Clause 3: Joint Ventures and Affiliated Parties

The engagement didn’t arrive all at once; it accumulated. A polite announcement, then a flurry of calling cards, then crates with wax seals stacked in hallways until the house felt half storage room, half monument to capitalism. Helena’s calendar filled itself in with ink. Hermena’s smile never left. And every day, Poppy practiced being pleased until it started to feel like a facial cramp.

A fortnight after Helena’s tea, the tribute room—as Poppy had taken to calling it—became necessary. A mausoleum of floor-to-ceiling packages, families congratulating his granddaughter while buying favor with him.

At first she’d tried to keep count. Three bouquets, seven letters, a crate of wine older than the rebellion. By the third week, the numbers blurred, and the room got a name because naming it was the only way to make it feel contained.

Poppy slipped inside it late one afternoon, looking for somewhere quiet and to maybe skim a bottle of wine from one of the crates. It was supposed to be for her, after all.

The room wasn’t empty.

“—don’t get to lecture me about responsibility—”

“I’m not lecturing, I’m stating facts—”

“Oh, facts. Right. Because you’re so good with those now. How many of Grandfather’s ledgers have you signed off on this month?”

Poppy froze behind a tower of boxed linens. No one had mentioned Lynn’s arrival.

Her sister stood in the center of the room, a ceremonial dagger—a gift from the Promblys, judging from the ivory handle—gripped in one hand like she was considering whether throwing it into her brother’s torso would be worth the consequences. Lucas faced her from across a stack of crates, tunic sleeves rolled up, looking more disheveled than Poppy had seen him in years.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lucas said, voice tight.

“Don’t I?” Lynn flipped the dagger, catching it by the blade with the ease of someone who’d spent too much time with the family’s hired killers. “Let me guess—you’re just ‘learning the business.’ Not actually complicit in anything.”

“And what exactly are you doing in the Freelands? Playing revolutionary? Pretending you’re not a Katullin so you can feel better about yourself?”

“I’m building something—”

“You left us.” Lucas’s voice cracked. “You packed a bag and disappeared for two years. No warning. No explanation. You just—left.”

Poppy’s chest tightened. She should announce herself, stop this before someone heard. But she couldn’t move.

Lynn’s expression flickered. “I had to—”

“You chose to.” He stepped around the crates. “You chose to leave me here to explain to Grandfather why his perfect heir apparent decided the family business wasn’t good enough for her. You chose to leave me to watch Father lock himself in his office for months. You chose to leave Poppy scrambling to fill the gaps you left in the social circuit while I handled everything else—”

“I was suffocating!” Lynn threw the dagger, blade burying itself in a crate six inches from Lucas’s head. He didn’t even flinch.

“We were all suffocating,” Lucas said quietly. “But I didn’t get to run. Someone had to stay. Someone had to keep this house from imploding.” His voice shook. “Do you know what it’s like watching yourself turn into the thing you hate?”

“Yes.”

The single word stopped him cold.

“That’s why I left.” Lynn’s shoulders slumped. “I looked in the mirror and saw Grandmother staring back. Not Lynn. Just Rosalynn—the thing they’d made me.”

“You knew.” Lucas stared at her. “You knew what Grandfather would do to me. How he’d shape me. What I’d become. And you left me here anyway.”

“I couldn’t save both of us!”

“I never asked you to save me!” He grabbed her shoulders. “I asked you to stay!”

The pain in his voice made Poppy’s throat tighten. This was worse the longer she listened.

“And do what? Drown together? Watch each other turn into monsters?” Lynn shoved him back. “At least one of us got out!”

“And what good did that do?” Lucas gestured at the room. “You’re back. You came back and now you need my network, my connections, my access.” His voice went flat. “Tell me—would you be here if you didn’t need something from me?”

Lynn opened her mouth. Closed it.

The answer was written all over her face.

“Stop.” Poppy took a deep breath, stepping out from behind the linens. They both spun toward her.

“Stop it,” she repeated, moving between them. “Right now.”

Lynn pulled the dagger out of the crate. Lucas straightened his shirt. They didn’t look at each other.

“Poppy—” Lynn started.

“No.” Poppy’s voice shook. “I don’t care who started it. I don’t care who’s right. You are shouting in a room full of catalogued wedding gifts that are probably being monitored by half of Grandfather’s spies. If anyone heard you—”

She didn’t need to finish. The silence stretched.

“I have ledgers,” Lynn said finally, voice flat. “Real ones, from the Freelands. I know who’s buying Grandfather’s contraband. I know who’s skimming. I know which senators on that guest list are dirty.”

Lucas didn’t respond.

“And you,” Lynn continued, still not looking at him, “you know the internal contracts. You know where Grandfather’s squeezing people. You know which families are desperate.”

“What’s your point?” Lucas asked.

“My point is we both have pieces.” Lynn finally met his eyes. “And we’re both too angry to use them.”

Poppy looked between them. The anger was still there, thick and suffocating, but underneath it was something else. Something that looked like pain.

“So use me,” Poppy said.

Both siblings turned to look at her.

“Grandfather thinks this wedding is his victory lap,” Poppy continued, her voice steadying. “He thinks he’s using the Marianus name to legitimize the family. To make us untouchable.” She gestured at the room full of tributes. “He’s so busy congratulating himself that he’s put every single person he has leverage over in one place. For me.”

“The engagement party,” Lynn said slowly.

“My engagement party,” Poppy corrected. “Where I supposedly control the guest list. The seating chart. Who talks to whom. Who sees what.” She looked at Lynn. “You have the dirt from the Freelands. You know what they’re hiding.” Then at Lucas. “And you know what Grandfather’s holding over them here.”

“And you’re the bride,” Lucas said, catching on. “Above suspicion.”

“Exactly.” Poppy smoothed the front of her dress. “Nobody questions the bride wanting to make sure her engagement party is perfect. Nobody thinks twice about me rearranging seating, or having private conversations, or asking questions about family connections.”

She grabbed both their hands.

“We stop fighting each other,” Poppy said firmly. “And we use this. All three of us. Together.”

Lynn looked at Lucas. Lucas looked at Lynn.

“I’m not apologizing,” Lynn said.

“I didn’t ask you to,” Lucas replied.

It wasn’t reconciliation. It wasn’t even a truce. But it was enough.

“Fine,” Lynn said. “Strategy meeting. Tomorrow. Poppy’s villa. We plan this properly.”

“Fine,” Lucas echoed.

Lynn left first, slipping out through a servants’ door without another word. Lucas stayed, staring at the spot where the dagger had embedded in the crate.

“You know what the worst part is?” Lucas said quietly, still staring at the damaged crate. “I’m good at this. The contracts, the negotiations, the way Grandfather thinks. I understand it. And every day I understand it a little better.” He finally looked at her. “That terrifies me.”

Poppy squeezed his arm. “Then let’s burn it down before the ink dries.”

Lucas nodded, not looking convinced. “Tomorrow, then.”

“Tomorrow.”

He left through the main door. Poppy stayed in the room full of expensive tributes and political favors, surrounded by the weight of everything her family had built.

The prince’s brothers were turned into swans, Echo observed quietly. The sister had to weave shirts from nettles to break the curse. It took years. Her hands bled. She couldn’t speak the entire time or the spell would fail.

That’s depressing, Poppy thought back.

She saved them though. In the end. Even the one whose shirt wasn’t quite finished—he kept one wing. But they were still brothers. They still came home.

Poppy looked at the door where Lucas had left.

I hope you’re right.

⊱⊰

She didn’t sleep the night before negotiations began. The air in the east wing was too still, the silence too heavy. It felt like the house itself was holding its breath, waiting for her to make a mistake.

She paced until her legs ached, then sat on the edge of the bed staring at the door. She reached for Echo, desperate for a distraction, only to remember she’d left the book in the library—an oversight that left her defenseless against her own spiraling thoughts.

By three in the morning, the walls were closing in. She grabbed her robe and started down the hall, intent on retrieving the book before she suffocated.

She rounded the corner and nearly collided with a shadow.

“Trouble sleeping?” Niko leaned against the wall, flask in hand.

“I slept fine.”

“That’s not what I heard.” He took a drink. “You’ve been pacing all night.”

Her heart hammered. “Were you listening at my door?”

“Doing my rounds. Not my fault this house has the acoustics of a cathedral.” His eyes tracked the slight tremor in her hands. “You’re vibrating, Penelope.”

“I’m cold.”

“Is that what it is?” He pushed off the wall, drifting into her personal space. He didn’t touch her, but the scent of whiskey and cigar smoke filled the air between them. “Strange. You look feverish. Like you’re sick.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“If you say so.” He swirled the contents of his flask. “But you might want to be careful. The walls are thin, and you’ve been talking in your sleep.”

The air left her lungs. “I… what do I say?”

“Usually begging.” His voice dropped, losing the mockery. “You keep begging for something to stop hurting you. And you aren’t using Common to do it.”

She couldn’t breathe properly. “You need to stop—”

“Stop what? Doing my job?” Another drink. “I’m paid to watch you, Princess. So I watch.”

“You’re paid to watch for security threats.”

“And what do you think Abraxus considers a security threat?” His smile was sharp. “You know he doesn’t care about assassins sneaking around the estate. He cares that his investment is screaming at the walls three hours before sunrise.”

“They’re just nightmares,” she snapped.

“Are they?” He tilted his head. “I didn’t know happy brides pleaded for mercy in their sleep.”

Heat crawled up the back of her neck. “You don’t underst—”

“I understand enough.” He capped his flask. “Enough to know you can’t keep a lid on it much longer. You should tell your consul.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because walls have ears, and you’re getting loud. If I heard you, who else did?” Niko shrugged. “He’s going to find out you’re lying to him eventually.”

“I’m not—”

“You are. Every day. Every time you smile at him and pretend you’re fine.” He looked at her for a long moment. “But that’s what you do best, isn’t it? Pretend.”

He walked past her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him in the chill of the hall.

“Get some sleep, Penelope. You look like shit.”

⊱⊰

The table had not been cleared for this.

That was the first thing Poppy noticed when she entered Julian’s office at the Marianus estate that morning. Three days had passed since her sleepless night at the Katullin estate, three days of rehearsing arguments and perfecting masks. Now she sat in this room that wasn’t ceremonial at all, just a working table already buried under drafts, addenda, and counterproposals layered over one another. Wax tablets stacked beside vellum, ink blotted and drying where someone had crossed something out and rewritten it sharper.

Negotiations had been ongoing for three hours. She hadn’t needed to say much—that’s what the legal counsel was for—but her attention had started to drift some time ago. She pressed her palms flat against the table, grounding them against the cool wood until the shaking dulled into something manageable.

You’re shaking.

Echo, I’m fine.

You should go to the bathroom before it gets worse.

Abraxus Katullin sat at the far end, where the room forced attention. Her father Lucius stood behind his chair to the right of him, arms crossed, saying nothing. Hermena was seated to Poppy’s left, posture immaculate, expression pleasantly distant. Across from them, Julian Marianus—Titus’ father, Senator of Civenopolis—sat with the air of a man who had attended a thousand meetings like this and never once confused them with family.

Helena was also there, of course, one hand resting lightly on the table as if she might rearrange it if left alone too long.

Titus stood behind and slightly to the left of his father’s chair, holding a stack of papers that he shuffled through as the conversation went on. Close enough to confer, far enough to maintain his own position. He hadn’t sat down the entire time.

A scribe hovered at one corner, quill poised. Two legal advisors, one Katullin and one Marianus, had already begun to look tired as they continued to make notes in the margins of several contract drafts. The ink smell was sharper than it should have been. She focused on keeping her breathing even until it faded back into the room.

“Clause Three,” Abraxus said mildly, tapping the papers. “Joint Ventures and Affiliated Parties.”

The Katullin advocate cleared his throat. “This clause governs business interests held independently or jointly by either party, including but not limited to publishing concerns, trade holdings, and subsidiary enterprises.”

Poppy felt Hermena’s attention sharpen by a fraction.

The scribe read.

“—Steamy Ink Publishing, its subsidiaries and affiliated presses, shall be subject to discretionary oversight—”

What’s ‘discretionary oversight’? And ‘subsidiary enterprises’? Echo sounded bewildered. Can’t they make this easier to understand?

“—For the duration of the marriage, in order to ensure alignment with Marianus consular obligations and to mitigate reputational exposure—”

Poppy inhaled slowly. She glanced at Titus. He hadn’t reacted, at least outwardly. His gaze was fixed on the paper like he was already mapping outcomes.

“Discretionary oversight by whom?” Julian asked mildly.

“A delegated authority,” the Katullin advocate replied smoothly, “may be assigned as appropriate. Patrician Servius Katullin has been suggested, given her operational familiarity with—”

“With the Special Investigative Press,” Poppy cut in. “Which she founded and nearly bankrupted through Guild fund misappropriation before I took it over.”

The room stilled.

Abraxus looked at her, faintly amused. “An unfortunate incident, yes. Which makes proper oversight all the more prudent going forward. You’ve proven the value of accountability.”

“Let’s be clear, Grandfather,” Poppy said, folding her hands together on the table. Her heart was hammering. “Steamy Ink Publishing is my publishing house. Special Investigative Press is a Freelands-facing news entity founded by Servius that I absorbed after the Guild flagged her for mismanagement.”

She looked at the clause. “This language doesn’t distinguish between them. Which means you’re proposing oversight of my operations based on her failures.”

Helena smiled. “That can be amended.”

“Or exploited,” Julian said dryly.

The Marianus advocate nodded. “As written, this clause permits external oversight of all Steamy Ink operations, including editorial control, staffing, and distribution.”

Titus finally spoke.

“Oversight language is a weapon,” he said calmly. “It doesn’t matter who promises not to use it. It only matters that it exists.”

Abraxus regarded him. “You are young, Consul. You still believe in clean distinctions.”

“I believe in paper trails,” Titus replied. “And in how quickly the Merchant’s Guild notices them.”

That landed.

Abraxus spread his hands. “Let’s not dramatize. This is not about silencing anyone. It’s about ensuring that institutions adjacent to the Marianus household do not become vectors for avoidable scandal.”

“Vectors,” Julian repeated. “Interesting choice of word.”

He leaned back slightly. “Patrician Katullin,” he said, voice still courteous, “you are proposing authority over a Merchant’s Guild affiliated entity via a marriage contract. Do you understand what that looks like when a senator’s household signs it?”

A pause.

Abraxus’s smile thinned, just barely. “I understand it looks like prudence.”

“It looks like manipulation,” Julian said. “And the Guild doesn’t take kindly to that.”

Hermena spoke then, lightly. “Perhaps a brief recess would allow cooler heads to—”

“That clause dissolves my press,” Poppy cut in.

Abraxus didn’t bother pretending surprise. “It transitions it.”

“To Servius,” Poppy said evenly. “Who answers to you.”

Julian’s eyebrows lifted slightly in interest. “That would be problematic.”

Abraxus turned to him. “In what way?”

“All of them,” Julian replied. “Jurisdictional. Reputational. Procedural. If Steamy Ink is dissolved under pressure from a marital contract, it becomes evidence.”

“Of what?” Helena asked coolly.

“Of coercion,” Julian said. “Which is a far more interesting story to the Guild than any gossip Penelope has published in the last-“ he glanced at his notes. “-Three years?”

Silence settled across the table. Titus’s shoulders shifted. He exhaled, quiet and controlled, and his gaze cut briefly to Poppy before returning to Abraxus.

Abraxus’s smile thinned. “You are speculating, Senator.”

“I am extrapolating,” Julian corrected. “Which is my job.”

He glanced at Titus. “Penelope operates across borders. Her press is already read outside Civen. Any attempt to curtail it will not remain internal.”

“And if she chooses to step back?” Abraxus pressed.

“She won’t,” Titus said with complete certainty.

Julian nodded once, as if that settled something.

“Servius is not neutral,” Poppy said evenly. “She benefits if I comply and disciplines my work if I resist. That’s not oversight. That’s coercion with a familiar face.”

Abraxus did not deny it. “Family businesses require family accountability.”

“And Marianus marriages require Marianus risk assessment,” Titus replied. “Which means this clause does not stand.”

The Marianus advocate was already marking the page.

Abraxus watched the pen move. “You are asking me to trust—” he started.

“No,” Titus said. “I’m asking you to accept boundaries.”

The silence stretched long enough for everyone to understand what he wasn’t saying.

Abraxus’s gaze shifted to Poppy, assessing. She leaned forward before he could speak.

“I’ll accept a restriction,” she said. “One.”

Every eye turned to her. She pressed her palms flat against the table, steadying them. Titus shifted slightly, but didn’t interrupt.

“No publication of state or personal information obtained through official Katullin or Marianus family channels. What I learn as a granddaughter or wife stays confidential. What I learn as a publisher remains fair game.”

She met Abraxus’s gaze.

“I already follow standard journalistic ethics. I don’t publish rumors without verification. I don’t name victims without consent. I don’t endanger sources.” She paused. “That’s not changing. Disputes can go to arbitration with a jurist we both agree on.”

“And oversight?” Abraxus asked.

“No,” Poppy said. “Autonomy. Explicitly.”

Helena opened her mouth.

Julian beat her to it. “That is defensible.”

The Katullin advocate hesitated. “Patrician—”

Abraxus raised a hand. He studied Poppy for a long moment, as if recalibrating her weight on the board.

“Very well,” he said at last. “Keep your presses.”

The scribe’s quill scratched.

“But no one at this table will be dragged through the streets for ink and applause.”

Poppy inclined her head. “Nor would I wish them to be.”

Her hands were still trembling under the table. She had maybe an hour before it got worse. She needed to leave, find somewhere private. Maybe she could take a break, use bathroom as an excuse—

“Clause Four,” Abraxus said mildly.

The negotiations continued.

⊱⊰