Page 37 of Our Radiant Embers

WHY SO MYSTERIOUS? But amidst the early hustle, there’s an undercurrent of unease. As one insider puts it, “Why the secrecy? Why the rush?” Construction is set to start in late May on the three sites that have been set aside for well over a year, with permits speed-walked through the corridors of London’s bureaucracy.

Is it just innovative planning, or is there more to the story? The Initiative aims to blend traditional construction with novel technologies, but the lack of public insight raises our eyebrows.

THE SILENCE OF THE FAMILIES. Neither dynasty heir Adam Harrington nor fresh-faced Liam Morgan were immediately available for comments. Once they’re ready to speak, they know where to find us!

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9

ADAM

‘Fresh-faced??? I’m older than you!’

Liam’s message arrived right as I packed up my gym bag. My personal trainer had put me through my paces in the free weights section, and ouch, yes, this was going to hurt tomorrow.

So, anyway, it seemed like Liam had read the London Morning newsletter. Nearly three weeks had passed since our joint pitch to the government and the pint we’d shared after—the pint he’d bought me, to be precise. From one business partner to another. Given we hadn’t seen each other since, only exchanged a handful of texts about logistics and next week’s construction of his new office…Well, I could take a hint.

Unlike me, he had options.

‘Older by what - three days?’ I wrote back, then collected my gym bag, pocketed my phone, and left the locker room. I found Cassandra in the lounge, where sleek, modern leather couches combined with grand marble pillars and copper features. Water vapour fireplaces created an illusion of warmth.

“Finally!” She closed a magazine with a decisive snap and rose, a picture of elegance in slim-fitting trousers and a thin cashmere jumper as she slung her own gym bag over her shoulder. “What took you so long—did you give each pore an individual pep talk?”

Hmm. Still in a bit of a strop, then. I’d hoped working out would lighten her mood, but no such luck, it seemed. There were three ways to deal with an irritable Cassandra—wait it out, talk it out, or hug it out.

“Well, yes. They needed reassurance that they’re still the smallest.” I slung an arm around her waist, pulling her against my side. “Let’s grab some lunch. I’m buying.”

“Damn right, you are,” she muttered. Since she didn’t try to shake me off, I inferred that I wasn’t the cause of her irritation. Good—I could work with that.

We exited into a mild day, April having brought a blast of warmth to the city. After stopping by a Pret A Manger to pick up salads, we made our way to St. James’s Square and grabbed the last sunny bench overlooking the gardens and the statue of William III. Cassandra grumbled something about how when it came to bronze figures, it was either guys on horses or naked women, never the other way around. Since anything I said could and would be used against me, I hummed generic agreement and stirred my salad.

“Ugh. Fucking cranberries.” She made it sound like a personal offence, and I resisted pointing out that she’d chosen this very salad herself. Instead, I drew one knee up to properly face her on the bench.

“Okay, so.” I aimed for a soothing tone. “What’s wrong?”

“The patriarchy,” she told me. “That’s what’s bloody wrong.”

“Sure.” I nodded, easily acquiescent. “That’s been bloody wrong for some centuries, though. Why’s today any different?”

She stabbed at her lettuce and mumbled something I didn’t catch.

“Sorry, what was that?”

“I said”—her voice implied I was being particularly obtuse—“that it is not my female duty to populate the world with children.”

Ah.

“Oh, babe.” I rescued her salad from an unsightly demise, set it aside, and drew her into a hug. She resisted for a moment, and then she sagged against me with a tired sigh, her blonde hair tickling my cheek. I let my gaze sweep over the trees and grass, a fresh, bright green that contrasted with red tulips in full bloom. “Your mum again?”

“Nah, it was Dad’s turn this morning.”

“Way to start the day on a fun note, huh?”

“Yeah.” Her voice was thick. “I don’t want children. Why is that so hard to understand?”

“Because it’s about their wishes, not ours.” My words felt like a well-worn record, the two of us trading similar reassurances whenever one of us was at wit’s end.

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