The Whitmore estate occupied an entire city block in Ashworth's most prestigious district. Its iron gates were polished weekly, its gardens maintained by a staff of twelve, and its morning routines ran with the precision of a military operation.
At precisely six-thirty, Vera was awake.
At six-forty-five, she had completed her training routine in the estate's private gymnasium—two hundred push-ups, three hundred sit-ups, thirty minutes of combat forms that her instructor had drilled into her muscle memory before she'd turned ten.
At seven o'clock, she was showered, dressed in her school uniform, and standing outside Adrian's bedroom door with a breakfast tray.
She knocked. Once. Firmly.
Silence.
She counted to ten, then knocked again.
More silence, followed by a muffled groan that she recognized as Adrian's "five more minutes" noise.
Vera's expression didn't change, but something that might have been fond exasperation flickered behind her eyes. She balanced the tray on one hand, turned the door handle with the other, and entered.
The curtains were still drawn. Adrian's room existed in a state of organized chaos—books stacked on every surface, papers scattered across his desk, a half-finished letter to his cousin in Northmoor lying abandoned on the floor. The bed was a tangle of expensive linens and one unconscious aristocrat who had, predictably, stayed up too late reading again.
"Mr. Whitmore," Vera said. "It's seven o'clock."
The tangle of blankets shifted. "Mmmph."
"You have school in ninety minutes."
"Don' wanna."
Vera set the tray on his nightstand—toast, eggs, tea prepared exactly how he liked it—and moved to the windows. She pulled the curtains open in one efficient motion.
Sunlight flooded the room.
Adrian made a sound like a dying seal and burrowed deeper into the blankets.
"Mr. Whitmore."
"You're cruel, Vera. Exceptionally cruel."
"Your literature essay is due today."
He shot upright so fast he nearly tumbled out of bed. "What? No, that's not—" He grabbed for the paper on his desk, scanned it frantically, then deflated. "Oh. Right. I finished it last night."
"At two-thirty in the morning," Vera said. "I know. I heard you pacing."
Adrian had the grace to look sheepish. He was wearing a nightshirt that was slightly too large for him, his dark hair sticking up in at least five different directions. At seventeen, he still looked impossibly young in the mornings—soft features, gentle eyes, the kind of face that made strangers want to protect him.
Vera had been protecting him for so long she no longer remembered what it felt like to not be vigilant.
"I couldn't sleep," he said. "I kept thinking about the argument structure in the third paragraph. Do you think I should have—"
"Your argument was sound," she interrupted. "Eat your breakfast."
"Right. Yes." He stumbled out of bed, nearly tripped over his own feet, and caught himself on the bedpost. "I'm awake. Fully awake. Very alert."
He promptly walked into the chair.
Vera was beside him in an instant, one hand steadying his elbow. "Careful."
"Sorry. I'm not usually this..." He gestured vaguely at himself. "Disastrous."
This was a lie. Adrian Whitmore was *always* this disastrous in the mornings. He had the coordination of a newborn foal before nine AM, a fact that Vera had been compensating for since she was eight years old.
"Sit," she said, guiding him to the chair by his desk. "Eat."
He obeyed, still blinking sleep from his eyes. Vera moved through the room with practiced efficiency—gathering his books, checking his satchel, locating the coat he'd thrown over his wardrobe door the previous evening.
"What would I do without you?" Adrian said around a bite of toast.
The question was rhetorical. He asked it often. Vera never answered.
She smoothed a wrinkle from his coat and laid it across the back of his chair. "You have a meeting with Professor Caldwell at lunch regarding your thesis proposal."
"Oh, Lord. I forgot about that." He ran a hand through his hair, making it worse. "Do you think he'll approve the topic? I know it's unconventional, but the economic implications of the Ashworth textile riots are genuinely fascinating—"
"He'll approve it," Vera said. "Your research is thorough."
"You always say that."
"I'm always correct."
The corner of Adrian's mouth twitched. It wasn't quite a smile, but it was close. "I suppose you are."
He ate in silence for a moment, and Vera used the opportunity to straighten his desk. She'd done this thousands of times—organized his chaos, created order from disorder, ensured that he had everything he needed before he even realized he needed it.
Her fingers brushed the letter to his cousin. She didn't read it—she never read his private correspondence—but she recognized the handwriting. Neat at the beginning, increasingly frantic toward the end. He'd been excited about something when he wrote it.
"Vera?"
She turned. Adrian was watching her with that particular expression he got sometimes—thoughtful, curious, like he was trying to solve an equation that kept changing variables.
"Yes?"
"Are you happy here?"
The question caught her off-guard. Not that her expression showed it. "Sir?"
"Here. At Thornefield. With..." He gestured vaguely. "Everything. Are you happy?"
Vera's hands stilled on the papers she'd been organizing. Happiness was not something she'd been trained to consider. Duty, loyalty, protection—these were her parameters. These were what mattered.
"I'm content," she said finally.
"That's not the same thing."
"It's sufficient."
Adrian frowned. "I worry sometimes that you're... I don't know. That we're asking too much of you. My family, I mean. You should be able to just be a student. Have friends. Go to parties. Do normal seventeen-year-old things."
"I have everything I require," Vera said. This was true. She had purpose, structure, someone to protect. What else could she possibly need?
"But do you have what you want?" Adrian pressed. He'd set down his tea, was looking at her with those earnest gray eyes that made lying to him feel like a mortal sin.
What she wanted.
What she wanted was standing three feet away, looking at her with genuine concern, completely unaware that he was the only thing she'd ever wanted in her entire life.
"I want you to finish your breakfast," she said. "We leave in forty minutes."
Adrian opened his mouth like he wanted to argue, then closed it. "You're deflecting."
"I'm being practical."
"You're always practical."
"Someone needs to be."
He smiled at that—a real smile, soft and warm and entirely unconscious. "I suppose that's true. What would I do without my practical Vera?"
Your Vera.
She turned away before he could see whatever her face was doing. "Get dressed, Mr. Whitmore. I'll wait in the hallway."
"You don't have to—"
"I'll wait in the hallway," she repeated, and left before he could protest further.
The hallway outside Adrian's room was quiet. Vera stood with her back to the door, hands clasped behind her, and breathed.
Just breathed.
This was the worst part of the day. The morning, when he was soft and sleep-rumpled and unguarded. When he asked her questions that had answers she could never give. When he smiled at her like she was something more than an employee.
*What would I do without you?*
He asked it like a joke. Like he didn't know the answer was *everything*. Like he couldn't see that she'd built her entire existence around making sure he never had to find out.
Inside the room, she heard him moving around, the sounds of drawers opening and closing, a muffled curse when he presumably couldn't find his cufflinks.
Without thinking, she reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a small cloth bundle. Inside were his cufflinks—silver, engraved with the Whitmore family crest. He'd left them on his bathroom counter yesterday.
She'd picked them up without comment. She always did.
The door opened. Adrian emerged, mostly dressed but struggling with his collar. "I can't get this damned thing to—"
Vera was already moving. She plucked the collar from his fumbling fingers and fastened it with the efficiency of long practice. They were close—closer than was probably appropriate—but this was routine. This was normal.
Adrian stood very still while she worked. She could feel his breath, warm against her forehead. Could see the exact pattern of gold flecks in his gray eyes. Could count his heartbeats if she wanted to.
She didn't want to.
(She absolutely wanted to.)
"There," she said, stepping back the instant the collar was secured. "Your cufflinks."
She held them out. Their fingers brushed as he took them.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "I don't know how you always know where everything is."
"It's my job to know."
"Still." He was fastening the cufflinks now, not looking at her. "I appreciate it. I appreciate you."
The words settled somewhere in her chest, warm and painful and impossible.
"We should go," she said. "Your father wants to speak with you before we leave."
Adrian's expression shifted immediately to resignation. "About the engagement discussions, I assume."
Vera's stomach did something complicated. "Most likely."
"Wonderful. Nothing I love more than a lecture about duty and bloodlines before eight AM." He sighed, grabbed his satchel, and headed for the stairs. "Come on, then. Might as well get it over with."
Vera followed, two paces behind and one pace to the left.
As always.
Lord Whitmore was in his study, reading the morning newspaper with the sort of intense focus that usually meant bad news. He looked up when Adrian knocked, his stern features softening marginally.
"Adrian. Good. Sit."
Adrian sat. Vera remained by the door, a shadow in uniform.
"Father, if this is about Lady Vivienne—"
"It's not about Lady Vivienne," Lord Whitmore interrupted. "Well. Not entirely. There's been some concern about your... public image."
Adrian blinked. "My what?"
"Yesterday's incident. On the staircase." Lord Whitmore glanced at Vera, his expression unreadable. "While we're all grateful for Miss Ashton's quick reflexes, the manner in which she... caught you... has apparently become the subject of considerable gossip."
Adrian's face went red. "Father, she was preventing me from cracking my skull open. What was she supposed to do?"
"I'm not criticizing her actions, Adrian. I'm simply informing you that people are talking. The students, the faculty, even some of the servants." He folded his newspaper with precise movements. "You're seventeen. She's seventeen. You spend a considerable amount of time together, and people... speculate."
"That's ridiculous," Adrian said hotly. "Vera is my bodyguard. It's a professional arrangement."
"I'm aware of that. However, perception matters in our circles. I need you to be mindful of appearances."
Vera's hands tightened behind her back. She kept her expression perfectly neutral, but something cold was spreading through her chest.
"I'm always mindful," Adrian said, though his tone suggested otherwise.
"Are you?" Lord Whitmore's gaze was sharp. "Because Professor Hendricks mentioned that you turned down an invitation to Lady Pemberton's garden party last week. The third invitation you've declined this month."
"I had studying to do—"
"You had Miss Ashton." It wasn't quite an accusation, but it was close. "Adrian, I understand that you're comfortable with her. You've known her most of your life. But you need to build relationships with your peers. Eligible young ladies of appropriate standing."
The cold in Vera's chest was spreading. She focused on a point on the wall behind Lord Whitmore's head and breathed.
Adrian was gripping the arms of his chair. "With all due respect, Father, my education is more important than garden parties."
"Your future is more important than your pride," Lord Whitmore countered. "The Vivienne matter is still under discussion. Her family is interested. You should be, too."
"I barely know her."
"That's what courtship is for."
Adrian stood abruptly. "May I be excused? I'll be late for school."
Lord Whitmore studied him for a long moment, then waved a hand. "Go. But think about what I've said."
"Yes, Father."
Adrian walked past Vera without looking at her. She followed, as always, two paces behind.
They didn't speak in the carriage.
Adrian stared out the window, his jaw tight, his hands clenched in his lap. Vera sat across from him, perfectly still, watching him without appearing to watch him.
"I'm sorry," he said finally, just as they turned onto Academy Row.
Vera's eyes shifted to him. "For what, sir?"
"For... that. For my father bringing you into it. It's not fair to you."
"Your father is correct to be concerned about perception."
"That doesn't make it less stupid." He was angry now, really angry—a rare state for Adrian Whitmore. "You're doing your job. People should mind their own business."
"People rarely do."
"Well, they should." He slumped back against the seat, suddenly looking exhausted. "I don't want to court Lady Vivienne. I don't want any of this."
"What do you want?" Vera asked before she could stop herself.
Adrian looked at her. Really looked, his gray eyes searching her face like he was trying to find an answer written there.
"I don't know," he said quietly. "But not this."
The carriage stopped. They'd arrived at Thornefield Academy.
Vera opened the door, stepped out, and offered her hand to help him down—pure habit, unnecessary, but routine.
Adrian took it.
His fingers were warm in hers.
For just a moment—a single, stupid moment—Vera let herself imagine what it would be like if this meant something. If the touch was more than duty. If his hand in hers was a choice instead of a convenience.
Then he released her, smiled his gentle smile, and headed toward the Academy gates.
And Vera followed, two paces behind and one pace to the left, where she belonged.