Chapter 60
Three days later, the late afternoon sunlight filtered through the tall windows of Dara’s drawing room, casting a warm golden glow across polished wood and carefully arranged furnishings. The room was calm, elegant, and prepared—as it should be.
The table had already been set with porcelain cups, a glass pitcher of chilled tea, soft desserts arranged with deliberate care, and crisp golden pieces of popcorn chicken placed neatly beside them—slightly out of place among the refinement, but entirely intentional. Four drinks rested on a separate tray.
Spiced copper leaf tea.
Cold.
With boba.
Dara glanced at them briefly.
Acceptable.
She took her seat, graceful and unhurried. Behind her, Elowra stood with her ledger, quill poised and ready, while Bernard remained slightly to the side, hands folded, expression neutral. Marek stood outside the door—not blocking it, but present, deliberately so. His presence alone was enough.
One hand rested loosely at his side, his posture relaxed in a way that was anything but casual.
A knock came at the door.
“Enter.”
A servant opened the door and stepped aside as Lord Halvern entered, composed at first glance, but only at first. His posture was slightly too rigid, his expression slightly too controlled.
Good.
He bowed. “My lady.”
Dara inclined her head calmly. “Lord Halvern. Please, sit.”
He hesitated only a fraction before obeying.
Dara gestured lightly toward the table. “Tea.”
“I—thank you, my lady.”
He did not reach for it.
Of course he didn’t.
Dara lifted her own cup and took a small sip. Sweet. Rich. Balanced.
Acceptable.
She set it down. “You failed to submit your revised report.”
No greeting. No preamble. Just fact.
Halvern’s jaw tightened slightly. “There were complications—”
“It was due two days ago.”
A pause.
“I assume you have a reason.”
He swallowed once. “The matter requires… additional verification.”
Dara tilted her head slightly. “Of course.”
Her tone was pleasant. Understanding. That seemed to unsettle him more than anything else.
She reached for a document, but did not hand it to him.
She did not need to.
“Southmarket Road,” she said. “Three allocations. Three failures. The same supplier, at increasing cost and decreasing results.”
Silence stretched.
Dara leaned back, relaxed and comfortable. “As I said in the council meeting, I find repetition inefficient.”
Halvern exhaled slowly. “My lady, I assure you—”
“I don’t doubt that you approved them.”
He stopped.
Dara folded her hands lightly. “I’m more interested in why.”
The room went very still.
Halvern’s composure held—barely. “It was within standard process—”
“Westbrook.”
He froze.
Just for a moment.
But it was enough.
Dara watched him, calm, observant, unhurried. “There is a residence there. A quiet one. Maintained very consistently.”
Halvern said nothing.
Good.
“It’s curious,” she continued, lifting her cup again and taking another sip. “Especially given that the funding source appears to align rather neatly with the same supplier used in your road contracts.”
The cup touched the table softly.
“Coincidences are… fascinating.”
Halvern’s hands had tightened. Not visibly. Not to anyone untrained.
But Dara saw it.
Of course she did.
“I assume,” she continued gently, “that the residence serves an official purpose.”
A pause.
“…or a personal one.”
Silence settled, heavy and unavoidable.
She let it sit, neither rushing nor pressing.
Let him feel it.
Then she said softly, “Children require stability.”
That broke him.
Not outwardly. Not dramatically. But something in his posture shifted, collapsing just slightly inward.
Dara watched, satisfied. “There is no need to discuss it further,” she said, almost kindly, which made it worse. “I am not interested in your personal affairs, Lord Halvern.”
A lie, but a useful one.
“I am interested in results.”
She leaned forward just enough. “Southmarket Road will be rebuilt. Properly. With new materials. With verified contractors. You will provide a revised plan by tomorrow morning, support the Temporary Recovery Levy, and ensure House Halvern contributes privately to the reconstruction effort.”
Halvern’s voice came out quieter than before. “Yes, my lady.”
Dara tilted her head slightly. “As for the residence in Westbrook—”
He went still again.
“I would prefer that the matter remain… private. As I’m sure you would.”
“…Yes, my lady.”
There it was.
Clean, complete control.
Dara leaned back once more, relaxed again. The tension in the room shifted—not gone, only redirected.
“Good.”
She gestured lightly toward the table. “You should eat.”
He did not move.
Of course.
Dara picked up a piece of popcorn chicken. Crisp. Warm. Properly seasoned.
“I find people think more clearly when they’re not hungry,” she said.
Halvern let out a slow breath. “I will see to the corrections immediately.”
“I’m sure you will.”
He stood and bowed again, lower this time. “My lady.”
Then he left.
The door closed softly behind him.
Silence lingered.
Elowra’s quill scratched lightly across the page. Bernard said nothing. Dara took another sip of her tea, satisfied.
Behind her, Cai’s voice drifted lazily. “Well.”
A pause.
“There she is.”
Dara did not respond. She set her cup down, calm and composed.
Excellent.
Marek and his team had worked quickly, aided by what Madam Serisse had provided. Bribery, a mistress, and an illegitimate child. How inconvenient for him—especially if his wife’s family began asking questions about succession.
Her gaze drifted briefly toward the door.
These noblemen liked to appear clean, proper, honorable, but they were often the most corrupt—preaching virtue while living as hypocrites.
Dara reached for another piece of popcorn chicken.
Ambervale, it seemed, was finally beginning to behave.