The door to Seraphina Ashwood's office was not locked this time.

It was barely latched.

Marcus pushed it open with a quiet creak.

The air inside was stale. It smelled of cold coffee and old dust.

Seraphina sat behind her desk. She was surrounded by paper.

Stacks of legal scrolls towered like fortifications.

Open books on inheritance law covered every inch of wood.

She didn't look up. Her quill scratched furiously against parchment.

She looked terrible.

Her platinum hair was loose and tangled.

Dark circles bruised the skin beneath her eyes.

Her lips were pale and dry.

She looked like a general who had been fighting a siege for ten years without sleep.

"I'm busy," she said. Her voice was brittle. "Leave the report on the desk."

Marcus didn't move. He closed the door behind him.

"I don't have a report," Marcus said softly.

Seraphina's hand froze. The quill stopped scratching.

She looked up. Her ice-blue eyes were dull. They narrowed when she saw him.

"Marcus," she said.

It wasn't a greeting. It was a warning.

"I told you I was busy."

"I know," Marcus said. He stepped further into the room. "You're preparing a legal defense based on Case 47-B regarding spousal intent."

He pointed to the open book on her left.

"You're also trying to prove that grief is a quantifiable metric," he added. He pointed to the scroll on her right.

Seraphina stiffened. She dropped the quill.

"Did Damien send you?" she asked sharply. "I told him to stay out of this."

"Damien is handling the legal research," Marcus said. "I'm not here for the lawsuit."

"Then why are you here?"

Seraphina stood up. She swayed slightly. She grabbed the edge of the desk for support.

"If you're here to apologize," she said, her voice rising, "don't. If you're here to explain your confusing theories about timelines, don't."

She took a shaky breath.

"I cannot handle you right now, Marcus. I am fighting for my life."

"I know," Marcus said. He kept his voice low and steady. It was his professional voice.

"I'm not here as a suitor, Seraphina. And I'm not here as a friend."

She blinked. The unexpected statement threw her off balance.

"Then who are you?"

"I am a consultant," Marcus said.

He pulled a chair from the corner. He placed it in front of her desk. He didn't sit. He just offered it.

"In my previous life," Marcus lied smoothly, "I worked with people in your exact position. Widows. Widowers. People facing significant transitions."

He looked her in the eye.

"I have experience helping people navigate grief when the world demands they move on too quickly."

Seraphina laughed. It was a harsh, jagged sound.

"I don't need a grief counselor," she spat. "I need a lawyer."

"You have a lawyer," Marcus countered. "You have Damien finding precedents. You have the facts."

He leaned forward. He placed his hands on the back of the chair.

"But you're losing, Seraphina. I can see it in your face."

"I am perfectly fine," she snapped. She crossed her arms. Her armor was going up.

"The clients who said 'I'm fine' were usually the ones closest to breaking," Marcus said gently.

He let the silence hang there. He waited.

Seraphina stared at him. Her chin trembled. She bit her lip to stop it.

"They want to take his house," she whispered. The fight drained out of her shoulders.

"They say I didn't love him enough."

"I know," Marcus said.

"They're using you against me," she said. She looked at him with desperation. "Because I smiled at you. Because I felt... something."

"I know that too."

"How do I defend against that?" she asked. Her voice cracked. "How do I prove I loved him when I'm... when I'm still here?"

Marcus walked around the chair. He sat down. He gestured for her to sit too.

"You don't defend against it legally," Marcus said. "Not yet. You have to resolve it internally first."

Seraphina slowly sank back into her chair. She looked small behind the wall of books.

"I don't understand," she said.

"You're fighting two battles," Marcus explained. "The lawsuit is the easy one. The hard one is the guilt."

He tapped the desk.

"You think they're right," Marcus said.

Seraphina flinched as if he had slapped her.

"You think that by feeling happy, you really did betray Richard," Marcus continued. He didn't let up.

"You can't win a trial when you secretly agree with the prosecution, Seraphina."

She looked away. She stared at the floor.

"I promised him," she whispered. "I promised I wouldn't forget."

"Allow me to help you," Marcus said. "Let me help you separate the memory from the guilt. Just for a few days."

He extended a hand. It was a professional gesture. An offer of partnership.

"If we do this," Marcus said, "you will walk into that courtroom knowing exactly where you stand. And no one will be able to shake you."

Seraphina looked at his hand. Then she looked at his face.

She saw no pity there. Only competence. And a deep, patient understanding.

She took a long breath. She let it out slowly.

"What do I have to do?" she asked.

"Meet me in the gardens this evening," Marcus said. "Leave the law books here."

"And then?"

"And then," Marcus said softly, "you tell me about Richard."

✧✧✧

The Academy gardens were peaceful at twilight.

Fireflies drifted lazily between the ancient oaks. The air smelled of jasmine and damp earth.

It was a neutral space. It was quiet.

Marcus sat on a stone bench. He had a notebook on his knee.

He wasn't taking notes. The notebook was a prop.

It helped people feel like they were in a structured environment.

Seraphina sat on the other end of the bench. She was stiff. Her hands were clasped tight in her lap.

She looked like a student waiting for a reprimand.

"We aren't going to talk about the lawsuit," Marcus started.

"We aren't going to talk about money, or the house, or your in-laws."

Seraphina nodded. She stared at a patch of blue flowers.

"Tell me about him," Marcus said.

"Richard?"

"Yes. Who was he? Not the soldier. Not the husband. The person."

Seraphina hesitated. She opened her mouth, then closed it.

"He was... good," she said vaguely. "He was honorable. He was a Captain in the Royal Guard."

"Those are titles," Marcus corrected gently. "Tell me something specific. Something annoying."

Seraphina blinked. She looked at Marcus in surprise.

"Annoying?"

"Nobody is a saint," Marcus said. "Saints are hard to love. People are messy. What was messy about Richard?"

A small, surprised smile touched Seraphina's lips.

It vanished quickly, but Marcus saw it.

"He couldn't cook," she said softly.

"How bad?"

"Terrible," Seraphina said. Her voice grew a little stronger. "He tried to make breakfast every Sunday. He burned the eggs. Every. Single. Time."

"And what did he do?"

"He scraped the black parts off," she said. A chuckle escaped her throat. "He would say, 'It adds character, Phina. It's carbon. Good for the digestion.'"

"Phina," Marcus repeated. "He called you Phina."

"Yes," she said. Her eyes misted over. "Everyone else called me Seraphina. Or Professor. Or Lady Ashwood. But him? Just Phina."

"What else?" Marcus urged. "Keep going."

The dam broke. Slowly at first, then all at once.

"He read aloud," she said. "He had a terrible reading voice. He did voices for all the characters, but they all sounded like pirates."

She laughed. It was a wet, shaky sound.

"He loved maps. He collected them. Our bedroom walls were covered in maps of places he'd never been."

She turned to Marcus. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears.

"He had a scar on his left knee from falling out of a tree when he was twelve. He told everyone it was a duel."

Marcus nodded. He listened. He validated.

He watched her face change.

The tightness around her mouth loosened. The lines in her forehead smoothed out.

For the first time in weeks, she wasn't defending Richard's memory. She was enjoying it.

"He sounds like he was fun," Marcus said.

"He was," Seraphina whispered. "He was the only person who could make me laugh until my stomach hurt."

She looked down at her hands.

"I haven't laughed like that in three years."

"Why not?" Marcus asked.

Seraphina went still. The light in her eyes dimmed.

"Because it feels wrong," she admitted. "If I laugh... it means I'm okay. And if I'm okay... it means he's really gone."

Marcus let the silence stretch. He didn't rush to fix it.

"Grief is heavy," Marcus said finally. "It's like carrying a stone backpack."

Seraphina nodded.

"You get used to the weight," Marcus continued. "You walk bent over. You adjust your stride."

He looked at her.

"And when you laugh... or when you feel happy... for a second, the weight lifts."

Seraphina closed her eyes. A tear tracked down her cheek.

"And when the weight lifts," Marcus said softly, "you panic. You think you dropped the backpack. You think you lost him."

"Yes," she whispered. "Exactly."

"You didn't lose him, Seraphina," Marcus said. "You just stood up straight for a minute."

She opened her eyes. She looked at him with profound vulnerability.

"Is that allowed?" she asked.

"We'll get to that," Marcus said. He closed his notebook.

"For tonight, just remember the burned eggs. Remember the pirate voices."

He stood up.

"Go home. Eat something. Sleep. We'll talk again tomorrow."

Seraphina stayed on the bench. She looked at the blue flowers.

"Thank you," she said. Her voice was barely audible.

"Don't thank me yet," Marcus said. "The hard part is next."

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