approach," she said, pulling the planning notes back toward her. "Every element needs to account for active threat. The parade route—"
"Needs to stay in open spaces where shadowcasters have minimal advantage," James finished, moving back to the desk. "The salon attendance—"
"Limited duration, maximum visibility, never separated," Seraphina continued, already making notes. "The gift exchange—"
"Conducted in well-lit public spaces with witnesses to prevent poisoning or sabotage," James added.
They worked through the afternoon, transforming their political strategy into a security-conscious battle plan. Every element was assessed for vulnerability. Every decision was made with the assumption that someone was watching, waiting for an opportunity to strike.
It was exhausting. Paranoid. Exactly the kind of planning that might keep them alive.
By the time evening shadows began lengthening across the study, they had a revised approach that balanced political necessity with security imperatives. It wasn't perfect—nothing could be when the threat was this sophisticated—but it was better than walking into the Tournament blind.
"We should tell Elara," Seraphina said suddenly, realizing another complication. "If she's coming here to help with preparations, she needs to know about the danger. It's not fair to bring her into this without warning."
James nodded slowly. "Agreed. Though that means trusting her with information that could be dangerous if it reaches the wrong people."
"Elara won't talk," Seraphina said with absolute certainty. "She's been with me for years. She knows how to keep secrets."
"Even from your mother?"
"Especially from my mother," Seraphina replied. "Elara understands exactly what Lady Araminta is. That's why she's loyal to me rather than to the House."
James studied her for a moment, that sharp tactical assessment in his eyes. "You trust her completely."
It wasn't a question, but Seraphina answered anyway. "With my life. And in this situation, I'm trusting her with yours too."
The weight of that admission hung between them—Seraphina placing someone else's safety in the hands of her maid, making James's survival dependent on Elara's discretion.
"Then we tell her everything," James said finally. "Better she knows the full scope of danger than we try to protect her with partial information that leaves her vulnerable."
"I'll explain it when she arrives," Seraphina said. "Make it clear that this isn't just political intrigue anymore. Someone is actively trying to kill you, and proximity to us means proximity to danger."
"And if she wants to leave?" James asked quietly. "If the risk is too much?"
"Then she leaves," Seraphina said, though the thought of losing Elara's support made her chest tighten. "I won't force anyone to stay in a situation where they could die. That would make me no better than..." She trailed off, but the unspoken comparison hung in the air.
No better than her mother. No better than the people who used others as disposable tools in political games.
"You're nothing like your mother," James said, and there was unexpected gentleness in his voice. "The fact that you're even considering Elara's safety, that you're willing to let her choose—that's the difference between you and the people who see servants as property rather than people."
The words settled into Seraphina's chest, heavy with recognition. In her first life, she'd learned that lesson too late. Had watched people die because she hadn't valued them enough to consider their safety over her own political interests.
Not this time.
"I'll write to her tonight," she said firmly. "Explain the situation honestly. Let her make an informed choice about whether to come."
"Good." James glanced at the darkening sky beyond the windows. "And we should eat something. Dareth's news has made me realize we might not have many more peaceful evenings before the Tournament begins. We should take advantage while we can."
It was practical. Pragmatic. Exactly the kind of thinking that had let James survive decades of military service.
But underneath it, Seraphina heard something else—an acknowledgment that time was running out, that danger was closing in, that these quiet moments of planning and partnership might soon be interrupted by violence.
"Dinner, then," she agreed. "And we can finalize the poetry competition entry. If we're going to present a unified front, we should probably have actual poetry to present rather than just tactical assessments dressed up as verse."
James smiled—a real smile, warm and unexpected. "You're determined to make me a poet before this is over, aren't you?"
"I'm determined to make us partners in all aspects of the Tournament," Seraphina corrected. "Even the ones that make you uncomfortable. That's what strength looks like—being able to operate effectively even in areas outside your natural expertise."
"More wisdom from the lady who's spent two weeks teaching a soldier how to navigate court politics," James observed, but there was approval in his voice.
"Don't underestimate your own contributions," Seraphina replied, gathering their notes. "You've given me something I haven't had in..." She paused, catching herself before revealing too much. "In a long time. Partnership. Someone who sees me as an ally rather than a tool to be manipulated."
Their eyes met across the desk, and something passed between them—recognition of value, acknowledgment of trust, the beginning of something that might become more than strategic cooperation.