The morning was cold—not the kind that cut the skin, but that older kind, the one that settled in the bones with slow, methodical persistence. Outside the regional bank of Swedlandia, the driver waited with slack reins, the horses exhaling clouds into the brittle air. Isak stood a step behind her, modestly dressed, gloved hands tight at his sides. To the world, he was a servant, and she, the illegitimate niece of a lady with ambitions. Nothing more.

In the carriage, they had said little.

“When we’re inside, speak as little as possible,” she had told him without looking up, fastening her gloves of fine grey lace. “Only nod when prompted.”

He had not replied. His gaze remained fixed on the cobblestones. This wasn’t an errand—it was a performance. A farce in one act: prove that the account belonged to a man.

And that man was him.

Years ago, her father—Rebekka’s elder brother—had given her his name, but not his recognition. She had grown up in the shadow of inheritance laws, which favored men with unflinching cruelty. She’d learned to read ledgers before psalms, and by fifteen, understood the brutal truth: a woman, no matter how clever, could not legally hold property without a male proxy.

When her father died, everything passed to the men. Rebekka had taken her in not out of kindness, but calculation. “Another woman to marry,” she was not quite a guest, nor a maid, nor a cousin. Just present. And that, in Swedlandia, was dangerous enough.

She got along well enough with the younger girls, Elvira and Alma. But they were still children, and she had learned to live between shadows.

Inside the bank, the ceilings loomed high and painted with crests. Time ticked solemnly on every wall. She handed a document to the clerk, who frowned at the signature.

“Mr. Isak Håkansson?” he asked, blinking toward the man beside her.

“My Lord,” she answered crisply. “The capital has been held in his name since last winter. Inheritance, you see.”

The clerk turned to Isak, expecting confusion.

Instead, Isak nodded. “Yes,” he said evenly. “I’ve… invested portions of my wages, under the lady’s guidance.”

She glanced sideways at him—he lied well. Better than she expected.

He had discovered the truth weeks ago: her ledgers, hidden contracts, the investments under a man’s name not his own. He hadn’t said a word, only looked at her once, as if she'd become a stranger behind a locked drawer.

After the signatures, they stepped back into the bitter wind. She paused under the iron awning. He followed, slower.

“Why me?” he asked finally. No anger. Just weariness.

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she removed her gloves, finger by finger.

“Because you let yourself exist,” she said. “You haven’t been reshaped by the absurdity of these buildings. You walk like a free man, even if you aren’t.”

He frowned.

“I’m not free. You keep me hidden. Like a stray cat in the hayloft.”

She turned to him, lips tight.

“Would you rather I parade you around as the lover of a bastard girl? Should I throw away everything I built, so we can starve together in a shack, clinging to principle?”

He looked away. The carriage stood nearby. The driver knew better than to interrupt. She stepped closer, her voice lowered.

“I can’t be poor again. Not like my mother was. Not like Rebekka, who sold herself in marriage. I bled for that account, sold what was mine, tricked men into thinking I was one of them… and now you ask me to lose it all—for a kiss in a stable?”

He remained silent. She touched his wrist—barely there.

“I love you. But not more than I love my freedom.”

That, she thought, was the end.

She turned to step into the carriage.

But Isak’s voice stopped her.

“You think I want your fortune?” he said, quietly. “I wanted to know if I meant anything at all.”

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t plead.

Just stood there, coat dusted with road salt, eyes fixed on her with a sadness more bitter than rage.

“You’re clever, miss. But cleverness isn’t love.”

He waited.

For once, the next word would have to be hers.