Adrian
Adrian Vale had never felt so rooted.
Months into his marriage, his life seemed a tapestry woven with threads of both love and influence. His reforms in council continued to ripple outward — factory owners grudgingly complied, laborers whispered his name with reverence, and newspapers hailed him as The people's champion.
At home, Evelyn steadied him in ways he had not known he needed. When the pressures of debate left him taut with anger, her voice gentled him. When he spoke too long and too passionately, she simply listened, offering neither applause nor resistance but a calm space where he could breathe.
One evening, as spring softened into summer, Adrian returned fromthe council to find the house bathed in lamplight, the scent of lavender wafting through the halls.
Evelyn sat waiting in the parlor, her hands folded, her expression radiant in a way that caught him off guard.
"Adrian," she said, rising as he entered. "I have something to tell you."
He frowned slightly, then smiled. "You look as though you've a great secret."
Her hand brushed against his cheek before resting over her stomach. "We are to be three, come winter."
The words struck him with a force unlike any speech or victory ever had. For a moment he simply stared, his eyes widening, and then laughter — raw, unguarded —burst from him. He swept her into his arms, pressing his forehead to hers.
"A child," he breathed, his voice breaking. "Our child."
Evelyn's eyes shone with tears. "Yes."
All the restless ambition, all the fiery drive that had carried him through poverty, exile, and political battle suddenly seemed to converge on this single truth: he was no longer building only for himself, nor even for the city. He was building for them. For her. For the child that would bear his name.
For the first time in his life, Adrian Vale felt whole.
---
Crowne and Clara
Across the city, in a townhouse where candlelight pooled over velvet drapes, Sebastian Crowne listened as Clara Moreau strummed idly at a piano, her laughter sharp as glass.
"He doesn't come to me," she said, striking a discordant chord. "He clings to his perfect wife, his perfect marriage. He forgets that fire burns hotter than hearth smoke."
Crowne, sprawled in a chair with a glass of brandy, regarded her with a thin smile. "Patience, Clara. Happiness is a fragile fabric. Pull a single thread, and the whole garment unravels."
She glanced over her shoulder, arching a brow. "And you know which thread to pull?"
"Of course," he said smoothly. "Vale cannot resist the stage. He has always loved the spectacle — the speech, the crowd, the drama of it all. That is where we shall catch him. Not in the shadows, but in the light of society, where every eye is watching."
Clara's lips curved. "A chance encounter, as you said."
"Yes. An innocent meeting, again and again, until innocence no longer matters. The city will believe what I whisper into its ear long before Vale himself understands what is being said."
She rose from the piano, crossing to him, her gown rustling like silk secrets. "And when his reputation collapses, you will be waiting to take his place."
"And you," Crowne replied, tugging her close, "will be the dagger dressed in lace."
They shared a kiss, heated and poisonous, sealing their contract anew.
---
Evelyn
That night, Evelyn lay awake beside Adrian, one hand resting protectively over her stomach. His breath was steady in sleep, his arm draped over her.
She thought of the future —the child's laughter echoing in the halls, Adrian's fire tempered by fatherhood, their life as a family. Hope blossomed in her like a second heartbeat.
But beneath her joy lingered an unease she could not name. Adrian's battles in council grew fiercer by the day, his enemies more brazen. And though she did not yet know it, in the smoky parlors and velvet-draped rooms of New Albion, a trap was being laid around them.