Evelina couldn’t care less about the fashion world.

"I’m glad you like it," she said nonchalantly, setting the charcoal down and wiping her fingers on a linen cloth.

Madame Vane looked up, her eyes bright with a sudden ambition, "It will take weeks, Your Grace. The tailoring alone... the way these lines intersect, it’s intricate. My girls would need to work night and day to even attempt—"

"I don’t have weeks, Madame," Evelina said. She tapped her gold pocket watch, the click sounding like the cocking of a pistol, "The Midsummer Tea is on Wednesday."

She leaned in, her [High-Class Aura] flaring for a split second, making the dressmaker gasp and step back.

"I want it by Tuesday," Evelina commanded, "And if a single detail of this sketch is leaked to the Snow family or the press before I arrive at the palace, I will make sure the Guild of Tailors hears exactly where you sourced those last season scraps. Am I understood?"

Madam Vane shivered.

In a daze, she nodded frantically, clutching the sketch to her chest as if it were a holy relic, "By Tuesday, Your Grace. I will... I will close my shop to all other clients. I will do it myself."

"Good," Evelina said, turning back to her maps, "You can leave."

As the dressmaker and her retinue scrambled to pack and flee, the System pinged.

[Notification: ’Aesthetic Revolution’ Initialized]

[Impact: 100% chance of ’Visual Shock’ on Social Targets]

[Reward: 250 Gold awarded!]

[Current Gold: 1450]

...

The corridors of the Alvarez estate were silent as usual, reflecting the military discipline Ace demanded of his staff.

But today, as he walked toward the west wing to retrieve a set of tactical maps from the library, a sound broke the stillness. It wasn’t the usual frantic scurry of a maid or the distant clatter of the kitchens.

Rather, much to his surprise, it was the sound of a debate.

Ace paused near the heavy oak doors of the secondary conference room.

It was a space usually reserved for the estate’s land stewards and tax collectors. He frowned. He hadn’t authorized any meetings today. As he drew closer, a voice drifted through the gap in the double doors.

It was a woman’s voice, but it took his brain a few seconds to register who it belonged to.

In his memory, Evelina’s voice sounded high and fluttery, often choked with the threat of tears or shrill with the desperation of someone trying to grab his attention as he walked away. It was a sound he had spent years tuning out, a treating it like a background noise of.

But this time, her voice... it was different.

It was low and it carried a commanding weight. It was the voice of someone who expected to be listened to, not someone begging for a glance.

"If we wait for the spring thaw to move the stockpiles, we are already too late," the voice said "The Southern provinces are seeing a three percent dip in soil moisture. By the time your wagons hit the pass, the price of rye will have doubled, and the Crown will have already seized the surplus."

Ace stopped dead, his hand hovering inches from the door handle. Curiosity, a sensation he rarely felt in his own home, flared in his chest.

He didn’t open the door. Instead, he stood in the shadow of the hallway, watching through the narrow crack.

He... felt like a thief for a moment. But then he reminded himself, this was his own house.

Inside, the room was thick with the scent of old parchment and strong tea.

At the head of the long table sat Evelina. She looked different than she had at breakfast, or so as Ace remembered.

She wasn’t wearing the soft silks of a Duchess at leisure; she was draped in a structured bodice that made her look like a piece of polished flint.

Across from her sat a man Ace recognized instantly: Silas, the Head of the Merchant’s Guild.

Silas was a man known for swindling veteran generals and out-negotiating seasoned diplomats. But... he was currently sweating.

"Your Grace, the risk is too high," Silas stammered, mopping his brow with a silk handkerchief, "Trade routes through the Volkov pass are notoriously unstable. To commit the Guild’s entire winter reserve based on a... a ’hunch’ about the weather?"

Evelina didn’t flinch. She leaned forward, spreading a map across the table. Her finger traced a line with terrifying precision.

"It isn’t a hunch, Silas. It’s mathematics," she said, her voice cutting through his protest like a blade, "I’ve reviewed the rainfall cycles for the last decade alongside the import levies of the neighboring territories. There is a vacuum forming in the market. If you provide the logistics, I provide the capital and the political cover from the Duke’s office. We split the futures sixty-forty."

"Sixty-forty?" Silas gasped, "In whose favor?"

"Mine," Evelina replied, her smile small and dangerous, "I am providing the intelligence that keeps your Guild from bankruptcy when the drought hits. You are merely the carriage driver."

Ace watched his wife as she deconstructed the Merchant’s Guild’s entire quarterly strategy.

He had known this woman for quiet some time.

He had known she was inclined towards embroidery patterns, floral arrangements, and grievances about his late nights at the barracks. There was barely anything else that held her interest.

But now...

He watched the way her eyes tracked the figures on the ledger, the way she didn’t blink when Silas tried to bluff, and the way she manipulated the conversation toward her desired conclusion.

She was cold and efficient. She was performing at a level of strategic brilliance that Ace usually only saw in his top war-room advisors.

He realized, with a sudden jolt, that she hadn’t mentioned him once. Not as her husband, not as a source of authority or backing.

He seemed to be just a ’political cover’ to her at this point, as if he was tool resting idly in a box. And it was up to her whether she wanted to pick him up or not.

But Ace didn’t understand the unreasonable desire... to be used by her. He wanted her to use his name, even if just to exploit him.

Ace remained motionless, his shadow stretching long across the hallway floor.

He looked down at his watch. He had been standing there, mesmerized by a conversation about grain futures and mountain logistics, for twenty whole minutes.

Inside the room, the sound of a chair scraping back signaled the end of the meeting.

"Tuesday, then," Evelina said, her tone final, "Have the contracts delivered to my private study. And Silas? If you try to hedge your bets with the Snow family on the side, I’ll ensure the Guild’s charter is ’reviewed’ by the Imperial Tax Office before sunset."

Silas bowed so low his nose nearly touched the table. He scrambled out of the side exit, looking like a man who had narrowly escaped a predator’s den.

Ace pulled back into the shadows, his heart thumping in a way it hadn’t since his first campaign.

He felt a strange and uncomfortable pang in his chest; a mixture of irritation and a hollowness.