Marcus
Marcus Vale had watched his cousin's triumph with a curious mix of pride and restlessness. Adrian had achieved something historic— yet Marcus felt the tug of a different destiny. He had no taste for politics. His dreams lay in the bustling quays, where cargo ships groaned under foreign wares and merchants argued in ten languages at once.
The Vale family business had always been modest, a couple of warehouses and trade agreements that padded their coffers but never raised their name above respectable. Marcus wanted more. He saw opportunity in the age of steel and steam: international routes, new technologies, rail lines stretching deeper into the continent. While Adrian's speeches stirred crowds, Marcus's imagination filled with the sound of engines and the scent of salt air.
Emily noticed the change in him. They walked often in the gardens, her laughter still quick but now colored with curiosity when Marcus spoke of his plans. "You mean to build an empire," she teased one afternoon.
He smiled. "Not an empire. A network. Ships, rails, warehouses — the skeleton of a new world. If Adrian rebuilds the city, I will fuel its growth. Two branches of the Vale name, reaching in different directions."
"And you think this will impress me?" she asked, her tone playful yet searching.
Marcus's gaze softened. "No. I only hope it might inspire you to walk beside me."
Emily felt a warmth stir —different from the passion she once nursed for Adrian. Marcus's ambition was quieter, steadier, but it glowed with the promise of something lasting. For the first time, she allowed herself to imagine her future not in the shadow of her sister's widower, but in the sunlight of a man who had always chosen her.
Marcus Vale had never believed in sudden revelations. Business, after all, taught patience: fortunes were built through steady bargains, not lightning strikes. But the first time he saw Emily Hartwell, his certainty faltered.
It was a spring morning in the heart of New Albion. The city centre was alive with clattering trams, flower-sellers crying out their wares, and clerks hurrying to their ledgers. Marcus had come on dull business — a meeting about tariffs, the kind that left him numb with figures. He had stepped out into the square, squinting at the pale sun, when he saw them.
Two sisters, side by side: Evelyn in her composed grace, every gesture measured, and Emily — a flicker of brightness in the crowd. She laughed at something Evelyn whispered, tilting her head so that sunlight caught in her hair, and Marcus felt, absurdly, as though the whole square had tilted toward her.
She was not flawless. He saw the way her gloves were slightly worn at the seams, the way her attention darted to every passing cart and stall with restless energy. Yet it was precisely that restlessness that struck him. Where Evelyn carried dignity, Emily carried life. She seemed less a lady moving through society than a flame refusing to be tamed by it.
He did not approach them that day. He stood rooted, his merchant's instincts reminding him that men who leapt without thought often landed in ruin. But when he saw her again the following afternoon — this time apart from Evelyn, pausing at a bookseller's stall in the crowded market — his heart betrayed him. He stepped forward, asked after the volume in her hand, and in that instant, her quick smile undid him.
From then on, Marcus carried the knowledge of his feelings like a sealed letter he dared not send. Emily's attention was always clearly elsewhere. He watched as she watched Adrian — always Adrian — with eyes that shone. How could Marcus, his cousin and friend, trespass on that unspoken devotion? To confess would have risked not only her affection but also the bond of brotherhood he shared with Adrian.
So he hid it. He let his love bury itself beneath the hours of trade, beneath laughter shared with her as only a friend. He grew practiced in silence, each unspoken word another stone in the wall he built around himself. And when Emily's heart seemed forever fixed on Adrian, Marcus told himself he was content with standing in the shadows.
Yet the truth never dimmed. Each time she laughed, each time her hand brushed his arm in passing, the sealed letter burned in his chest. He kept it secret not from cowardice, but from loyalty —both to her and to Adrian. But secrecy did not weaken it. It made it stronger, a flame compressed, waiting for the day it might finally breathe.
Marcus Vale had always prided himself on discipline. A merchant needed it —whether at sea with cargo at risk, or at home where one ill-judged investment could topple a family fortune. Yet no contract, no ledger, no storm had tested him like watching Emily Ashworth turn her gaze elsewhere.
She never noticed how her voice shifted when Adrian entered a room, how her posture straightened, how laughter spilled from her more readily. Marcus noticed. He noticed everything. In council receptions, she lingered at Adrian's side. At family dinners, her eyes lit when Adrian spoke of politics, though half the table barely understood him. Marcus would raise his glass, make polite conversation, all the while burying the sting in his chest.
There were moments that tested him cruelly. Once, in the gardens, Emily had confided, "Adrian will change the world, you know. He was made for it." Marcus had smiled, biting back the truth on his tongue: that Adrian might change the world, but Marcus only wanted to build a life, a family — and to build it with her.
Evelyn had seen more than Emily ever did. One evening, when Marcus offered to fetch a shawl, Evelyn caught his gaze with quiet sympathy. She said nothing, but her eyes spoke clearly: she knew. Marcus had lowered his head, grateful and ashamed all at once.
In the years that followed, his silence became second nature. He carried on with trade negotiations, voyages, ledgers — building wealth and reputation — while Emily continued to orbit Adrian. Marcus told himself it was enough, that perhaps one day the ache would dull. And yet, whenever she laughed in his presence, the flame flared anew.
When Evelyn and Adrian married, Marcus bore witness with clenched hands hidden in his pockets. Emily smiled through her sister's happiness, but Marcus could see the shadow in her expression, the longing unspoken. He wanted to reach for her then, to tell her she need not chase what would never return her love. But loyalty chained him still. Adrian was his blood, his friend. To betray that bond was unthinkable.
So he endured. He endured as Emily laughed too brightly at Adrian's wit, endured as she painted herself frivolous to hide her yearning. He endured and endured, until enduring became a habit as natural as breathing.
Yet beneath it all, the sealed letter of his heart remained, its ink unfaded by time. And Marcus knew, though he told no one, that if the moment ever came when Emily turned her eyes from Adrian — just once, just long enough — he would finally let the letter unfold.