Chapter Text
The piercing, relentless shriek of the morning alarm ripped through the silent air of the loft.
Kat groaned, a sound of exhaustion, rolling over and burying her face into the slightly lumpy pillow. She reached a blind arm out from beneath the duvet, smacking the bedside table until her hand connected with her phone, swiping the alarm into submission.
She didn't move for another ten minutes.
When she had finally fled the Targaryen estate the previous evening, abandoning Baelor to the wolves, she hadn't felt guilty. She had felt a crushing wave of total fatigue. The 2 AM corporate showdown with her father's board of directors, followed immediately by the reality of dragging a one-year-old through a public school, had drained her batteries.
The moment she had unlocked the door to her flat, she hadn't even bothered to take off her top. She had kicked her boots into the corner, collapsed face-first onto her mattress, and had been dead to the world within thirty seconds.
Now, dragging herself up into a sitting position, she rubbed her eyes, feeling the crusty, smudged remains of yesterday's eyeliner clinging to her lashes.
"Ugh," Kat muttered, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed.
She reached for her phone, squinting against the harsh brightness of the screen as she checked the time. It was six-fifteen. She had to be at the school by seven-thirty to set up the kilns for Markl before her form class arrived.
She pulled up her notifications.
There, sitting at the top of her lock screen, was a text message received at 8:42 PM the previous night.
DICTIONARY BOY 🤓 : You abandoned your post, Miss Hart. My brother is an incompetent fool, and my son is currently devastated by your absence. You will not leave early again.
Kat stared at the message. The arrogant audacity of the text was staggering. He wasn't asking where she went; he was commanding her. He was attempting to assert dominance over her evening schedule via SMS.
A slow smile spread across Kat’s face. The exhaustion was instantly burned away by the spark of conflict.
She didn't apologize.
Her thumbs flew across the keyboard, crafting a response that was devoid of respect for the CEO.
KAT: Morning, Dictionary Boy. I didn't abandon my post. My contracted shift ended. I came home and immediately died. Monday broke me. Also, I don't understand why you're having a meltdown. Your brother was standing right there. He is a fully grown man who has two teenage sons of his own. If he can manage urban development policy, he can surely manage a one-year-old and some macaroni for thirty minutes without plunging the estate into anarchy. I will see you tonight. Do not be late.
She hit send, tossing the phone onto the vanity table, and headed for the shower to scrub the lingering sleep from her skin.
Miles away, in the sunlight-flooded dining room of the Targaryen estate, Maekar sat at the head of a polished mahogany table.
He was wearing a navy three-piece suit, his silver tie knotted with precision. He looked every inch the Ice Dragon of the financial sector.
But internally, he was vibrating with uncharacteristic level of anxiety.
He had checked his phone no fewer than fourteen times since waking up. He had checked it before his shower. He had checked it while adjusting his cufflinks. He had checked it while waiting for the coffee to brew.
Nothing... radio silence.
He had fired off that text message the night before, fully expecting her to immediately bite back, to engage in the digital sparring match that had become his favorite part of the day. But she had simply ghosted him. She had left his message on 'delivered' and vanished into the night.
It was infuriating. It was out of his control.
Baelor sat to Maekar’s right, looking significantly more rested than he had the previous evening. The politician was wearing a crisp white shirt and a dark grey blazer, sipping his coffee and reading a digital news brief on his tablet.
Daeron, Aemon, and Aerion were seated further down the table, quietly consuming a breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast. The private chef had returned this morning, looking nervous, but Maekar had explicitly ordered him to abandon the unseasoned oats in favor of actual, recognizable food. The boys were thrilled.
Bzzzt.
Maekar’s phone, resting face-up next to his coffee cup, vibrated sharply against the table.
Maekar’s hand shot out, snatching the device before the vibration had even finished. He unlocked the screen, his eyes zeroing in on the notification banner.
He read Kat’s message.
I don't understand why you're having a meltdown. Your brother was standing right there... If he can manage urban development policy, he can surely manage a one-year-old and some macaroni for thirty minutes.
Maekar stared at the text. His jaw clenched, the muscle feathering visibly beneath his beard.
She had called his bluff. She was utilizing logic. To admit that his older brother—a powerful politician and father of two—was entirely, fundamentally useless at childcare would be to admit weakness within the Targaryen bloodline. It would give her ammunition.
Maekar’s eyes snapped up from the phone, locking onto Baelor with a glare of freezing menace.
Baelor paused mid-sip, lowering his coffee cup slowly. He recognized that look. It was the look Maekar usually reserved for hostile board members right before he initiated a corporate decapitation.
"Maekar?" Baelor asked cautiously, his political instincts flaring. "Why are you looking at me as if I have just embezzled funds from the company pension?"
"Kat has responded," Maekar stated, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that carried easily down the length of the long table. The boys immediately stopped eating, looking up.
"Oh?" Baelor asked, trying for a casual tone. "And what did the Consulting Domestic Anarchist have to say for herself?"
"She rightfully pointed out," Maekar continued, his eyes never leaving his brother, "that you are a fully grown man who has successfully raised two teenage sons. She finds it illogical that you were incapable of managing a single baby for thirty minutes without plunging the kitchen into a state of catastrophic, tear-stained anarchy."
Baelor swallowed hard, a faint flush of embarrassment creeping up his neck. "I... I was taken off guard. The infant detonated without warning."
"I cannot tell her that you are useless, Baelor," Maekar growled softly, leaning forward. "If I admit that the men in this family are incapable of basic domestic survival, she will view us as a liability rather than an asset. She will use it against me in future negotiations."
Maekar picked up his phone, his thumbs moving rapidly across the keyboard.
"Therefore," Maekar announced, not looking up from the screen, "I am currently informing her that her logic is flawless. And, to ensure I do not have to admit your incompetence, you will be required to validate her assumption."
Baelor froze, his coffee cup hovering inches from the saucer. "Wait. Why me? Validate it how?"
Maekar hit send, placing the phone back on the table. He looked at his brother, his expression entirely uncompromising.
"You must arrive at the estate late this evening, Baelor," Maekar commanded smoothly. "You must ensure that when Katherine arrives for her shift, I am already present and managing the situation. If you are here, she will expect you to assist. If you are absent, she cannot judge your failings. Stay at your office. Go to a gala. I do not care. But you will not cross the threshold of this house until past eight o'clock."
Baelor stared at his brother, bewildered by the lengths Maekar was willing to go to to protect his pride from a primary school teacher.
"You are banishing me from my own sanctuary because you are afraid of losing an argument via text message," Baelor summarized, shaking his head.
"I am securing the perimeter," Maekar corrected flatly.
Baelor sighed, recognizing that arguing with his brother when he was in full 'Ice Dragon' mode was entirely futile. "Fine. I can do that. I have a committee meeting that I can easily extend. I will arrive late."
"Excellent," Maekar nodded, returning his attention to his coffee.
At the far end of the table, Aerion was pushing a piece of scrambled egg around his plate with his fork.
The ten-year-old had not slept well. He had stayed up late into the night, hiding under his duvet with the burner phone Leo had given him. He hadn't been playing video games. He had been diving headfirst down the digital rabbit hole Ruby had opened in the cafeteria.
He had watched the TikTok edits. He had read the financial blogs. He had scrolled through endless articles detailing the ruthless, charitable shadow-reign of Lindsay Barlaeris, the Blood Wyvern. He had found her fascinating. She was powerful, she was secretive, and she used her billions to actually build things for people who needed them, rather than just buying another yacht.
Aerion looked up from his plate. He looked at his uncle, who was reviewing a political brief, and his father, who was scowling at his smartphone.
Aerion took a deep breath. He decided to drop the grenade.
"Uncle Baelor," Aerion asked, his voice ringing clearly in the quiet dining room. "Dad."
Both men paused, looking down the table at the ten-year-old.
"I was reading the news last night," Aerion lied smoothly, keeping his posture perfectly aristocratic. "And I saw an article about a new youth center opening in the lower-east district. It was fully funded by Barlaeris Holdings. Specifically, by the Blood Wyvern."
The temperature in the dining room plummeted instantly.
Maekar froze, his coffee cup halfway to his mouth. Baelor stiffened, his eyes darting nervously toward his younger brother. Daeron and Aemon exchanged a glance, recognizing the forbidden name.
"Aerion," Maekar rumbled, his voice dropping into a dangerous register. The very mention of the Barlaeris heir in his home was an act of treason. "Why are you researching the charitable contributions of a hostile corporate entity?"
"I was just curious," Aerion shrugged, entirely unbothered by the freezing atmosphere. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, fixing his father with an innocent, questioning stare. "The article said she donates over twenty billion pounds a year to public infrastructure. It made me wonder... why don't we do that?"
Baelor choked on his coffee, coughing violently into his napkin.
Maekar stared at his son as if the boy had just sprouted wings and demanded to be fed a live goat.
"Why don't we do that?" Maekar repeated, his voice laced with incredulity.
"Yeah," Aerion nodded. "We have the money. We have just as much as they do. Why don't we build youth centers? Or fund art programs?"
Baelor, recovering from his coughing fit, attempted to run political interference before Maekar exploded.
"Aerion, Targaryen Enterprises is a commercial infrastructure conglomerate," Baelor explained smoothly, utilizing his best parliamentary tone. "We build the foundations of society. We construct shipping lanes, we refine energy, we build commercial hubs. We facilitate the economy that allows charities to exist. We approach philanthropy through systemic economic stabilization, not direct handouts."
"But the Blood Wyvern does both," Aerion countered, ruthlessly dismantling his uncle's political spin. "She runs half the company, she beats Dad to deals, and she still builds youth centers. It seems more efficient."
Maekar’s jaw clenched so tightly the muscle leaped visibly beneath his skin. The boy was actively praising his arch-nemesis at the breakfast table.
"Do not speak of that woman as if she is a paragon of virtue, Aerion," Maekar growled, his violet eyes burning with a dark, intense fury. "Lindsay Barlaeris is a coward. She is a little girl who hides behind her father's name and a wall of non-disclosure agreements."
"But she doesn't hide behind her father," Aerion argued, pushing back with the facts he had learned. "When I looked it up, the articles said that most of the major acquisitions—like the Asian fleet deal—were signed under her signature, not Heltar’s. She outbid you directly, Dad."
Daeron physically shrank in his chair. Aemon pushed his glasses up his nose, looking terrified. Baelor stared at his nephew, floored by the boy's suicidal bravery.
Maekar slowly set his coffee cup down on the saucer. The clink sounded like a gunshot in the quiet room.
"Lindsay Barlaeris," Maekar began, his voice a low, vibrating hum of obsessed hatred, "is an erratic, unpredictable, entirely unethical menace to the global market. She does not operate on logic. She operates on chaos. She swoops into negotiations at the eleventh hour, entirely disrupting months of careful strategic planning, simply to cause destruction. She is a financial vandal."
Maekar leaned forward, his hands flat on the mahogany table, his eyes blazing as he launched into a full, passionate rant.
"She lacks any sense of corporate decorum! She refuses to attend board meetings, she refuses to engage in standard diplomatic channels, and she utilizes her vast wealth to manipulate the market like it is a personal playground! She is infuriating. She is a constant, lingering, unpredictable threat to every single operational protocol I establish!"
Daeron, Aemon, and Aerion sat frozen, staring at their father.
They weren't terrified. They were confused.
Because Maekar didn't sound like a man discussing a hated business rival. His voice was thick with passion. His eyes were bright, intense, and completely captivated. He sounded exactly like a man describing a woman he couldn't stop thinking about.
Aerion let out a weary sigh, dropping his head forward to rest against his hands.
"Great," Aerion muttered loudly into his palms. "Ruby was right."
Maekar stopped his rant abruptly. He frowned, looking down the table at his son. "What do you mean? Who is Ruby, and what was she right about?"
Aerion lifted his head, fixing his father with a look of exhausted teenage judgment. "Ruby is a girl in some of my classes. And she was right. People ship you two online. There are thousands of videos on the internet of people editing pictures of you and the Blood Wyvern together, because you sound exactly like you're in a dramatic, enemies-to-lovers romance novel."
Baelor let out a loud, sudden bark of laughter, unable to contain himself. He slapped a hand over his mouth, his shoulders shaking as he watched his brother's face drain of all color.
"Ship us?!" Maekar roared, his composure shattering. The idea that the public was romanticizing his bitter, blood-feud rivalry with the Barlaeris heir was repulsive. "I cannot stand the girl! I despise her methodology, her family, and her entire existence! It is not a fairy tale!"
"It sounds like a fairy tale, Dad," Daeron chimed in, feeling a surge of bravery. "You literally just spent three minutes passionately describing how unpredictable and mysterious she is."
"I was describing a corporate threat!" Maekar yelled, entirely defensive, his face flushing a dark, angry red. He stood up from his chair, towering over the table. "And for the record, I already have a woman currently holding my attention! A woman who is real, who is present, and who actually interacts with my children! The public can keep their ridiculous fantasies. I am not interested in the Blood Wyvern."
Baelor, having recovered from his laughter, leaned back in his chair, swirling his coffee. He looked at his brother, his eyes gleaming with a cynical, deeply knowing light.
Sure you aren't, Baelor thought, watching Maekar adjust his suit jacket indignantly.
Baelor knew his brother. He knew Maekar’s obsession with control, and his fatal attraction to things that challenged him.
If Katherine Hart and Lindsay Barlaeris were somehow put in a locked room together, Baelor was certain that Maekar would experience a fleeting, microsecond of hesitation... before launching himself directly at the Blood Wyvern, throwing her over his shoulder, and carrying her off to have angry, destructive sex on a boardroom table.
Maekar caught Baelor’s cynical stare. His eyes narrowed, instantly reading the unspoken, inappropriate thoughts running through his brother's head.
"Stop looking at me like that, Baelor," Maekar growled, striding toward the dining room doors. "I know exactly what you are thinking, and you are wrong. I do not want chaos. I want color in my life. And Katherine provides that."
"Whatever you say, little brother," Baelor smirked, taking a sip of his coffee. "I shall see you this evening. Late, as requested."
Maekar ignored him, sweeping out of the dining room to head for his waiting Maybach.
He was going to the office. He was going to conquer the Asian markets. And then, he was going to come home and prove to the Queen of the Gremlins that he was infinitely more capable than his useless older brother.
Maekar sat at the head of the obsidian table, he sat in silence, his hands steepled in front of his face, his eyes narrowed into lethal, predatory slits.
He was in an exceptional foul mood.
Standing at the far end of the room, sweating profusely beneath the harsh glare of the recessed LED lighting, was the Senior Vice President of Asian Acquisitions. The man’s hands were trembling so violently that the laser pointer he was aiming at the digital presentation board was performing a frantic, erratic dance across the bar graphs.
"The... the situation in the Pacific sector has, unfortunately, sustained a rapid and unforeseen destabilization, Mr. Targaryen," the Vice President stammered, swallowing hard and tugging at the collar of his expensive shirt.
Maekar did not blink. "Define 'destabilization,' Henderson."
"We have been outmaneuvered, sir," Henderson admitted, his voice cracking slightly. He clicked to the next slide, revealing a sprawling map of the eastern shipping routes. "Our integration of the Tokyo fleet was contingent upon securing exclusive docking rights at the primary deep-water port in Yokohama. However, as of 0800 hours this morning, those rights were acquired by a competing entity."
"Acquired by whom?" Maekar demanded, though the dark, churning intuition in his gut already knew the answer.
Henderson flinched as if anticipating a physical blow. "Barlaeris Holdings, sir. Specifically... the acquisition order was signed and executed personally by the primary shareholder. Lindsay Barlaeris."
The collective breath of the twenty executives seated around the table was sucked out of the room.
The Blood Wyvern.
Maekar’s jaw clenched with such violent force that his teeth ground audibly together. The muscle in his cheek feathered dangerously. He let out a low, dangerous growl that resonated through the chest cavities of everyone present.
"She swooped in," Maekar rumbled, his voice dropping into a chilling, barely contained whisper, "and secured the Yokohama ports out from under a twelve-month negotiation pipeline?"
"She offered the port authority a thirty percent premium above market value, paid entirely in liquid capital, and guaranteed full funding for the revitalization of the surrounding municipal infrastructure," Henderson explained miserably, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. "It was a midnight coup, sir. We had no intelligence suggesting Barlaeris was even operating in that sector. She practically materialized out of thin air to cut our supply lines."
Maekar stared at the digital map. The infuriating ghost of the financial sector had struck again. She had waited until his resources were entirely committed to the Tokyo merger, and then she had flawlessly severed the logistical artery he needed to sustain the operation.
She wasn't just a rival; she was a phantom menace. And he hated her for it.
"Get out," Maekar stated, his voice flat and devoid of any inflection.
Henderson blinked. "Sir?"
"Get out. All of you," Maekar commanded, rising smoothly to his full, towering height. The overwhelming wave of authoritative menace rolling off his frame was suffocating. "You have failed to secure the perimeter. You have failed to monitor hostile corporate movements. I do not wish to look at any of you for the remainder of the afternoon. Vacate the room."
The executives didn't need to be told a third time. Chairs scraped violently against the carpet as highly paid, powerful men and women practically scrambled over one another to escape the boardroom, terrified the Ice Dragon would spontaneously begin firing them all.
Within thirty seconds, the boardroom was empty.
Maekar stood alone in the chilling silence. He turned on his heel and strode out of the boardroom, marching down the glass-walled corridor toward his private office.
He threw the doors open, stalking behind his desk. He dropped into his executive chair, ripping his silk tie loose with an aggressive yank of his hand.
He was furious. He was stressed. He was staring down the barrel of a multi-billion-pound logistical nightmare that required immediate, surgical restructuring. He pulled the thick, leather-bound Tokyo portfolio toward him, flipping it open and glaring at the spreadsheets, his mind racing through dozens of retaliatory strategies.
Right in the middle of a complex calculation regarding maritime fuel tariffs, his phone, resting face-up on the polished desk, suddenly erupted with a disruptive ringing tone.
Maekar scowled, his intense focus violently shattered. He looked down at the screen.
It was a FaceTime video call request.
The caller ID simply read: The Queen of the Gremlins.
Maekar’s scowl deepened. He checked his Rolex. It was 12:45 PM. It was technically the school's lunch hour.
Any other day, a call from Kat would have been the highlight of his afternoon. He would have answered immediately, ready to engage in their sharp, witty banter. But right now, his blood was boiling with corporate rage. His mind was consumed by the multi-billion-pound crisis the Blood Wyvern had just dropped directly into his lap. He did not have the bandwidth for chaotic domestic updates.
He almost hit the decline button.
But then, he remembered the accurate psychological warfare she had waged over the weekend. He remembered the post-it note. If he declined her call, she would undoubtedly assume he was ignoring her, and the retaliation upon his return to the estate would be catastrophic.
With a deeply irritated sigh, Maekar swiped the green accept button and propped the phone up against his crystal pen holder.
The screen flared to life, but Kat’s face was nowhere to be seen.
Instead, the camera was angled low, capturing the scuffed, paint-splattered linoleum floor of the King’s Row Academy art room.
In the immediate foreground, standing a few feet away from the lens, was Aegon. The toddler was bundled in a soft, bright blue long-sleeved shirt and vibrant green trousers, a slight contrast to his usual gray outfits. Behind Aegon, a pair of large, masculine hands clad in a leather jacket—undoubtedly belonging to the insufferable pottery teacher, Markl—were resting gently on the baby's shoulders, holding him steady.
"Okay, ready?" Kat’s voice filtered through the speaker, sounding entirely breathless, bright, and vibrating with joy. She was clearly holding the phone, kneeling on the floor just out of frame. "Let him go, Markl."
The leather-clad hands released the baby's shoulders.
Maekar frowned, his corporate irritation momentarily stalling as he stared at the screen.
Aegon stood perfectly still for a fraction of a second. The boy's wide eyes locked onto the camera lens. He let out a soft, happy babble, a tiny bubble of spit forming on his lips.
And then, Aegon took a step.
It wasn't a wobbly, assisted stagger. He lifted his tiny foot, planted it firmly on the linoleum, and shifted his weight. Then he took another step. And another.
"Come on, little dragon!" Kat cheered from behind the camera, her voice thick with proud encouragement. "You've got it! Keep going! One, two, one, two!"
Aegon’s face split into a triumphant grin. He picked up his pace, taking five, six, seven rapid, consecutive independent steps toward the camera, his arms flailing slightly for balance, before practically launching himself forward out of the frame.
"Gotcha!" Kat laughed loudly, a beautiful, ringing sound of pure happiness.
The camera fumbled slightly, shaking as Kat caught the baby. The phone was quickly repositioned, the lens flipping to capture the front-facing view.
Maekar found himself staring at a screen that was an explosion of color and joy.
Kat was sitting cross-legged on the floor, holding the giggling Aegon tightly against her chest. The baby’s violet eyes were crinkled shut with laughter, entirely thrilled by his successful sprint.
And Kat looked utterly radiant. She was wearing her fiery red hair styled it into two messy space-buns. She was wearing a bohemian halter top adorned with a stylized sun and moon print, layered with intricate beaded necklaces. Her eyes where currently dark grey colour from the contact lenses she was sporting that day, were shining with triumph.
"Did you see that?!" Kat beamed into the camera, holding Aegon up so his face was level with hers. "He walked all by himself! Almost ten whole steps! He’s a little track star, Maekar!"
She expected him to be thrilled. She expected the Ice Dragon to melt, to offer a rare, genuine smile, to match her joy.
But Maekar was sitting in a freezing office, staring at a multi-billion-pound deficit. The stress of the Tokyo integration and the blistering humiliation of the Barlaeris coup were entirely suffocating him. He looked at the phone, and instead of seeing a beautiful milestone, all his exhausted, over-pressured brain registered was an unauthorized interruption to a critical workflow.
"Katherine," Maekar stated, his voice a flat rumble. His face remained a mask of stone. "Why are you video-calling me in the middle of the corporate operational day to broadcast this?"
The brilliant smile on Kat’s face vanished instantly.
The bright, chaotic joy that had radiated from the screen was snuffed out as if someone had thrown a wet blanket over a roaring fire.
Aegon, sensing the sudden, drastic shift in his favorite person's energy, stopped giggling. He looked up at Kat, his lower lip trembling slightly in confusion.
Kat lowered the baby slightly, her posture stiffening. The warmth in her grey-lensed eyes froze into sharp, brittle shards of ice.
"Excuse me?" Kat asked, her northern accent sharpening, returning to the defensive, hostile edge she used against authority figures.
"I am currently managing a catastrophic logistical crisis regarding the Asian shipping fleets," Maekar continued, his tone clipped and lacking its usual, teasing banter. "I am in the middle of a triage operation. I do not have the bandwidth for domestic updates right now. You are paid to manage the boy during these hours so that I do not have to. Why are you calling me?"
It was the wrong thing to say. It was the absolute worst thing he could have possibly said to a woman who had just fought a literal corporate war against her own father to maintain her humanity.
Kat stared at him through the screen. The betrayal and the fury warring in her expression were devastating to witness.
"I called you," Kat hissed, her voice dropping into a low cold whisper that made the hair on Maekar’s arms stand up, "because he is your son. Because taking independent steps is a huge developmental milestone. And because it is currently one o'clock in the afternoon—your designated lunch hour—so I made the apparently foolish assumption that you were free."
"I do not take lunch hours," Maekar snapped, the stress bleeding into his temper. "I am busy, Katherine."
"God forbid I wanted to share a beautiful moment of your child's life with you," Kat spat back, shifting Aegon to her hip, her free hand coming up to gesture aggressively at the camera. "My mistake. I forgot that I am speaking to a malfunctioning calculator in a suit rather than an actual human father."
Maekar’s pride, already battered by the Blood Wyvern, flared into defensive hostility.
"Do not take that tone with me, Miss Hart," Maekar warned, his violet eyes flashing dangerously. He leaned closer to the phone, intentionally projecting his most intimidating boardroom aura. "Need I remind you of our current dynamic? I am your employer. You are contracted to provide a service. You will address me with the requisite professionalism."
Kat didn't flinch. She didn't cower.
She leaned directly into the camera, her face filling the screen.
"Let's get one thing straight right now, Dictionary Boy," Kat snarled, her voice vibrating with fury that easily matched his own. "I am not one of your terrified board members. You do not own me. You do not command me. I am doing you a monumental favor because your children are miserable under your tyranny. If you pull the 'employer' card on me one more time, you will profoundly regret it. Do not cross me."
Maekar stared at the screen, thrown by her pushback. He had expected her to be annoyed, but this was a visceral rejection of his authority.
"I must go," Maekar stated tightly, desperate to retreat from the conversation before he said something unforgivable. He reached for the phone. "I will be returning to the estate late this evening. I have significant work to complete."
Kat didn't say goodbye. She didn't look hurt anymore; she just looked disappointed.
As she moved to hang up the phone, her sharp, intelligent eyes flicked downward. Through the angle of Maekar’s camera, she caught a glimpse of the leather-bound portfolio open on his desk.
She paused.
Kat the hidden billionaire who had literally just executed the hostile takeover Maekar was currently agonizing over, possessed a photographic memory for logistical maps and shipping manifestos. Even upside down, and through a compressed video feed, she recognized the Tokyo integration portfolio. She saw the highlighted red deficit markers regarding the blocked Yokohama port.
She knew exactly why he was in a foul mood. He was panicking over the exact trap she had laid for him hours ago.
A cruel smirk touched the corner of Kat’s lips.
If he wanted to be an arrogant, dismissive CEO, she would treat him like one.
"You know," Kat said, her voice suddenly entirely calm, conversational, and dripping with absolute, condescending genius. "If you're so stressed about those Asian shipping routes... you're looking at the wrong map. You're completely bottle-necked at Yokohama. The tariffs will bleed you dry. You need to abandon the deep-water integration entirely."
Maekar froze, his hand hovering over the end-call button. He stared at the screen, entirely baffled. "What are you talking about?"
"Look at the secondary canals in Osaka," Kat instructed smoothly, pointing a manicured finger at her own screen. "They are currently unregulated by the new Pacific municipal bylaws. If you break the freight payloads into smaller, decentralized barges and route them through the Osaka network, you completely bypass the primary port tariffs. It increases your transit time by exactly fourteen hours, but it saves you nearly twelve percent in overhead municipal taxes. It negates the Yokohama deficit."
Maekar sat perfectly still. His analytical brain processed the data she had just casually hurled at him at the speed of light.
Osaka. Decentralized barges. Bypassing the municipal bylaws.
It was flawless. It was a staggering tactical pivot that his team of highly paid acquisitions analysts hadn't even considered. It solved the entire multi-billion-pound crisis in a single simple maneuver.
Before Maekar could even formulate a response—before he could even ask how a primary school art teacher knew anything about macro-economic maritime logistics—Kat turned her attention away from him.
She looked down at Aegon, bouncing him gently on her hip.
The cold, ruthless corporate strategist vanished, instantly replaced by the sweet, melodic, high-pitched voice of the Mama Wyvern.
"Oh, your daddy a dickhead! yes he is!" Kat cooed to the baby, offering Aegon a bright, sunny smile. "Your daddy is absolutely shit at business, yes he is! He can't even read a map!... No he can't! But you could little man. Who's a clever boy? You are!"
Aegon giggled thrilled by the baby talk.
Kat didn't look back at the camera.
Click.
The screen went black.
Maekar sat in his sixty-fourth-floor office alone.
He stared at his phone. He slowly lowered his gaze, looking down at the open portfolio on his desk. He traced his finger along the map, finding the secondary canals in Osaka. He ran the mental calculations. The transit time. The tariff bypass.
It worked. It worked perfectly.
Maekar squeezed his eyes shut, letting out a agonizing groan, dropping his head forward into his hands.
He hated the idea that her advice was brilliant. He hated the fact that he was going to have to use it to save the Tokyo merger. But more than anything, he hated the hollow, nauseating feeling twisting in his gut.
He had snapped at her. She had called to show him a beautiful, fleeting moment of his son's childhood, and he had treated her like an insubordinate employee. He had driven the warmth from her eyes and replaced it with cold disdain.
"You are a monumental idiot," Maekar whispered to himself in the quiet office.
He had won the boardroom, but he had lost the woman.
Ten minutes later, as Maekar was furiously drafting the revised Osaka integration protocols for his team, his phone buzzed again.
He snatched it up, desperately hoping Kat had texted him to continue the argument.
It wasn't Kat. It was Baelor.
Maekar swiped to accept the call, bringing the phone to his ear. "I am busy, Baelor. What is it?"
"Why," Baelor’s voice hissed through the speaker, sounding frantic, breathless, and panicked, "did the art teacher just call my private, highly classified, unlisted parliamentary cell phone?"
Maekar paused, his pen hovering over his notepad. "I beg your pardon?"
"She called me!" Baelor repeated, practically hyperventilating. "I was in the middle of a committee meeting regarding the new transit budget, and my emergency phone rang! The only people who have that number are the Prime Minister, the Head of National Security, and you!"
Maekar frowned, his corporate paranoia instantly flaring. "I did not surrender your contact information to her, Baelor. I do not even have it saved in my primary device for security purposes."
"Then how did she get it?!" Baelor demanded. "Is she a hacker? Did she infiltrate the government database? Because she bypassed two layers of digital encryption just to scream at me!"
Maekar rubbed his temples, feeling a severe migraine beginning to bloom. "Why was she screaming at you?"
"She chewed me out, Maekar!" Baelor yelled, entirely abandoning his political composure. "She informed me that you were acting like a 'pompous, emotionally stunted cunt'—her exact words—and that she refuses to spend another second in your presence today. She then demanded, with terrifying authority, that I be present at the estate by exactly 5:00 PM to accept the handover of the boys."
Maekar’s blood ran cold. The plan. The careful, manipulative plan he had orchestrated that morning to force Kat to interact with him instead of Baelor. She was tearing it down.
"And she said," Baelor continued, his voice trembling slightly, "that if I am not standing in the foyer at exactly 5:00 PM, she will personally hunt me down, drag me out of Parliament by my tweed lapels, and drop the children off in the middle of the House of Commons during a live broadcast."
Maekar let out a sigh. She was furious. She wasn't just establishing boundaries; she was going on the offensive.
"She is bluffing, Baelor," Maekar assured his brother, though he didn't sound entirely convinced himself. "She is angry because we had a... miscommunication regarding a video call. She will calm down."
"She did not sound like she was bluffing, Maekar! She sounded like a woman who owns a sledgehammer and knows how to use it!"
"Ignore the threat. Maintain the established parameters," Maekar instructed firmly, refusing to surrender control of the situation. "You will adhere to the original plan. You will arrive late. I will return to the estate at six o'clock, and I will handle the fallout. I will apologize to her then."
Baelor let out a long, suffering groan on the other end of the line.
"See that you do apologize, little brother," Baelor muttered, sounding incredibly tired. "Because if you do not fix this, she is going to murder us both in our sleep."
Baelor paused, taking a deep breath.
"And Maekar... there is one other slight complication to the evening's logistics."
"What complication?" Maekar asked, his patience wearing dangerously thin.
"Jena texted me during the committee meeting," Baelor admitted, wincing audibly. "She is departing for the charity gala earlier than expected. Which means... she is dropping Valarr and Matarys off at the estate this afternoon. For a sleepover. With your boys."
Maekar froze. The pen snapped in half under his crushing grip, ink spilling across the Tokyo portfolio.
"She is dropping my nephews off at the estate," Maekar repeated, his voice dangerously, lethally calm. "Today. The day that the art teacher is furious with me and threatening to abandon her post."
"Yes," Baelor confirmed weakly.
"I am going to murder your wife," Maekar growled.
"Get in line," Baelor sighed. "Just... be prepared. You are going to have five boys in that house tonight, Maekar. And a very, very angry art teacher. May the gods have mercy on your soul."
Baelor hung up.
Maekar sat in his office, covered in ink, staring at the brilliant, stolen business strategy on his desk.
He really didn't want to go home later.
The afternoon sun was beginning to dip below the city skyline, casting long, bruised shadows across the floor of the art room. The chaotic energy of the school day had finally ebbed, leaving behind a dust-mote-filled quiet.
Kat stood at the stainless-steel sinks, aggressively scrubbing a palette knife under the running tap. She was exhausted, covered in a fine dusting of plaster and smeared with three different shades of acrylic paint, but her mind was relentlessly focused on the ticking clock above the whiteboard.
It was 3:45 PM.
She shut the tap off with a sharp twist of her wrist, drying her hands on a stained rag. She reached into the pocket of her skirt and pulled out her phone.
She navigated her contacts, bypassing the infuriatingly silent number of 'Dictionary Boy', and tapped on Thomas’s contact listing.
The phone rang twice before the driver answered.
"Good afternoon, Miss Hart," Thomas’s polite, even voice drifted through the speaker.
"Afternoon, Thomas," Kat greeted, leaning her hip against the counter. She looked over at the brightly colored playpen in the center of the room. Aegon was currently sitting on the foam mats, engrossed in a vicious battle between a wooden block and his purple plush dragon. "Logistical question for you. What time are the older gremlins finished at St. Jude’s today? Do I need to head over there and sit in the pick-up queue, or are they occupied?"
"Master Daeron and Master Aemon are both enrolled in the advanced fencing academy this afternoon," Thomas reported efficiently. "Their bout concludes at exactly four-twenty-five. I am currently stationed near the academy perimeter, awaiting your arrival with Master Aerion and Master Aegon."
"Brilliant," Kat sighed, feeling a marginal wave of relief. At least she wouldn't have to wrangle the two older boys while simultaneously navigating the rush-hour traffic. "Aerion is currently in the music wing having his inaugural drumming lesson with Mr. Stool. He should be done in about same time as the other boys. I'll bundle the little ones up and meet you at St. Jude’s."
"Understood, Miss Hart. Drive safely," Thomas replied before disconnecting.
Kat slipped her phone back into her pocket and walked over to the playpen. She stepped over the low plastic fencing, dropping onto the mats next to the one-year-old.
"Right, Egg," Kat smiled, gently prying the wooden block out of the toddler's mouth before he could gnaw the paint off. "Let's get your shoes on, yeah? We’re going on a rescue mission to save your brothers from the posh boys."
Aegon babbled happily, entirely unbothered by the confiscation of his block. He grabbed Kat’s fingers, pulling himself up into a standing position and offering her a toothy grin.
For the next half hour, Kat kept the toddler entertained, practicing his wobbly, uncoordinated steps across the length of the playpen. He was getting braver, relying less on her hands and more on his own momentum.
At exactly half-past four, the door of the art room burst open.
Aerion practically flew into the room. He was wearing his oversized, faded green hoodie, but his face was flushed a bright, vibrant pink, and his chest was heaving with exertion. He looked exhausted, and elated. Clutched tightly in his hands were two slightly chipped, wooden drumsticks.
"Kat!" Aerion gasped, leaning against the doorframe to catch his breath. "It was brilliant! Mr. Stool is insane, but he’s brilliant!"
"I told you he was a madman," Kat laughed, scooping Aegon up and stepping out of the playpen. "How was the lesson, Duck? Did you master the downbeat?"
"He made me play the paradiddle until my wrists cramped," Aerion explained, walking over and dropping his backpack onto a desk. He didn't sound complaining; he sounded proud. "And then he taught me how to read basic sheet percussion! He said I have a natural tempo. He said I just need to stop thinking about the math and start feeling the crash!"
"He's right," Kat encouraged warmly, her mismatched grey lenses softening as she looked at the boy's glowing face. "You can't calculate a rock song, Aerion. You just have to hit things until they sound right. I am incredibly proud of you."
Aerion beamed, his eyes shining. The suffocating pressure of his former academic life felt miles away. Here, he was just a kid learning how to hit things with sticks.
"Right, pack it up, Ringo Starr," Kat ordered playfully, grabbing her tote bag and the baby bag. "We have to go collect the fencers. Thomas is waiting."
They walked out into the chilly late-afternoon air, the sky beginning to streak with the pale purples and bruised oranges of twilight.
They reached the staff parking lot. The town car was nowhere to be seen, having already at St. Jude’s. Kat’s Bentley sat waiting in the corner space.
Kat opened the rear door of the Bentley, expertly maneuvering the babbling Aegon into his high-end car seat she'd gotten for the boy to drive safely in her own car and securing the five-point harness.
She paused, resting her hand on the roof of the car. She thought about the evening ahead. She thought about the text message she had received from Maekar that morning—the arrogant, demanding tone, then his rudeness on phone at lunch. He'd not gotten in contact to apologize for his dismissive behavior.
She had told him she would be at the estate. She had told him not to be late.
But she also knew that Baelor Targaryen, the polished politician, was currently designated as the evening's primary caretaker. And despite her blazing fury toward Maekar, she felt a tiny, irritating sliver of pity for Baelor. Leaving him alone with four hungry boys felt a bit like kicking a puppy.
"Aerion," Kat called out over the roof of the car. "Do you have Daeron’s phone number?"
Aerion, who was walking around to the passenger side, stopped and frowned. "Yeah, why?"
"Text it to me," Kat instructed, pulling her own phone from her pocket. "I am feeling a microscopic shred of mercy toward your Uncle Baelor. I am going to buy you lot dinner before I leave him to suffer."
Aerion’s eyes widened in confusion. "Wait... Uncle Baelor is taking care of us tonight? Why? Where's you going?"
Kat’s jaw tightened, her grey lenses flashing with a cold spark of irritation.
"Your father," Kat stated, her tone sharpening into a crisp, northern edge, "is currently in a timeout. He needs to learn a very fundamental, very important lesson about respect and basic human decency. So, he is sitting in his glass tower, and your uncle is on the front lines."
Aerion nodded slowly, his ten-year-old brain struggling to process the concept of the terrifying Ice Dragon being placed in a 'timeout' by an art teacher. It was entirely unfathomable. "Okay. I'll send you the number."
"Brilliant," Kat smiled, sliding into the driver's seat of the Bentley.
Her phone buzzed. She tapped the notification, opening the text thread with Daeron’s newly acquired number. She didn't bother with a formal introduction. She hit the dial button, connecting the call through the Bentley’s vintage-styled, retrofitted Bluetooth system.
It rang three times.
"Hello?" Daeron’s voice answered, sounding breathless and slightly wary, clearly unused to receiving calls from unsaved numbers.
"Daeron, it's Kat," Kat announced over the rumble of the idling supercharged engine. "I am currently en route to McDonald's with Aerion and the baby. We are stopping for provisions. I need your McDonald's order, and I need Aemon’s."
There was a loud clatter on the other end of the line, followed by the distinct sound of a fencing foil hitting a gymnasium floor.
"McDonald's?!" Daeron gasped, his aristocratic poise instantly vanishing, replaced by ravenous teenage hunger. "You're getting McDonald's again?!"
"I am operating on a tight schedule and zero patience, Daeron. Speak quickly," Kat commanded playfully.
"Twenty-piece chicken nugget share box! Sweet and sour sauce! And a large fry!" Daeron recited frantically, clearly having memorized his dream order since Saturday. "Hang on, Aemon is right here! Aemon, Kat is getting McDonald's! What do you want?"
There was a muffled shuffling sound. "A double cheeseburger, please," Aemon’s quiet, polite voice drifted through the speaker. "And perhaps a strawberry milkshake, if the logistical parameters allow?"
"Logistical parameters are authorized, Aemon," Kat chuckled. "I will see you gremlins in ten minutes. Look for the massive black tank."
Kat hung up, throwing the Bentley into gear. The car surged forward, roaring out of the King’s Row parking lot.
The drive across the city was filled with the cheerful, chaotic noise of Aerion recounting every single detail of his drumming lesson. He mimed the paradiddle in the passenger seat, tapping his hands against his thighs, explaining the difference between the snare and the high-tom.
From the back seat, Aegon offered a steady, enthusiastic stream of nonsensical babble, waving his purple plush dragon in the air as if he, too, were recounting a highly complex tale of classroom warfare.
"So then Mr. Stool told me to close my eyes and just feel the rebound," Aerion explained, his eyes shining.
"He's a genius disguised as a madman, Duck," Kat agreed, navigating a tight roundabout with effortless precision. "You stick with him, and you'll be playing Led Zeppelin by Christmas."
They pulled into the St. Jude’s pick-up queue, Kat ignoring the glares of the Range Rover moms as she idled the roaring Bentley near the gates. Daeron and Aemon, looking sweaty and exhausted in their fencing whites, immediately spotted the car and jogged over, tossing their gear bags into the boot.
"Did you get the nuggets?" Daeron asked breathlessly as he climbed into the back seat next to Aegon’s car seat.
"I am a woman of my word, Daeron," Kat smirked, pointing to three grease-stained brown paper bags resting on the floorboards.
"Kat," Aemon said politely, buckling his seatbelt. "Aerion texted us earlier. He said Father is in trouble. Why is Uncle Baelor managing our evening protocols?"
Kat met Aemon’s eyes in the rearview mirror.
"Your father," Kat explained, her tone completely even, "was disrespectful. He forgot his manners, and he forgot that he is not the king of the world. So, he is experiencing the consequences of his actions. Your Uncle Baelor will be taking the handover tonight."
Daeron and Aemon exchanged a wide-eyed glance. Their father was 'in trouble'. It was a concept that broke the laws of their reality.
The Bentley roared back to life, speeding toward the Targaryen estate.
When they arrived, the house was entirely silent. The massive iron gates had parted automatically, and Kat parked the vintage car near the steps.
"Right, out you get," Kat ordered, grabbing the bags of fast food and hoisting Aegon onto her hip.
They marched into the grand foyer and headed straight for the kitchen.
Kat didn't mess about. She checked the heavy, silver clock on the kitchen wall. It was 4:45 PM.
"I have exactly twenty minutes until Baelor is scheduled to arrive and assume command," Kat announced, rapidly unpacking the paper bags. She tossed the boxes of nuggets to Daeron, slid the cheeseburger to Aemon, and handed Aerion a carton of fries. "Eat your food. Tell me about your day. And do not get ketchup on the marble island, or I will make you scrub it with a toothbrush."
For the next fifteen minutes, the kitchen was transformed into a bustling, messy haven of children joy. The boys devoured the fast food with feral intensity, talking over one another as they updated Kat on their day. Daeron bragged about his parry-riposte techniques in fencing. Aemon detailed a fascinating historical debate regarding Roman aqueducts. Aerion proudly confessed that he had actively given Leo incorrect information about their father's diet to fuel a fake history essay.
Kat sat at the head of the island, casually feeding Aegon individual french fries, laughing at their stories, offering advice, and acting as the perfect anchor they so desperately needed.
But as the clock ticked closer to five, her eyes kept darting toward the hallway doors.
4:55 PM.
4:58 PM.
5:02 PM.
The kitchen doors remained stubbornly closed. The house remained silent.
Kat’s jaw tightened. The warm, bubbly art teacher slowly faded, replaced by a cold, sharp, highly irritated professional.
5:05 PM.
Kat set her french fry down. She wiped her hands on a napkin, reaching into her pocket for her phone.
She pulled up the contact number she had saved for Baelor, hitting the dial button with a sharp tap of her thumb.
She put the phone on speaker, resting it flat on the marble island.
The boys immediately stopped chewing. They recognized the shift in her energy. They watched the phone with wide eyes.
The line rang twice.
"Baelor Targaryen," the smooth, perfectly modulated, political voice answered.
"Baelor," Kat stated, her northern accent entirely devoid of warmth, dropping into a tone that could have frozen vodka. "It is five-oh-five. Where are you?"
There was a brief pause on the other end of the line. The faint, muffled sound of office chatter and ringing telephones could be heard in the background.
"Miss Hart," Baelor replied, his voice tightening defensively. He was clearly sitting in his parliamentary office, surrounded by staff, and attempting to project an aura of unbothered authority. He was acting on Maekar’s explicit, uncompromising orders to arrive late. "I am currently detained at my office. I have a critical committee meeting regarding the urban transit budget that requires my immediate oversight."
Kat’s grey lenses narrowed into dangerous slits. "You were instructed to be at the estate at five o'clock for the handover."
"And you, Miss Hart," Baelor countered, attempting to stand his ground, heavily channeling his younger brother's corporate arrogance, "are officially on the payroll as a contracted employee. You have a job you are paid to do. I suggest you fulfill your operational parameters until I am able to relieve you. I will arrive when my schedule permits."
The silence in the kitchen was loud.
Daeron choked on a chicken nugget, his eyes watering as he stared at the phone in horror. Baelor had just played the 'employee' card. It was the exact same mistake his father had made that morning. It was a tactical suicide.
Kat didn't yell. She didn't scream.
A chilling, incredibly dark smile spread across her face.
"Ooooo," Kat purred, the sound vibrating with lethal menace. "I see. Both brothers suffer from the exact same, fatal strain of arrogant, disrespectful stupidity. Good to know it’s genetic."
"Miss Hart, I must insist—" Baelor attempted to regain control of the conversation.
"You don't insist on anything, Baelor," Kat cut him off, her voice slicing through the speaker like a scalpel. "You have exactly fifteen minutes. I will see you then."
"Miss Hart, I am across the city! I cannot possibly—" Kat didn't let him finish. She hit the end call button.
Click.
The kitchen was dead silent.
Kat picked up her phone, slipping it into her pocket. She looked across the island at the three open-mouthed boys.
"Right, gremlins," Kat announced, her voice bright and cheerfully terrifying. "Pack your bags. Grab the baby. We are going on a field trip."
"A... a field trip?" Aemon stammered, clutching his half-eaten cheeseburger. "Where?"
"To Parliament," Kat grinned, a wicked, chaotic fire burning in her eyes. "Your uncle seems to have forgotten where he left his children. We are going to return them to him."
Twenty minutes later, Baelor sat behind his desk in his private, highly secure office within the parliamentary administrative building.
He was reviewing a dense legislative document, but his mind was elsewhere. He kept glancing nervously at the digital clock on his computer screen.
5:25 PM.
He rubbed his temples, letting out a sigh. He hated participating in his brother's manipulative, passive-aggressive digital wars. He had played his part. He had stood his ground. He had asserted authority over the art teacher.
She was bluffing, Baelor assured himself, taking a sip of his lukewarm tea. She is a primary school teacher. She is not going to abandon four children in an empty house. She will complain, she will send an angry email, but she will stay.
He turned his attention back to the transit budget.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Three sharp, rapid knocks echoed against the door of his office.
Baelor frowned. He hadn't scheduled any further meetings for the evening. His secretary was supposed to be filtering all interruptions.
"Enter," Baelor called out, adjusting his blazer and projecting his best, unbothered political face.
The door swung open.
Baelor’s heart completely stopped in his chest.
Standing in the doorway, looking incredibly awkward and entirely out of place in the high-security government building, were his three nephews. Daeron, Aerion and Aemon.
And standing directly behind them, her hands resting firmly on Daeron and Aerion’s shoulders, was Kat Hart.
And resting effortlessly on her hip, gnawing happily on a plastic security visitor's badge, was Aegon.
Baelor stared at the group. The color drained from his face, leaving him looking like a ghost. His jaw dropped so far it nearly hit his desk.
"What," Baelor breathed, his voice cracking with horror, "in the seven hells?"
Kat didn't hesitate. She marched into the office, the boys trailing anxiously behind her. She bypassed the plush visitor armchairs entirely, striding directly up to the edge of Baelor’s executive desk.
"Status report, Baelor," Kat announced, her voice rapid-fire, crisp, and professional, though her eyes were blazing with furious satisfaction.
"The boys have been fed. They consumed approximately three thousand calories of fast-food carbohydrates. They need to complete their homework—Aemon has mathematics, Daeron has geography. Aegon missed his afternoon nap because he was entirely too fascinated by a papier-mâché volcano, so he is currently operating on borrowed time and is highly volatile. He will likely detonate within the hour."
Baelor sat frozen in his chair, paralyzed by the sheer impossibility of the situation.
How did she get in? Baelor’s political brain screamed in panic. This is a secured government facility! There are three biometric checkpoints, armed security guards, and a dedicated reception desk! She is wearing halter top and skirt! How did she bypass the perimeter?!
Kat didn't wait for him to recover.
She leaned forward over the desk. With a swift, practiced, unceremonious movement, she plucked Aegon from her hip and dumped the babbling one-year-old directly into Baelor’s lap.
Baelor let out a startled oof, his arms instinctively coming up to catch the boy before he crushed the transit budget documents.
"Here is your cargo," Kat smiled, a bright, vicious, beautiful expression. "My contracted shift is officially concluded. Have a lovely evening, Shadow Minister."
Kat turned on her heel. She walked back toward the doorway, pausing to pull Daeron, Aemon, and Aerion into a crushing group hug.
"You lot be good," Kat whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of Aerion’s silver head. "Don't let him feed you wet erasers. If you need help with your homework, or if he starts having a panic attack over the baby, you have my number. Call me."
"We will, Kat," Daeron nodded, still looking entirely awestruck by the devastating power move she had just executed.
"Bye, Kitty!" Aegon babbled from Baelor’s lap, waving the plastic security badge at her.
"Bye, little dragon," Kat winked.
She straightened up, adjusted her tote bag, completely ignored the stunned, paralyzed politician sitting behind the desk, and marched out of the office, pulling the door firmly shut behind her.
The silence in the office was deafening.
Baelor sat in his high-backed leather chair, a one-year-old sitting on his lap, three nephews standing in front of his desk, entirely marooned in his own political sanctuary.
"What the fuck," Baelor whispered, entirely forgetting his own rule against profanity.
"Fuh-ck!" Aegon cheered immediately, slamming his hands against the desk.
"That was so cool," Daeron breathed, his eyes wide with worship. He looked at his uncle. "She just... she just walked right up to the armed security guard at the front gate, leaned out the window of the Bentley, and said something to him. He went completely pale, opened the barricade, and gave us priority visitor passes. It was wild! It was like she owned the building!"
Baelor closed his eyes, a painful throb of a migraine blooming behind his temples.
She dropped a name, Baelor realized with a sickening jolt of clarity. She knows someone. She knows someone powerful.... Who?! Whoever she's knows has influence to bypass federal security and she used it, just to spite Maekar.
Baelor slowly opened his eyes. He looked at the baby in his lap. He looked at the transit budget. He looked at the three boys.
He reached out with a trembling hand, grabbing his phone from the desk.
He didn't bother texting. He hit the FaceTime video call icon next to his brother's name.
The phone rang for five seconds.
The screen flared to life.
Maekar was sitting in his office. He looked exhausted, rubbing his eyes, but a faint, arrogant smirk was playing on his lips. He was clearly expecting a report from Baelor confirming that the art teacher had caved, that she had submitted to his authority, and that his trap had worked flawlessly.
"Baelor," Maekar rumbled, leaning back in his chair. "Report. Has Katherine accepted the—"
Maekar’s voice died in his throat.
He stopped speaking. He stopped breathing.
Through the video feed, Maekar saw his brother's face. Baelor looked like a man who had just survived a shipwreck.
But it wasn't Baelor's expression that paralyzed the CEO.
It was the background.
Maekar saw the familiar, dark wood paneling of Baelor’s parliamentary office. He saw Daeron standing near the bookshelf. He saw Aerion waving at the camera. He saw Aemon looking mildly interested in a framed map on the wall.
And, sitting directly on Baelor’s lap, gnawing on a lanyard, was Aegon.
Maekar stared at the screen, his violet eyes widening in speechless horror.
"I don't know how she did it," Baelor rasped into the phone, his voice echoing with sheer, traumatized defeat. "I don't know how she bypassed the security protocols. But she kept her promise, Maekar. She dropped off your children. Come get them. Now! "
Maekar sat frozen in his chair. He looked at the screen. He looked at his entire family, marooned in a government building miles away from the estate, because he had pushed a woman too far.
He had played a game of corporate chicken with the Queen of the Gremlins, and she had driven a tank straight through his defenses.
Maekar slowly nodded, his brain struggling to reboot.
"I... I will be there in thirty minutes," Maekar managed to choke out, his voice hoarse.
Baelor’s eyes narrowed into furious slits. He glared into the camera.
"If the art teacher can get them from the estate to my office in twenty minutes during rush hour," Baelor snapped, his political composure entirely shattered, "you can get here in ten. Move!"
Maekar didn't argue. He didn't issue a corporate command.
He let out a defeated sigh, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. He hit the end call button.
He stood up from his desk, grabbing his wool overcoat from the back of his chair. He shrugged it on, his mind reeling with a mixture of bafflement admiration, and undeniable realization.
He had fucked around. And he had spectacularly found out.