The registry clerk met me halfway, tablet in hand.
“Final wording is locked,” he murmured, glancing up just long enough to meet my eyes. “Thorne–freight cross-control, codified under Article Twelve, Section C. Signature is on record. This goes to archive tonight.”
I gave a small nod, the kind that meantthank youanddon’t lingerat the same time.
The Veil drone slid in front of us. Hologram capture time. Of course.
“Councillor Thorne, Councillor DePout—if we can just?—”
Atticus appeared at my side like he’d been conjured. Classic black suit, hands in pockets, tie slightly loosened now that formalities were over. His hair was pushed back carelessly, darkeyes moved over my face in a quick check before he offered me his arm.
I took it.
We turned toward the glowing Veil crest projected in the air. Three, two, one. The drone flashed, capturing Atticus and me standing shoulder to shoulder, my cream dress and emeralds, his easy smile, the chamber doors behind us. The system would package it with a caption about “historic cooperation” and blast it into feeds before we even sat down.
Veil loved symmetry. Tall DePout heir, Thorne negotiator in cream. A little dynasty propaganda for everyone’s lunch break.
I held the smile until the drone drifted away.
The second it did, my mouth relaxed and my shoulders dropped a fraction.
“Congratulations. That was brutal and beautiful. They’re going to be quoting you in training modules for the next decade.” Atticus murmured, low enough the clerk pretended not to hear.
“God, don’t curse me like that.” I exhaled slowly. My ribs protested against the dress. “I can practically hear them already. ‘At twenty, Madeline Thorne argued?—’”
“—‘that legacy is a long game and ship routes are bones, not blood.’” His grin flashed. “You were poetic as hell in there. Even my father was impressed. He pretended not to be, obviously, but I’ve learned to read the vein in his temple.”
My lips twitched. “High praise.”
We started down the hall together, footsteps echoing. Staff parted around us. Aides whispered. The Veil drone floated away, no doubt streaming my tight dress and Atticus’s profile to hundreds of thousands of people who would comment more about my shoes than the deal.
“Speaking of fathers,” Atticus went on, voice dropping again once we cleared the main cluster, “mine started talking mergers again.”
The word slid under my skin like ice.
I stared straight ahead. “Already.”
“He thinks the registry win makes you hotter property. His words, not mine. ‘Demonstrates long-term value, that girl. She’ll be a prime merger.’” His voice sank into an uncanny imitation. “Price of partnerships, son. We don’t get to stay selfish forever.”
“That was subtle. I’m assuming he meantyou.”
“Of course. He dropped Kingsley, Adams, a new foreign name I’ve never heard said with so much enthusiasm, and then twisted the knife with ‘of course, the Thornes will need to consider a match soon as well.’”
“My father’s been quoting legacy a lot too,” My stomach did a slow, unpleasant turn. “Tree of wealth. Bones of history. All his favourites. And my mother…” A humourless breath slipped out. “She thinks if she keeps my plate empty long enough, someone will mistake me for delicate and scoop me up to decorate their crest.”
He glanced sideways. “She’s still pulling that shit?”
“She calls it discipline,” I murmured. “I call it a migraine.”
“That’s not discipline, Maddy.”
“Tell her that.” I shrugged, dress pulling tight across my chest. “Anyway, it’s working out great. Apparently I’m so terrifying, I am unmarketable.”
He stopped walking.
I had to halt too, the sudden lack of motion tugging my arm.
“What.”
