Once Gustav left, the room went very quiet.
Just Oskar.
Bertha.
And one sleeping baby.
Nothing happened.
No clerk appeared with a contract.
No secretary with a pen.
No stack of documents to sign and stamp and lock into a safe.
Instead, Oskar sat on Bertha's sofa and ate.
He'd started politely, like a prince.
Now he was working through the tray like a dockworker on break.
Cheesecake, two slices.
Some kind of nut cake.
Three biscuits.
Half a bowl of hot soup.
A heel of bread he hadn't even liked that much but his hands had grabbed it anyway.
The couch was comfortable, the fire was warm, the office was absurdly luxurious—its own fireplace, heavy curtains, a big window overlooking the Krupp complex below. Not just a factory, really. A whole private city of brick and smoke and rail tracks and chimneys, with houses and baths and canteens and chapels—an empire of steel inside the Empire.
All of that, Oskar told himself, had just agreed to fall under his industrial group.
Fifty‑two percent.
Five hundred million marks.
Naval guns. Light weapons. Razors.
He should have felt nothing but satisfaction.
Instead, he could feel Bertha.
Pressed lightly against his side on the sofa, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her through his sleeve. Close enough that every time he shifted, the faintest hint of her perfume—soap, wool, a trace of something floral—drifted up.
She held Alfried in her arms, the boy sleeping peacefully, cheek resting against her chest, tiny hand curled into the fabric of her dress. The baby's breathing was slow and steady, utterly oblivious to the tension in the room.
And still no paperwork.
Oskar swallowed a mouthful of cake that suddenly tasted too sweet and cleared his throat.
Without turning his head, he said lightly,
"Well. Either there's something very strange on my face, or you're simply admiring my heroic profile. I do accept compliments, but preferably in writing."
Bertha didn't move.
"I want another baby."
The cookie Oskar just grabbed stopped halfway to his mouth.
Oskar blinked.
"…Another what?"
She turned her head then, calmly, eyes steady.
"Another child."
Oskar laughed—once, short and sharp, the sound of someone certain they had misheard.
"Bertha," he said, lowering the cookie, "that's… wonderful. Truly. But why are you telling me this? You have a husband. If you want another child, surely—"
"No."
The word was quiet.
It landed with the weight of something final.
Oskar turned to her fully.
"No?" he repeated.
She looked up at him with determination, and said, "Not with him."
He stared at her.
Then at the sleeping child.
Then back at her face.
"Bertha," he said carefully, "that is not how the world works."
She shifted Alfried slightly, adjusting the blanket with practiced gentleness.
"The world works," she said, "however the people in it decide it works."
Oskar leaned back, ran a hand through his hair.
"This is ridiculous," he said. "We're here to finish a deal. Weapons. Shipyards. Germany's future. Gustav is already working on what we agreed—"
"And I am not," Bertha said.
He paused.
She met his eyes evenly.
"You came here to secure Krupp," she continued. "And you have. But I didn't agree to become a footnote."
Oskar exhaled slowly.
"We agreed," he said. "Alfried was an exception. For the sake of the company. For the future. It worked. He's healthy. He'll inherit. That was the arrangement."
She looked down at the baby.
"I've changed my mind."
Oskar frowned.
"You can't," he said. "That's not how agreements work."
Bertha turned toward him, fully now.
"You don't get to cross a line with me," she said calmly, "and then decide unilaterally that it was only a transaction."
His jaw tightened.
"Oh, come on," he said. "You knew what you were doing."
"Yes," she replied.
"And so did you."
He stood, pacing once, trying to regain his footing.
"This is madness," he muttered. "Think about Gustav. Think about the court. Think about my father—"
"I have," Bertha said.
"And I don't care."
The words were soft.
Unmovable.
Oskar stopped pacing.
"I care," he said. "That's the problem. This child needs stability. You need protection. Distance is—"
"Distance," she interrupted, "is your solution to everything you don't want to feel."
She held his gaze.
"Then there is no deal."
Oskar felt the room tilt.
"…What?"
"You heard me."
He stared at her, incredulous.
"You would throw this away?" he demanded. "The guns? The shipyards? Everything Germany needs?"
"I would," she said simply.
Oskar laughed again, this time without humor.
"This is bigger than us," he said sharply. "Millions could die if we fail. You know that."
Bertha leaned closer, her voice quiet.
"Then if it matters that much," she said,
"stop pretending you don't want what you already took once. Take some responsibility, you big baby."
Alfried stirred, making a small sound.
Oskar's shoulders sagged.
He closed his eyes.
"…Damn it."
He stood there for a long moment—nineteen years old, head of an industrial empire, holding the fate of fleets and factories—and defeated by a woman on a sofa and a sleeping child.
Finally, without looking at her, he said,
"Fine."
She didn't move.
"Put Alfried down," he added. "And… we'll talk privately in the closet, ten minutes should be enough."
Her eyes widened, joy breaking through her composure.
"You promise?"
Oskar swallowed.
"…Yes."
She moved carefully, still mother-first, laying Alfried on the sofa and tucking a thin blanket around him. Then she stood and took Oskar's hand.
Despite being half his size, she led him toward the tall wardrobe at the side of the office with absolute certainty.
Oskar followed, muttering under his breath,
"This is so wrong."
Bertha smiled, already certain.
"This is so right."
The wardrobe doors closed behind them.
The office returned to silence—broken only by the crackle of the fire, the steady ticking of the clock, and the distant rhythm of Krupp's factories beyond the window.
Inside the wardrobe, voices dropped—first to murmurs, then to laughter, then to the quiet intensity of two people who had stopped pretending restraint was still an option.
Oskar sighed, long and resigned, as if surrendering to a fate he had known was waiting for him all along.
"Next time," he muttered, "we use paperwork."
Bertha's answer was soft, amused, and entirely unconcerned with his dignity.
The fire popped.
The clock continued its merciless count.
On the sofa, Alfried shifted in his sleep.
One tiny hand twitched. His brow furrowed for a moment, then relaxed again, lips pursing as if he were negotiating with some grand dream only infants understood. Whatever it was, it seemed to please him—he made a small, contented sound and burrowed deeper into the cushions.
Perhaps he dreamed of warmth.
Perhaps of familiar voices.
Perhaps—if dreams could already carry ambition—of a world that would someday bend itself around him.
The office remained quiet.
The factory beyond the window kept breathing.
And somewhere in that carefully maintained silence, Germany's future took another step—one no contract, no ledger, and no law would ever fully explain.