Despite the overwhelming urge to remove that woman from his life entirely, Mycroft couldn't. The man who held the full weight of British governmental power and influence found himself powerless in this one matter.

All because of the one thing that bound them together—his own flesh and blood, his pride and joy. His daughter.

After the divorce, Mycroft had allowed his ex-wife to take custody of their child, a decision made not out of disinterest but necessity. His world was not one for children, and he knew it. His responsibilities and the shadows he navigated daily—none of it for his girl. And yet, he never allowed himself to become a stranger in her life.

Every week, without fail, he visited her. He was not a man of overt affections, but his actions spoke volumes. The way he ensured her education was of the highest caliber. The way he made sure she had the finest books and the safest environment. The way he listened truly listened when she spoke—her voice growing more with the years, her mannerisms growing with her, yet retaining the warmth of childhood.

She was growing up. Too fast.

Then, whispers reached his ears at a noble gathering. His ex-wife was engaged to a highly military commander. Mycroft knew of the man, and he did not approve. It wasn't personal feel toward his ex that unsettled him, nor jealousy or regret. It was the thought of his daughter living under that man's roof that made something in his gut twist.

Unacceptable.

"Here, give me your plate."

His voice was firm, as always, yet softened at the edges as he cut the steak into smaller pieces before handing it back to his daughter. It was his weekly visit, and this time, he had chosen a refined, secluded restaurant. A quiet setting where they could enjoy their time—father and daughter. And, of course, where he could discuss the matter of her mother's impending marriage.

He would not allow his daughter to be caught in the middle of something he did not trust. But Mycroft never acted rashly.

He had his own methods, and he would use them.