“No?”
“It’s about optics and perception,” he explains. “You moved into Fort Vauclairt because you’re the new duke.”
“Eva would disagree.”
“Who cares?” He shrugs. “De facto and de jure, you’re the Duke of Rohinn now, and you’re showing generosity to Geoffroy’s family. That’s good optics.”
I stare at him, saying nothing.
“If I were you,” he continues, “I’d call the bishop of Rohinn to pick a date for the anointment ceremony.”
“That would be premature,” I argue. “We can’t rule out that Eva might win her case.”
He gives a vehement shake of his head. “She can’t.”
“Her lawyer has a great reputation,” I say.
“Pauline’s good,” he agrees. “Very thorough. But I’m craftier, more experienced, and more eloquent. Not to mention the law is on our side. We’re winning this, Alex.”
“You better be right, given what I’m paying you.”
He grins. “So, let me repeat. You’re the duke now. Act like one. Don’t just fix things, be seen fixing them.”
I nod.
Derek isn’t wrong. The duchy’s economy is bleeding. I’ve run the numbers, built the models, traced the decline year over year. It’s as bad as I feared.
Derek was also right about moving into Fort Vauclairt. Despite what Eva thinks, the move wasn’t about power or territory. It was about logistics. The castle is in the center of the duchy and already outfitted for work. It’s the most effective base of operations for urgently fixing the Rohinn’s broken economy. Settling here was the only rational thing to do.
But, speaking of optics, even a socially awkward mathematician like me knows how it looks. Especially to Eva.
It looks like a hostile takeover. Like I’m claiming not only her daughter’s inheritance and title, but also her home, and rubbing it in by sleeping under her roof.
The castle’sdining room is warmed by the fire crackling in the fireplace and filled with the smell of roasted meat. Crystal and silver reflect the flickering candlelight. The place looks like the scene of a peaceful family meal.
It isn’t.
Millie reaches for a bread roll, her eyes darting between the adults like she expects crossfire. Brigitte sips her wine without a word. In mourning black from head to toe and spurning the back support of the velvet chair, she manages to be rigid despite the amount of alcohol she pours into herself.
As for Eva, she’s a glacier in silk. Composed. Polished. Stunning in that sharp, distant way that signals her barely veiled contempt. Her wineglass sits untouched.
“Nice to see the château still has excellent kitchen staff,” I say, aiming for neutral civility.
Eva cuts into her meat like she’s filleting my flesh. “We don’t starve here even if the economy is in shambles as you claim.”
I chew slowly. “The farmers’ cooperative reported?—”
“You didn’t want to wait even a week, did you?” she interrupts.
I look up. “Wait for what?”
“For the court to decide,” she says, voice flat. “But I guess you’ve always thought due process is for other people.”
Derek would advise silence.
But he left an hour ago, so I ignore his imagined advice. “The court can take months. The duchy’s economy can’t. People are hurting. Someone has to do something.”
She lets out a dry laugh. “So, you’ve appointed yourself savior?”
