After Hera's breakdown, after the tears had finally subsided into exhausted hiccups, Duvan had helped her to her room and told her to rest.

  She'd looked at him with red, swollen eyes—afraid he'd disappear, afraid this moment of comfort was temporary—but she'd been too drained to argue.

  Now Duvan stood alone on the balcony of their house, staring out at the darkened city.

  The anger was still there. A low simmer beneath his skin, refusing to fully dissipate.

  So was the pain. The ache of betrayal, of six years built on lies, of loving someone who couldn't love him back because she was too busy punishing herself.

  He understood her reasoning. Logically, intellectually, he could trace the path of her decisions and see how each choice had led to the next.

  But understanding didn't erase the hurt.

  Duvan leaned against the railing, closing his eyes, and let his mind drift back to his previous life.

  Lucas Smith had developed a philosophy about people over his twenty-four years of existence. It wasn't particularly kind, but it had the benefit of being consistently accurate:

  Humans are inherently selfish.

  That was the truth Lucas had observed again and again. People acted in their own self-interest. Made choices that benefited themselves first. Pursued happiness, comfort, security—always prioritizing their own needs above others.

  But selfish isn't always wrong, he'd learned to add as a caveat.

  Because selfishness in moderation was just survival. It was making sure you ate, slept, stayed healthy so you could continue functioning. It was setting boundaries. It was self-preservation.

  The problem came when selfishness crossed into entitlement. When people demanded the world bend to their desires while contributing nothing back. When they used others as stepping stones and felt no remorse.

  That kind of selfishness troubled Lucas. Made him cynical. Made him keep people at arm's length because getting close meant risk—risk of being used, discarded, hurt.

  But then there were the selfless people.

  Duvan let out a long breath, his fingers tapping against the railing in an unconscious rhythm.

  The ones who gave and gave until they had nothing left. Who sacrificed their own needs for others. Who let themselves be used because they saw no other choice—or rather, because helping others was their choice, regardless of cost.

  Modern society called them stupid. Idiots who didn't know their own worth. Doormats to be pitied or exploited.

  Lucas had thought so too, once.

  But emotions were more complex than that simple judgment allowed.

  Duvan ran a hand through his hair, the gesture frustrated.

  Selfish people have choice, he thought. They can decide to take or give, to help or abandon, to stay or leave. The world is full of options for them.

  But selfless people...

  He paused, the thought completing itself slowly.

  They don't see other choices. Or maybe they do, but their nature—their core—won't let them take those options. Helping isn't a choice for them. It's who they are.

  Like Brutuss, who'd stayed behind to let his party escape. Who'd been devoured by Voidlings because that's what protectors did—they protected, even unto death.

  Like Hera, who'd married a stranger to protect her unborn child from experimentation. Who'd spent six years in a cold, loveless arrangement because she couldn't see another path that kept Cyrene safe.

  Selfish? No.

  Selfless to the point of self-destruction? Absolutely.

  Duvan shook his head, a bitter smile crossing his face.

  And what about him?

  Duvan gripped the railing tighter, knuckles going white.

  Was he selfish or selfless?

  Selfish, his mind supplied immediately. Everything you've done has been for yourself. It just happened to benefit others.

  He'd built Future Tech for his own satisfaction—the joy of invention, of solving problems, of proving he could succeed in this world. The fact that his innovations helped humanity was a pleasant side effect, not the primary motivation.

  He'd become a Grand Protector because it gave him purpose, resources, influence. The protection of humanity was important, yes, but it was also personally fulfilling.

  Even saving the orphanage at Levywood—he'd done it because those kids mattered to him. Because he couldn't bear to lose Sister Margret and the children he'd grown up with. Not because of some abstract duty to protect the innocent.

  Selfish motivations, he thought. Dressed up in heroic outcomes.

  And yet...

  He let out a soft, humorless laugh.

  Somewhere along the way, people had started trusting him. Relying on him. Looking to him as someone dependable, someone who'd show up when needed.

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  The other Grand Protectors. His employees. The orphans. Even strangers who saw him as a symbol of hope and progress.

  When had that happened? When had selfish Duvan Excy—Lucas Smith reincarnated—become someone people believed in?

  He sighed, the sound heavy with exhaustion.

  If I were in Hera's position, Duvan thought, forcing himself to consider it honestly, would I have done the same?

  The answer came quickly. Too quickly.

  No.

  He would have found another way. Would have approached the problem differently. Would have—

  What? Fought Magism Unos directly? With what leverage? They held all the cards—Hera's child, her position, her very identity as the Saintess.

  Would he have told the truth to the Grand Protector he was forced to marry? Trusted a stranger with information that could destroy him if it got back to Magism Unos?

  Lucas had never been good at trusting people. And Duvan had inherited that particular flaw.

  He rubbed his temples, feeling a headache building.

  I want to get my own way, he admitted to himself. Always have. I find solutions that work for me first, others second. So no—I wouldn't have done what Hera did.

  I would have done something else. Something probably more destructive. Something that felt more like control.

  But would it have been better?

  That was the question he couldn't answer.

  Duvan turned away from the city view, leaning back against the railing, and felt something shift in his understanding.

  The anger he'd been carrying—where was it actually directed?

  Not at Hera, he realized.

  Well, some of it was. The hurt, the betrayal—those were genuine reactions to what she'd done.

  But the deeper anger, the one that had been simmering beneath everything else?

  He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, a gesture of pure frustration.

  At myself.

  Because he'd always prided himself on thinking logically before emotionally. On seeing situations clearly, on understanding all angles before making judgments.

  And yet when faced with Hera's truth, his first instinct had been to shut down completely. To go numb. To ignore her entirely.

  If she'd told me the truth back then, he thought, the question forming with brutal clarity, would I have even listened?

  He dropped his hands, staring at nothing.

  Would I have believed her? Or would I have assumed it was manipulation, an excuse, another lie?

  Would I still have felt the same romantic feelings for her? Or would knowing she was pregnant with another man's child have killed any chance of connection?

  The honest answer made him uncomfortable.

  He probably wouldn't have believed her. Would have seen it as a story designed to excuse the deception. Would have put up walls even higher than the ones he already had.

  After all, Lucas had been hurt before. Had learned not to trust pretty words and emotional appeals.

  And if it hadn't been for Silvia's intervention—for her cryptic but ultimately accurate advice to actually listen—he wouldn't have given Hera this chance at all.

  He would have just ignored her. Let the marriage dissolve through cold indifference. Moved on with his life while she suffered alone.

  Duvan let out a bitter laugh that echoed in the empty night.

  "I doubted whether she could trust me," he muttered to the darkness. "But it turns out she was right not to."

  He pushed off the railing, pacing the length of the balcony.

  His thoughts went back to Hera's behavior over the past six years. The coldness. The distance. The strict rules she'd established.

  He'd always seen them as... what? Evidence she didn't care? Proof she wanted nothing to do with him?

  But now, reviewing those memories with new context, he saw the cracks.

  The way she'd sometimes turn away quickly, her shoulders shaking slightly before she composed herself.

  Those brief moments when her gaze would change—just for a second—before returning to that careful, distant mask.

  The rules themselves. Separate bedrooms. Minimal contact. Clinical interactions.

  He'd thought they were rejection.

  But they were protection. Self-punishment. A way to keep herself from getting closer to him while the guilt ate her alive.

  I saw them as her not opening up to me yet, he thought, stopping his pacing. Arranged marriage, after all. Give it time. She'll come around eventually.

  He'd been patient. Understanding. Giving her space to adjust.

  But he'd completely misread what was actually happening.

  Duvan dragged a hand down his face, the gesture weary.

  For someone smart, he thought, I was incredibly stupid about this.

  He'd been blind. Or maybe willfully ignorant. Easier to accept the surface explanation than dig deeper into uncomfortable truths.

  Either way, he'd missed all the signs.

  Another sigh escaped him, this one accompanied by slumped shoulders.

  The genius inventor. The Time Prince. One of the five Grand Protectors.

  And he'd handled his own marriage with all the emotional intelligence of a particularly dense rock.

  Wonderful, he thought sarcastically. Truly inspiring.

  Duvan stood on the balcony for a long time, processing, thinking, feeling the complicated tangle of emotions that refused to resolve into anything simple.

  Eventually, he accepted that he wasn't going to reach any grand conclusions tonight.

  This was too big, too complicated, too painful to neatly categorize and file away.

  He'd need time. More time to think, to process, to figure out what he actually wanted from all this.

  But for now...

  He turned and headed back inside, moving quietly through the house.

  He found himself at Hera's door without consciously deciding to go there.

  A soft knock. "Hera?"

  "...I'm awake." Her voice came through muffled, thick with emotion.

  He opened the door slowly.

  She was sitting up in bed, looking small and fragile in the dim light from the window. Her eyes were still red from crying, her expression uncertain.

  "Can you..." She hesitated, the words catching in her throat. "Can you stay?"

  Duvan paused in the doorway.

  Part of him wanted to refuse. To maintain distance. To protect himself from more potential hurt.

  But the larger part—the part that had spent the last week taking care of her, the part that had just held her while she broke down—couldn't walk away.

  He entered fully and sat on the edge of her bed.

  Hera leaned close, resting her head against his back. Seeking comfort. Seeking reassurance that he wasn't going to disappear now that he knew everything.

  Duvan turned slightly, his hand reaching toward her face, then hesitating.

  Touch without permission, he remembered. One of her rules.

  But she'd just bared her soul to him. The rules seemed absurd now.

  His hand completed its journey, gently cupping her cheek.

  Their eyes met and held.

  So much unsaid between them. So many questions still unanswered. So much pain yet to process.

  But also something else. Something fragile and new and terrifying in its vulnerability.

  "Rest," Duvan said quietly, his thumb brushing her cheekbone. "I'll stay until morning. You're still only partially recovered."

  He'd meant it practically—a reminder about her health, about the need for proper rest.

  But Hera's eyes were already closing, her body relaxing against him like his words had unlocked something.

  Her mind and body, wound tight with stress and fear for so long, finally let go.

  She trusted him enough to sleep.

  That thought settled somewhere in Duvan's chest, heavy and warm and complicated.

  He stayed sitting there, hand still gently touching her face, watching as her breathing evened out into genuine sleep.

  Not the restless, nightmare-plagued sleep of the past weeks.

  Real rest. Real peace. At least for tonight.

  Duvan looked down at her—this woman who'd lied to him, who'd broken his heart, who'd been carrying impossible burdens alone—and felt the anger and pain still there.

  But also something else.

  Not forgiveness. Not yet.

  But maybe... understanding.

  Maybe the beginning of something that could eventually become healing.

  We'll see, he thought. Tomorrow. We'll figure it out tomorrow.

  For tonight, he'd just stay.

  Keep his promise.

  Be the person she needed him to be, even if he didn't know what that meant for them yet.

  The time for big decisions could wait.

  Right now, in the quiet darkness of her room, with her finally sleeping peacefully against him, staying was enough.