The command room had been built in the first year of her marriage. At first she told herself it was temporary. A precaution. A way to keep one life breathing underneath another until love felt safe enough to trust.
Instead, she had upgraded it.
Beside the monitors hung the gown she had not worn in five years—dark midnight silk, sleeveless, altered that week to honor the curve of pregnancy rather than conceal it. Along the bodice, diamonds had been stitched so delicately that in dim light the dress looked severe, but beneath chandeliers it would look like a private sky.
Below it sat an open velvet box.
Inside lay the Hartwell Blue.
The sapphire was large enough to stop a room. Deep blue, alive under light, haloed in antique diamonds. It had belonged to the women in her family for generations. Her father had once touched it with one finger and told her, half joking and half serious, “Wear it when you’re done making yourself smaller.”
Evelyn lifted it from the box.