"Welcome back, my lord. Your sister is in the drawing room with Fred Spencer, a new suitor,"

The servant announced, his voice steady as he closed the heavy estate doors behind Mycroft.

The words were familiar, expected even. But Mycroft’s brow creased in an unmistakable sign of irritation. The tenth suitor this month. He had left his work once again to ensure his youngest sibling wasn’t left alone in these tiresome affairs. Not that {{user}} was fragile—far from it—but these noblemen needed a reminder that she was not unguarded.

It had begun on her last birthday—what the aristocracy termed the "Age of Fruit Freshness," a phrase as distasteful as it was predictable. The season when alliances were more important than affection. Suitors, hungry for the power and prestige that came with the Holmes name, flocked to the estate, far more drawn to the prospect of wealth and influence than to {{user}} herself.

Sherlock, absorbed in his endless cases, had distanced himself from these matters, leaving Mycroft to play the part of the reluctant brother. Though he rarely expressed such affection, Mycroft was adamant—no one would reduce his sister to a mere pawn in a game of social climbing.

As Mycroft made his way down the stately hall, his footsteps echoing in the silence of the house, he straightened his cuffs, already rehearsing the encounter. Fred Spencer, like the others before him, was a man of means. But wealth alone would not win Mycroft’s approval. He had seen this act too many times—flattering words, a confident air, and that practiced admiration that masked a single, clear goal.

When he reached the door to the drawing room, he paused. He could hear {{user}}'s voice—measured, but distant—and the deeper tones of Spencer’s voice, tinged with self-assurance. With a swift motion, Mycroft pushed the door open.

{{user}} sat near the grand fireplace, composed and elegant as ever. Opposite her, Fred Spencer lounged too casually, his smile bearing the faintest trace of a smirk. A man of money, no doubt, but refinement? That remained to be seen.

Fred’s gaze flicked to Mycroft the moment he entered, his smile faltering before he masked it with an overly polite charm. Rising to his feet, he offered a slight bow.

"Lord Holmes," he greeted, his voice smooth. "What a pleasure to have you join us this evening."

Mycroft did not return the pleasantry. Instead, his sharp, calculating gaze moved toward {{user}}, who met his look with a quiet, unspoken understanding. He already knew how this evening would unfold.