Page 62 of The Silent War
“Contractual,” I said. “Not medical.”
The closest handler coughed into a sleeve. Alexander’s mouth flattened.
“State it,” he said.
“I want to raise my child,” I said.
“The heir,” Corvin corrected, almost kindly.
“My child,” I corrected back.
A small shift went through the room, not loud enough to call a reaction.
“You want to…raisethem,” Marus said, as if I’d misused the verb.
“I want full control over their life,” I said. “No dynasty advisor or handler can overrule me. I want it in writing. Irrevocable.”
“To what point?” Alexander asked. “You can’t change a system, or a lineage.”
“Maybe not,” I said. “Maybe if our mother had chosen you, Alexander, you’d be different. Maybe the whole dynasty would be different if someone chose the child before the bloodline.”
All three men looked at me, as if I was too naive to understand what I was saying.
Alexander’s jaw didn’t move. “Loving one child won’t change the bloodline.”
“Maybe not. But maybe my child will choose their children. And maybe those children will choose theirs. Maybe in three generations there’s a better balance between love and the ledger.”
“You’ve read too many fairytales,” Alexander said. It wasn’t an insult. It was a diagnosis.
“And why do you think I turned to them?” I asked, not raising my voice. “Is it so terrible I want it recorded that I’m the mother next to my child’s name—not only the dynasty’s crest?”
“You’ll be recorded,” Corvin tapped his finger on the folder. “There are lines next to lines for lineage. This isn’t personal.”
“That’s the problem,” I kept my voice calm, controlled. I would not let them put my request down to emotions.
Marus rubbed his thumb against the edge of his pen. “Even if we indulged this—hypothetically—what are you asking for in practice?”
“A clause. I make decisions about the child’s education, medical care, travel, security. I can deny access. I can refuse handlers. I can refuse the role of heir if the child isn’t well. And if I’m incapacitated, my choice of guardian stands. Dynasty approval is advisory only.”
“That can’t be undone?” Alexander asked.
“In writing,” I said. “With teeth.”
Corvin opened his folder. It was for show—his eyes were on me, not the paper. “You’re asking us to weaken the spine.”
“I’m asking you not to break a child on it.”
Alexander’s silence stretched enough to be called a distance.
“You’re not going to like my answer,” he said.
“I rarely do,” I said.
Corvin’s pen tapped once. “The question ofwhoraises the heir is an internal family matter?—”
“Then make it ours,”
Marus took off his glasses. He looked less dangerous with them on. “If you insist on a clause, it will be ceremonial. A statement of maternal preference.”
