The silence is absolute. I feel tension coil through my muscles, ready to defend her if anyone takes offense.
Then Catherine laughs—a genuine, delighted sound. "Oh, I like her."
"As do I," Victoria agrees, her dark eyes sparkling with amusement. "Nathan, darling, you've chosen well."
Even Blackwood looks impressed, though he tries to hide it. "Most prospects spend the first dinner trying to prove themselves. You've simply... claimed your place. Interesting."
"I learned from the best," Eve says, glancing at me with a slight smile.
Across the table, I notice Cross watching Eve with an intensity that makes something dark stir in my chest. Not quite desire—more like... recognition. As if he's found something unexpected and potentially valuable.
I don't like it.
Pride swells in my chest nonetheless. This is my queen—unafraid, commanding, brilliant.
The first course is served—a delicate consommé—and the conversation begins in earnest. Abraham asks about her business background, and Eve doesn't downplay her accomplishments. She speaks about building Sinclair Designs from nothing, about her vision for fashion that celebrates all women, about the challenges she faced in a cutthroat industry.
"And yet Nathan destroyed it," James Ashford observes. He's the legal mind—sharp, analytical, always looking for weaknesses. "How do you reconcile that with sitting here?"
"I don't," Eve says simply. "I'm angry about what he did. I probably always will be, on some level. But I also understand why he did it. And I understand that the empire I built was fragile—vulnerable to attacks from people like Bryce Royston and Fred Greyhound. Nathan showed me that vulnerability, then offered me something more permanent. More protected."
"The Order's protection," Blackwood says.
"Yes. And his." She pauses. "I won't pretend to be comfortable with all of the Order's methods. But I'm pragmatic enough to recognize that power requires difficult choices. And I'm ambitious enough to want to use that power for something meaningful."
"Pragmatism is underrated," Cross observes, speaking for the first time since the introductions. His voice is deep, measured, with the faintest trace of an accent I can't quite place. "Most people entering the Order are either naive idealists or calculating sociopaths. You seem to be neither."
"I'm a realist," Eve says, meeting his gaze directly. "I work with what is, not what I wish could be."
Cross's lips curve in something that might be approval. "Refreshing."
I resist the urge to tell him to stop looking at my future wife like she's a fascinating puzzle to solve. Instead, I rest my hand possessively on Eve's thigh under the table.
"Such as?" Catherine asks, drawing the conversation back. "What meaningful use of power did you have in mind?"
"The foundation Nathan and I are starting. Art scholarships for underprivileged youth." Eve's passion shines through now. "Using the Order's connections to cut through bureaucracy, to secure funding, to give opportunities to kidswho would never otherwise have them. Using shadow money to create light, as it were."
"Poetic," Victoria murmurs. "And clever. Good PR for the Order."
"Exactly," Eve agrees. "The Order operates in shadows by necessity. But that doesn't mean everything it touches has to be dark. We can choose to do some good with this power."
Abraham and Catherine exchange glances. I can see them recognizing what I saw months ago—that Eve isn't just my partner, she's an asset. Someone who understands how to wield power effectively while maintaining public goodwill.
"An interesting philosophy," Cross says, swirling his wine thoughtfully. "Though I wonder if you'll maintain such idealism once you've seen more of what the Order truly does. The hard choices we make in those shadows."
There's a challenge in his words. Eve doesn't back down.
"I don't claim to be an idealist, Mr. Cross. I claim to be someone who believes power without purpose is just tyranny dressed up in expensive suits." She pauses. "If the Order can't find room for both—the necessary darkness and the intentional light—then perhaps it's become too comfortable in its shadows."
Silence falls over the table. Cross's expression doesn't change, but something flickers in his eyes—either irritation or genuine interest, I can't tell which.
Then he laughs—a low, genuine sound that seems to surprise even him. "Touché, Miss Sinclair. I think I'm going to enjoy having you on the Council."
The tension breaks, and the second course arrives—duck confit. The conversation shifts to lighter topics. Abraham tells stories about past Council members, making Eve laughwith tales of their eccentricities. Victoria asks about her design process, genuinely interested in the creative side. Even Webb warms slightly, discussing the logistics of protecting high-profile targets.
Cross, I notice, says little but observes everything. His attention returns to Eve periodically, studying her with an intensity that sets my teeth on edge. Not lecherous—something more analytical, like he's cataloging strengths and weaknesses, filing away information for future use.
When Blackwood poses his hypothetical question about morally objectionable orders, and Eve gives her thoughtful, balanced response, I see Cross nod almost imperceptibly. Approval, or simply acknowledgment that she's playing the game correctly.
