It was a bright, bustling Saturday—one of those rare afternoons when the world didn't seem so heavy, even if Mary Jane's hands were blackened with grease and her knees ached from kneeling on the sidewalk too long.
She sat cross-legged beside an old wooden crate she used as a workbench, her makeshift sign propped up behind her in bold, hopeful letters: "Small Repairs — Cheap but Magical!"
"Magical?" Ethan had asked that morning, one brow raised.
"Marketing," she'd replied, waving a wrench for emphasis. "Trust me. People love a little charm with their bargain fixes."
Now, she was hunched over a battered toy truck with a bent axle, tongue poking out in concentration as she tightened the last screw. Ethan sat a few feet away, chin in his hands, looking longingly at the toy store window behind them.
"Look," he said suddenly, tapping the glass. "That one."
Mary Jane squinted up at the display. The centerpiece was a glossy robot—its parts sleek and multicolored, the sign underneath boasting: 'Build It. Break It. Rebuild It Again!'
"Cool," she murmured, brushing a lock of hair out of her eyes. "Too bad it costs more than our rent."
Ethan didn't pout. He was used to disappointment, which broke her heart more than any tantrum would have.
She nudged him with her foot. "I could make you one."
He turned to her, eyes wide. "Really?"
"Sure. I've still got leftover wood from that broken chair I fixed last week. I can carve it into robot parts, add some little joints… maybe even a gear or two."
Ethan's grin exploded across his face. "You could totally do it. Remember that wooden Transformer you made me last Christmas? It had moving arms, MJ."
She chuckled. "That thing fell apart the minute you threw it at the wall."
"Only because I was showing it off to Tommy!" he defended. "But it was amazing. No one else has a toy like that."
He looked up at her with sudden seriousness, the kind that made her heart squeeze.
"You should start your own toy business, Sis!"
Mary Jane blinked. "What?"
"You're already good at fixing things for grown-ups. And your toys are better than the junk in there." He thumbed toward the window. "If you had your own shop, you'd be rich. And I'd be your assistant. Obviously."
She laughed, warm and surprised. "Obviously?"
"Yeah. Someone's gotta make sure you don't blow all your money on snacks and fancy screwdrivers."
She leaned over and ruffled his hair, her smile softening. "You really think I could do it?"
"I know you could."
That confidence in his voice—it wrapped around her like a safety net, one she didn't even know she needed. The storefront, the busy street, the city noise—they all blurred at the edges, leaving just the two of them on that patch of sun-warmed sidewalk.
The dream faded on Ethan's proud little grin.
When Mary Jane woke in her canopied bed in Whitman Manor, her chest ached—but not with sorrow.
With possibility.
She stared at the soft morning light slipping past the curtains and whispered, "Okay, Ethan. Let's see if we can make some magic."
*****Two hearts seek vengeance; two minds burn bright*****
The morning sun spilled into the manor like warm honey, chasing away the shadows of sleep. Mary Jane blinked into the soft glow that touched her bed's canopy, the remnants of a dream still lingering like the scent of lavender on her pillow. Ethan's voice echoed faintly in her ears—You should start your own toy business, Sis!
Her heart ached with the memory, but this time, it wasn't the crushing, suffocating pain of grief. It was something gentler. Empowering. Like a tether to the girl she used to be.
She rose with a purpose, fingers flexing experimentally. The salve had worked wonders. Though faint scabs remained, the worst of the pain had ebbed into a distant throb. No more bandages. No more clumsy fork handling. With Jane's help, she dressed herself with brisk determination, selected a soft sky-blue gown with minimal fuss, and made her way toward the dining hall.
She didn't expect the flutter in her stomach when she saw the table set. Her chair—placed beside the Earl's again. No guards, no pretense of formal avoidance. Just quiet, deliberate placement.
Jason was already perched in his seat, kicking his legs and beaming like a sunrise. "Mother, your hands! You're better!"
Mary Jane smiled, holding her hands up for his inspection. "Good as new. Well, nearly."
The Earl looked up from his tea, his gaze lingering on her bandage-free hands. There was a flicker of something in his eyes—relief, perhaps, or surprise. Or disappointment? She couldn't be sure. But the brief crease in his brow smoothed as he cleared his throat and ordered for her plates and cutlery to be returned to their original place on the table.
Breakfast was served, and for once, Mary Jane was able to eat without assistance. No awkward feeding, no tense silence, just the pleasant sounds of cutlery and Jason's occasional chatter. When the Earl stood to leave, he offered a polite nod.
"My lady. Jason."
"Father," Jason chirped, distracted by the jam on his scone.
"My lord," Mary Jane replied, surprised once again that the Earl deigned to give her a parting greeting—an old-fashioned courtesy he had never done before. Not to her. Not once.
He hesitated for half a second, eyes flicking to her unbandaged hands once more, then turned on his heel and left.
For a moment, she could do nothing but stare, the echo of his unexpected gentility lingering longer than it should have. The emptiness he left in his wake was no longer cold. Just quiet.
After breakfast, Mary Jane found herself drawn to the drawing room, the morning still fresh and promising. A tray of sharpened charcoal pencils and crisp parchment awaited her, and she dove into her work like a woman possessed.
She sketched toys from memory, ideas from childhood layered with touches of practicality. A wooden puzzle that transformed into an animal. An automated toy shaped like a dragon with moving wings and rolling eyes. And, of course, variations of the stackable block game Jason had affectionately dubbed "Wobble-Tumble."
Jason sat on the rug beside her, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration as he painted on the last of the Jenga…oops, Wobble-Tumble pieces. His focus was admirable, his admiration of her inventions even more so.
Time passed in a flurry of lines and laughter.
Then came the knock.
The butler entered a moment later. "His grace, the Grand Duke has arrived."
Mary Jane looked up, heart skipping. "Please, show him in."
The Grand Duke entered with the confidence of a man who didn't ask permission, but took it with charm. His gaze swept the room, pausing on the wooden blocks, the sketches, then on her.
"My lady," he greeted with a faint bow. "I was hoping to see how our little venture was progressing."
"You're just in time," Mary Jane said, gesturing to the table. "We finished the prototype here. Garren is currently working on a second set. And Jason even helped with these."
Jason beamed.
The Grand Duke examined the blocks with an approving hum. "Elegant in its simplicity. Clever. But more than that, it's fun. Perfect for the entire family. I personally enjoyed it when we played this toy yesterday. That's rare in a world where even children's games are dull and too simple for adults to partake in."
Mary Jane flushed at the compliment but kept her tone even. "I've also sketched a few more ideas. I thought we might discuss the possibility of expanding beyond just one toy."
The Grand Duke's brows lifted with unmistakable delight. "So, you've accepted my offer?"
She nodded, sliding the pages toward him. "I have. Provided the terms are fair, of course."
He laughed, rich and warm. "Of course. Let's draft something together, then. Something... revolutionary."
And as he seated himself beside her, pulling parchment toward them both, Mary Jane felt it again—that thrum of possibility. Not just survival. Not just healing.
But purpose.
*****Bound by justice, forged in night*****
The sunlight filtered through the tall arched windows of the Sutherland Trading Company's boardroom, glinting off polished wood and the fine gold leaf inlays that trimmed the paneled walls.
The long, mahogany table gleamed under the golden glow of the hanging chandeliers, polished to perfection like the image of prosperity the Sutherland Trading Company comfortably project. It was too fine a morning for squabbling, but that rarely stopped anyone.
The air inside the boardroom held the crisp tension of restrained civility as Anthony James Whitman, The Right Honorable Earl of Whitman, shifted in his seat at the head of the table. The tall windows behind him framed the morning sun, a gilded crown of light that cast his features in commanding relief.
To his left sat Lady Margella, poised in her high-backed chair, her black gloved fingers laced beneath her chin, the picture of practiced composure. Around the table, six other directors—nobles, merchants, and bureaucrats who had clawed or charmed their way into this circle—awaited their turn to speak.
Earl Whitman crossed his legs and rested his own chin on one hand that was propped on the arm of his chair, his expression inscrutable as he listened to the final numbers being presented.
One by one, the reports came. A rise in textile exports to the Southern Provinces. Stable profits in the grain trade. Promising negotiations in the Western regions.
"Imports from the eastern provinces continue to rise," announced Director Vernon with a self-satisfied smile. He was a wiry man, who always seemed a little too eager to prove himself. "Revenue in my department has grown twelve percent since last quarter."
There was a murmuring of polite approval.
"And the western trade routes?" Anthony asked mildly, glancing toward the man seated two chairs down.
Director Harrow cleared his throat. "Not as fortunate, I'm afraid. There have been... complications."
"Complications?"
The older gentleman shifted uncomfortably, his eyes flickering toward the Earl. "My Lord, I regret to report a troubling decline in the revenue from our overseas imports, particularly through the western and northwestern ports."
A pause.
"There have been delays—inspectors demanding more paperwork, unexpected fees, bribes nearly doubling, and some cargo detained for days without cause. Twice in one month. Our goods are delayed or held hostage unless we pay more. And there have been several instances of miscounted cargo. We are currently tracing the total extent of our total loss in revenue."
Anthony's brow furrowed ever so slightly. "You're referring to Port Elbridge and Aurenport, I assume?"
"Primarily, yes, my lord."
The air shifted. Many did not like talking about the port. Too many ears in too many places.
"We already went to Aurenport for inspection, didn't we Anthony?" Lady Margella cut in; her tone brisk. "We agreed that it is the price we pay for maintaining peace with the officials," she sat with her back perfectly straight, gloved hands folded on the table. "It's not ideal, no, but the system works. The empire remains undisturbed. Trade continues."
Anthony turned his gaze to her. "At what cost?"
Lady Margella's voice, silken and cool, cut through the silence. "This is not a new dilemma. Corruption festers in every dock when there is power and profit to be had. A necessary evil, as I've said before. It is the price of doing business with an empire whose left hand often forgets what the right hand is doing."
"Necessary?" Director Langdon echoed, skeptical. "Our costs are rising by the month."
"And yet your books showed a gain last quarter," Margella said smoothly. She turned back to their leader. "We've built something vast, my lord. Our influence spans borders. If we begin shaking the roots, the branches may fall."
"Or the rot may spread deeper," Anthony replied quietly.
"Perhaps the problem lies not in the corruption, but in the management of it." Lady Margella Ashcombe, Dowager Viscountess of Ashcombe, shrugged in dismissal of the topic. Her voice carried the kind of authority that didn't need raising. It was the quiet confidence of a woman whose late husband had once commanded the empire's southern trade routes, and a woman whose own paternal noble lineage—House Vellwyn of the Eastern Highlands—still held considerable sway at court. Dowager Viscountess Ashcombe did not merely speak; she declared, and the room listened, whether in agreement or silent resentment she cared not.
The room quieted, heads turning subtly toward the Earl. It was only ever the Earl of Whitman who can gainsay Lady Ashcombe.
Anthony's voice came low but firm. "We will not normalize lawlessness, Margella. If bribes and detainments are becoming the standard, then that means someone benefits from these—" his eyes flickered with steel, "—and I intend to know who."
A few directors shifted in their seats.
"Look deeper into Port Elbridge. Consider a realignment of our shipping routes, replacing inept workers, and reporting port officials to higher authority, whatever is necessary. I want you to conduct internal auditing as well. Send me a detailed report as well as copies of all documentation related to this, understood?"
"Yes, my lord." The respective directors replied in unison.
Lady Margella offered no outward protest, only a slight lift of her brow—calculated, composed. But her silence was as potent as a declaration.
A pause settled. Then, with a nod, Anthony stood to bid everyone goodbye. "This concludes our meeting. I expect a full report on all the port activity from each of you within the fortnight. We cannot afford ignorance."
The directors began gathering their papers, some with frowns, others with silent calculation behind their eyes.
Chairs scraped back and murmured farewells filled the room as the directors slowly dispersed.
Lady Ashcombe, though, lingered.
She waited until the last of the directors had bowed and departed. And once she was alone with the Earl, she rose with deliberate elegance and approached him, her skirts whispering across the floor.
Anthony, who was back in his seat, made no move to rise. He was going over the ledgers and other papers that his directors submitted in front of him.
"You've grown more serious," she said lightly, though her eyes were anything but. "Is it the weight of the company, or the woman who's been wreaking endless havoc in your home?"
Anthony's jaw tightened. "If you have something to say, Margella, speak it plainly."
She arched one dark brow. "Gossip travels faster than ships, my lord."
"Does it?" He still wasn't looking at her, making it evident that his papers were more important than the topic of their conversation.
"Hearing those gossips though," she said. Her voice was velvet wrapped in smoke. " I find myself... curious."
"About?"
She drifted to his side, placing her gloves gently on the table's edge. "The Grand Duke."
Anthony's hands stilled, finally looking up at the woman beside him.
"They say the Grand Duke has been visiting Whitman Manor rather frequently." She tilted her head, pretending mild interest. "Surely not for your company. Reports say he stays long after you've left."
"What a waste of time, reporting something so trivial." He started gathering his papers irritably.
"Something so intriguing could hardly be considered trivial, though. They whisper of old rivals suddenly getting along. Of long conversations, visits to shops, and strolls in the gardens."
No response.
She tilted her head, just so, and continued. "I thought it peculiar, given that you've not been home during those visits. And the Grand Duke, if I recall, never much enjoyed Lady Whitman's company before. Or she his. Yet, now..."
She trailed off delicately.
"If you're implying an intrigue," Anthony said, the chill in his voice reflecting the ice in his eyes. Soft but unmistakable, "I would advise against giving gossip more breath than it's due."
"Even if it concerns your wife?"
Her smile was sweet as lemon, and just as sharp.
"You said once you couldn't love her," she continued. "But perhaps another man can."
Anthony didn't respond. He didn't have to. The glint in his eyes, brief and cold, said enough.
Lady Margella smiled, slow and serene. "My dear, I meant no disrespect. Only that perception often shapes reality. And in our world, appearances can build—or ruin—reputations."
Anthony stood, slow and deliberate.
"Thank you for your concern," he said. Then he bowed. Slightly. Curtly. Dismissively.
She accepted the dismissal with grace but as she gathered her gloves, a knowing glint sparked in her eyes. "Forgive me. I forget my place," were her parting words.
She turned, offering him a smile over her shoulder before gliding from the room.
Behind her, the Earl remained motionless, a single thought beginning to take root in the shadows of his mind.: What had changed between the Grand Duke and his wife?
He stood alone for a long while after she left, the silence heavy.
Then, very softly, he whispered, "So do I."
*****What was shattered, now made whole*****
"Shall we look for a large enough building to renovate as our manufacturing workshop or should we start small here?"
They were still in the drawing room of the Whitman Manor hours after the Earl left.
He and Bettina, or Lady Whitman, had already finished drawing up the content of their business contract and were now listing down people and items that they would need for their first production. Jason, on the other hand, was sprawled on the floor, busily fanning the wooden pieces that he painted on to dry them all up.
Bettina stopped what she was doing to look up at Edward, the Grand Duke, who was also bent down on the paper she was writing on. There was a glint in his eyes as if his interruption had more meaning than just a question about a place to manufacture toys in.
"Of course we should start small," Bettina straightened up from bending towards the coffee table in front of them. "We should always use whatever resources we already have first before we spend money for something that depends entirely on how the public will accept them."
"I strongly feel that the general public will clamor for our product."
"But that's just our own personal opinion," she argued, quite practically. "We have no control over how the buyers will view our product. So, unless we have a great mass of people lining up our gates so they could buy our products, I feel we should start a small production and work our way up as demand for our toy increases."
"So…should I offer up one of my residences to be renovated or one of your own?" He raised an eyebrow at her as though there was an answer from her that he was waiting for.
"No, not at this stage." Bettina shook her head. "Our carpentry workshop in this Manor is large enough for the first stage of our production process. Once we release our product to the public and product demand increases, then I feel that's the only time we can safely look for a bigger place for our production needs."
"Are you sure you'd like initial production to be here instead of in one of my properties? I have plenty, you know."
"I'm sure you do," Bettina snorted. A delightful sound that he hasn't heard any female of the nobility make in front of witnesses. "I think it would be most prudent if we make the product here where I can personally oversee the process."
"Prudence," Edward nodded, satisfied. There was a bright set of twinkling in his eyes as if they arrived at a brilliant answer that he was expecting.
A knock sounded at the door.
"Come in," the countess answered.
"My lady," a maid came in with a curtsy. "There's a gentleman here who says he was invited by his grace to come."
"Oh, yes. Let him in," it was the Grand Duke who replied.
The maid curtsied once more and stepped back to allow the new visitor to come in.
In stepped a tall figure clad in dark robes. His silver-streaked hair and piercing gaze marked him as someone of power and wisdom. But it wasn't his air of nobility or magic energy that swirled all around him that unnerved her. It was a sense that her very soul might have met him before.