For the first time since Jelle confirmed the soul bond, I find myself wondering what would happen if I stopped fighting it.
8
MIHALIS
Aweek of this. A week of Irida orchestrating elaborate schemes to throw Heidi and me together at every opportunity. Tea parties where she insists we both participate, reading sessions where she demands we sit close enough that our knees touch, walks through the garden where she 'accidentally' gets distracted by interesting rocks, leaving us alone to make stilted conversation about weather and snow sculpture techniques.
My daughter has all the subtlety of a volcanic eruption, but her campaign is working despite my better judgment.
The pinching in my chest has evolved into something more insistent—a persistent ache that only eases when Heidi is within arm's reach. This morning, when I tried to leave for an early meeting at Vestige while she was still sleeping, the pain hit me like a blade between the ribs before I'd even reached the front door. I'd found myself turning around, climbing the stairs to check that she was still breathing, still present, still anchored to whatever invisible tether now connects us.
She'd been awake, sitting by her window with a book from my library, and the relief that flooded through me when our eyes met was both welcome and deeply irritating.
"The bond is progressing faster than usual," Jelle had confirmed yesterday when I'd finally swallowed my pride and asked for another consultation. "Fighting it may be accelerating the process rather than slowing it down. Your magic recognizes what your mind refuses to accept."
Which brings me to tonight's problem. I have business at Vestige—real business, the kind that requires my physical presence and can't be delegated to subordinates. The quarterly review with my floor managers, followed by a meeting with suppliers who won't deal with anyone but me personally. The kind of evening that typically lasts until well past midnight.
The kind of evening that, a week ago, I could have managed without any consideration for anyone else's schedule or comfort.
Now, the thought of being separated from Heidi for eight hours sends sharp warning pains through my chest, like my body preparing for the worse agony that will follow. Leaving her here isn't an option anymore.
Which is how I find myself standing outside her door at sunset, holding a garment box and trying to convince myself this is purely practical.
"We're going out," I announce when she opens the door. No preamble, no explanation—just the facts delivered in the same tone I'd use to inform her the sky is blue.
She blinks at me, clearly still adjusting to the reality that our interactions no longer begin with threats or demands for her immediate cooperation. "Going out where?"
"Vestige. I have business that can't wait, and the bond won't let me leave you behind."
Something flickers across her expression—surprise, maybe, or calculation. She's gotten better at hiding her thoughts thisweek, but not better enough to completely mask the way her pulse jumps when I mention the club.
"I don't think that's a good idea."
"Neither do I," I agree, extending the box toward her. "But practicality wins over preference. You'll need appropriate clothing."
She takes the box reluctantly, like it might contain something that bites. "What's wrong with what I have?"
What she has is practical, serviceable clothing designed for warmth and mobility. Dark trousers, simple shirts, boots meant for function rather than fashion. Perfectly appropriate for building snow creatures with my daughter or reading in my library.
Entirely wrong for Vestige, where appearance is currency and the wrong outfit marks you as prey.
"Vestige isn't a place for practical clothes," I explain, though explaining feels strange after a week of mostly communicating through shared glances and careful politeness. "It's a place where being overlooked can be dangerous, and standing out incorrectly can be fatal."
She opens the box despite her obvious reluctance, then goes very still at whatever she finds inside. When she looks up at me again, her cheeks carry a flush that has nothing to do with the warmth of her room.
"This is..." She trails off, apparently unable to find words for whatever she's discovered.
"Appropriate," I finish firmly. "Vestige has expectations. You'll need to meet them."
The truth is more complicated. I'd spent an embarrassing amount of time selecting the dress, rejecting option after option until I found something that would showcase her natural beauty while keeping her safe. The deep emerald silk will bring out the gold flecks in her eyes, while the high neckline and long sleevesensure she won't attract the wrong kind of attention. Elegant enough to mark her as someone under my protection, modest enough that I won't spend the entire evening fighting the urge to murder every male who looks at her.
Not that I'm admitting any of that out loud.
"I'll wait downstairs," I add when she continues staring at the box like it's full of serpents. "Twenty minutes."
She nods mutely, still apparently processing the implications of whatever she's found in the silk-lined interior.
I retreat to my office to handle last-minute correspondence, but concentration proves elusive. Every few minutes, I catch myself listening for sounds from upstairs—footsteps, running water, the rustle of fabric. When silence stretches too long, anxiety creeps up my spine with suggestions that she's escaped through her window or collapsed from some delayed reaction to the bond's pressure.
