The bells of Westminster tolled across the Thames, rolling through the fog like distant thunder. London had been restless all morning—coaches rattling over the cobblestones, messengers sprinting through Parliament Square, even the newspapers whipping out rushed editions with headlines that seemed unable to contain their own excitement:

"BRITAIN AND FONSEINE SIGN HISTORIC RAIL ACCORD!"

"PHILLIP WELLINGTON SECURES EUROPE'S FIRST FOREIGN RAIL CONTRACT!"

"THE IRON ROAD GOES GLOBAL!"

And yet, inside Imperial Dynamics' London headquarters, Phillip Wellington sat in his office with a half-finished cup of tea and a ledger open before him.

He wasn't celebrating.

Not yet.

Henry burst into the room without knocking.

"You're impossible," he declared. "The entire country is cheering your name and you're sitting here doing accounts."

Phillip looked up with mild annoyance.

"These accounts fund the cheering."

Henry threw his hands up. "By God, Phillip, at least pretend to enjoy yourself."

Phillip closed the ledger with a soft thud. "Has my father sent word?"

"More than word," Henry said darkly. "He sent a summons. And a carriage. And a note saying—and I quote—'Phillip, do not keep the dukes waiting.'"

Phillip exhaled sharply.

"Then it's serious."

"Yes," Henry groaned. "It's a social party."

Phillip frowned as he stood.

"Henry, I've survived parliamentary debate, international negotiations, and midnight spies."

"Yes, yes, I know," Henry waved him off. "But you still haven't survived a ballroom full of noblewomen picking out curtains for your imaginary future manor."

Phillip shot him a flat look.

"I'm attending because my father asked me to. Not to… socialize."

Henry smirked. "Ah yes. Not to socialize. Certainly not to find a wife."

Phillip turned away to grab his coat.

"I'm not looking for a wife."

"That's what every nobleman says," Henry teased. "Until he meets a lady with a fan and a list of eligible bachelors."

Phillip paused at the doorway.

When he spoke, his voice was quieter.

More distant.

More honest.

"I am not looking," he said softly, "because the woman I once intended to marry… may not exist in this world."

Henry's expression shifted, the humor fading.

"Phillip…"

Phillip shook his head.

"It's fine. Let's go."

The carriage waiting outside Imperial Dynamics belonged unmistakably to the Duke of Wellington—polished black lacquer, silver trim, and the crest of the Wellington House carved into the side. Londoners paused to stare as Phillip stepped in, Henry accompanying him only to the door.

"Try not to start any political alliances while dancing," Henry called.

Phillip gave him a tired look.

"I don't dance."

"You do tonight!" Henry shouted as the carriage door closed.

Inside, Phillip rested his head back, watching the city pass outside. Chimneys belched steam into the sky, locomotives whistled from distant yards, and the growing sprawl of industrial factories gleamed with iron and ambition.

Britain was changing.

And so was he.

But some parts of him… parts of Phillip Harrington who once lived a different life… remained untouched.

The thought of his fiancée—her face blurred but remembered—twisted faintly in his chest.

Was she here?

Had she been reborn?

Transmigrated?

Or erased by the divergence of this world?

He didn't know.

But he knew that if she existed in this era, he would find her.

One day.

The mansion was ablaze with candlelight, its enormous windows glowing like a beacon in the London dusk. Footmen in immaculate uniforms lined the entrance, guiding arriving guests through the open doors.

The air was thick with perfume, chatter, and the rustle of fine gowns.

Phillip took a deep breath and stepped inside.

The ballroom was grand—crystal chandeliers, white marble pillars, the polished floor reflecting gold from every candelabra. Nobility filled the room like a glittering sea. Dukes, marquesses, viscounts, wealthy merchants—hundreds of them.

At the far end, his father stood tall, hands clasped behind his back, observing the room with the authority of a seasoned general.

The Duke's face brightened slightly when he saw Phillip.

"Son," he greeted, clapping a hand on Phillip's arm. "You made it."

Phillip nodded. "It would have been rude not to."

"It would have been catastrophic not to," the Duke corrected. "Half these nobles came specifically to speak to you."

Phillip stiffened. "…Why?"

The Duke raised a brow.

"You've turned Britain into the center of the industrial world. Every ambitious family wants to align themselves with you."

Phillip exhaled sharply.

"So this is politics."

"This is politics," his father confirmed. Then, with a sly smile—

"And marriage."

Phillip rubbed his forehead.

"Father—"

"Don't start," the Duke said sternly. "You're old enough. Your work is admirable, but soon enough you must consider heirs."

Phillip resisted the urge to groan.

"I came to be polite. I did not come to find a wife."

The Duke gave him a long, steady look.

"Phillip… I'm not asking you to choose tonight. Only to look. To meet people. To show that the future Duke of Wellington understands his duties."

Phillip's jaw tightened.

He respected his father deeply.

Perhaps too deeply to simply refuse.

"…Fine," Phillip said at last. "I will meet them. But only meet them."

The Duke nodded with satisfaction.

"That is all I ask."

The Duke guided Phillip through the crowd.

Introductions flew:

"Lady Clarisse of Kent—her family owns the southern vineyards."

"Miss Evelyn Hartwell—daughter of the textile magnate."

"Lady Margaret Ashcombe—related to Lord Ashcombe from Parliament."

"Miss Beatrice Lockwood—accomplished pianist and very clever!"

Phillip bowed to each, polite but detached.

Most stared at him with thinly veiled excitement.

The genius engineer.

The nation's prodigy.

The future of Britain's industry.

Some batted their eyelashes.

Others giggled behind fans.

One attempted to recite poetry.

Phillip maintained composure but inside, he felt nothing.

No spark.

No pull.

No recognition.

None of these women were her.

Near the balcony, Phillip finally escaped the swarm. The night air outside was cool, carrying the distant smell of the river and blooming jasmine.

He exhaled deeply.

The social responsibility of a nobility was so exhausting to the point he wished this would end soon. Well, since it's already late in the night, it might be the case.

"Okay…let's endure this."

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