People were stupid about Father.

Even Weiss. She went on live television to tell the world she'd had a horrible childhood and that he was mean, as if everybody important didn't already know. Nobody cared that he treated them badly. She would have figured that out if she'd paid attention to the right people at all those parties. Or Whitley could have told her, if she'd ever bothered to ask.

And still, somehow, she stumbled on a killing blow. Nobody cared if he was cruel—but now half the kingdom was calling him a coward. The other half were calling him Jacques Gelé. His campaign was finished. He vanished from the penthouse.

Whitley wasn't stupid about Father. He could read his mood at a glance—they all could, but he knew what to do. When to disappear, when to smile, what to say when he was pleased that would make it easier when he was angry. It was as natural as breathing, now. He hardly even had to think about it.

Except then the arsonists blew up the manor, and he was left alone with Klein and mother in a penthouse that felt too small and too empty all at once. He tried to gauge her mood at first, to guess what was happening, but it was always a coin flip between drunk and crying or drunk and breaking Father's things. He had no idea how to make her stop. He had no barometer for his performance.

He spent his nights in his room with his head under the covers, watching the news on his scroll, because if he couldn't know the state of the household he might as well know the state of the Kingdom. At first it was mostly a loop of paramedics wheeling the two surviving Ace Ops into an ambulance, the manor burning, mugshots of Taurus. Then it was Winter and Marrow Amin, wanted criminals. Martial law. The sudden collapse of the Atlesian military.

Perhaps Whitley should stop underestimating Weiss' aptitude for breaking things.

Of all the things he'd expected to follow the attempted coup in the news cycle, a necklace was very near the bottom of the list.

It was a returning story, one Whitley had missed the first time around. He squinted at the tiny screen. The pendant looked normal—quite pretty, even—but then he realized the color of the gem was too vivid for a topaz. Dust. He wondered why anyone would make jewelry out of something so obviously dangerous.

The news anchor explained. She said the necklaces had been implicated in multiple human and faunus trafficking rings, and the shell company that manufactured them had bought the crystals from the SDC. Nothing Father couldn't spin, probably, in a normal week. This was not a normal week.

A representative of the board of directors came to see Whitley the day after the news broke about the SDC's involvement. He was familiar, though not enough that he remembered his name. Which told Whitley that he wasn't very interesting when he wasn't delivering life-altering news. Like the board deciding to distance the company from Father.

"We need a fresh perspective," said the representative. "Of course, you're far too young to take on the job just yet. But—well, I'm sure you don't want to hear all the technicalities."

"Actually—"

"The long and short of it is that we'd like you to participate in an emergency meeting Thursday evening, and choose someone you trust to look after the company until you're older." He produced a folder from his pocket. "We've put together dossiers on senior members of the company that would be able to mentor you for the next few years. Keep in mind that there are no bad answers here."

Whitley flicked open one folder. He recognized the face—Dolores Dianthus, a regular at all of Father's events who made a champion sport out of laughing at his jokes. After one of Weiss' concerts, Whitley had discovered that this odd quirk of her humor extended to him as well. He'd made it a game, to see how far she would go to charm him into telling Father about the nice lady in pink. She'd kept laughing long after he'd run out of dull jokes to regurgitate.

He flipped through a few more files—a regional manager Father had promoted, the sweaty man who always seemed to owe him a favor and was apparently an important investor, a board member who'd argued with him a lot when Whitley was younger and then had a sudden change of heart two years ago...

"Do I have to choose one of them?"

The representative blinked. "Ah, well—not strictly, no. But this is a very serious responsibility, young man. Whoever you choose will hold a majority share in the company for the next few years. We've made sure to select smart, capable people who will act in its best interest. It isn't about picking the person you like best."

"I'll make sure to consider my decision very carefully," Whitley promised. "Actually, I think I'll start studying your recommendations now." Taking the hint, the representative excused himself, leaving Whitley alone with his pile of papers. He stared at it for a long moment, then heaved a sigh.

He held the price of love in his hands—and two days was not a long time to decide who to buy it from.

Whitley had fully intended to go to the meeting with the board by himself. Klein would drive him there, drop him off, and come back once it was over—he didn't like leaving mother alone for too long, which was sensible. It wasn't like she'd ever been a shining example of stability.

Case in point: fifteen minutes before he was due to leave, she somehow got it into her head to go with him.

"There will be media there," he reminded her. "And they'll pounce the moment you start embarrassing yourself." Which wouldn't reflect well on him, or whoever he picked to handle the company while he aged into all his legal rights. A choice he definitely should have finalized by now.

"Oh, let them." She tipped herself into the seat beside him and closed the car door, with enough grace to tell him she wasn't too terribly drunk yet. "It's not as if I could do anything more humiliating than staying married to your father for almost thirty years."

Whitley shrugged, ceding the point. Klein pulled out of the car park.

A second shock greeted him outside the company headquarters. Weiss was there, waiting with her wings flared out over her shoulders. That probably meant something—he'd looked it up, and apparently many faunus traits would involuntarily signal their owners' moods. But Whitley hadn't been able to find anything specific about wing body language.

He glanced around, confirmed that Father had stayed away to keep up appearances and Winter would still rather fistfight a Megoliath than attend a company event, and approached his sister and her friends with his arms folded. Cameras flashed, but thankfully no one was brazen enough to try to record them talking. "What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to see you." Weiss glanced at mother and grimaced.

She took the hint and backed off to find Klein. Weiss watched her go, mouth tight. "I would have come by the penthouse, but..."

"You're waiting to see if she's serious."

"It seems a little too good to be true."

Whitley shrugged. "She trashed his office, so I don't think she could take it back even if she decides she wants to."

"I'm sure he'd find it in his heart to forgive her if he could get something out of it."

"She yelled at him. About us. I was listening at the door." He wasn't sure why he was being so defensive—it wasn't as if he couldn't handle it if mother went back to normal. It would make things easier, really. More predictable. But she'd sat with him, that night, drinking cocoa instead of scotch. She wouldn't do that again if father came back.

Weiss sighed. "We'll see. I... hope she's doing better. For what it's worth."

"Right." Whitley glanced over her shoulder. "Your hooligan friends aren't allowed in the building, so we should probably do introductions before we go inside." He already knew who they all were, he'd researched them during the trial fiasco, but that wasn't the same as an actual conversation.

"Interesting way to make a first impression," Weiss muttered. "Ruby, Blake, Yang, this is my little brother Whitley."

"Hey." Yang held out a hand. "How was flying?"

He remembered arms around him, tight and clinging, and spinning in empty air with nothing but wind under his feet. It left a weird lurch in the pit of his stomach. "Awful," he said. "I prefer airships."

"Good," Weiss shot back. "You're heavy. I pulled a muscle."

"I'm not heavy, I'm tall."

"You are not."

"Taller than you."

Ruby giggled. "He's kinda got you there."

"Excuse you? I have at least two inches on you—"

Whitley glanced pointedly at their shoes. "Two inches of heel, maybe."

Blake's ears pinned flat. He'd read on the CCT that signaled discomfort. Weiss seemed to notice too, and patted her shoulder. "Don't worry, he's just being a pest."

"She's an only child," Yang stage-whispered. Blake elbowed her in the side, and they both laughed.

He narrowed his eyes. "So. You're the girlfriends."

"Whitley."

"What?" He smiled innocently at his sister. "People talk, you know. It's been going around the rumor mill for months now."

"Is this the shovel talk?" Yang asked, bemused.

"Don't be ridiculous." He wouldn't need a shovel—should drastic measures prove necessary, he had plenty of funds in his trust to hire an assassin who would get rid of the bodies for him. Whitley had no intention of ever watching his sister cry in a pile of splinters and broken glass. "I'm just curious. I didn't think any of you would bother to show up to such a tedious event."

Blake raised an eyebrow. "Can something be tedious if it affects the fate of thousands of people?"

"That depends on whether or not you can change the outcome." He bounced on the balls of his feet and beamed at Weiss. "Shall we go inside?"

She rolled her eyes, hugged her friends goodbye, and followed him through the open double doors. Cameras flashed at them as they passed. Then they were in the lobby, alone with a receptionist who directed Whitley to the top floor.

"In a moment," he said. "I still have a few minutes."

"Whitley..."

Here it is. "Yes, dearest sister?"

"You're laying it on a little thick today. Nervous?"

"Not particularly. I have my speech memorized, all I need to do is deliver it."

"So you know who you're going to pick."

A flush threatened to creep up his neck. "You'll have to wait for the press release like everyone else," he said primly.

"I know. But... if you wanted..." Her wings curved over her shoulders, as though she was hugging herself. "We could do a lot of good together."

"Oh, I bet you'd just love that, wouldn't you?"

Weiss had the audacity to look baffled.

"You think I'm just going to let you hand everything over to your new friends and forget about me again?"

"Forget you? What are you talking about? I saved your life a week ago!"

"Oh, I don't know." Whitley folded his arms across his chest. "Maybe the fact that you decided to tell literally everyone on Remnant before me."

She gaped at him. "I—I didn't—"

"I could have kept a secret. I'm good at lying."

Weiss averted her eyes. "It wasn't about that. I just... didn't want you to see me like everyone else did. Like I did, back then."

"So it's perfectly fine to let three complete strangers in on it first."

"Yes," she snapped. "That's my choice. I don't owe anyone that secret, and I never did. If I could've made it so mother and father and Winter didn't know either, I would have."

He perked up a little. "Really?"

"Really." Weiss reached out and squeezed his shoulder. It felt odd. "Growing up... you were the only one who ever made me feel normal. That meant a lot to me."

Whitley squinted suspiciously at her. "A big speech isn't going to make me name you in the meeting."

"I know. That was for you."

"I could, though. If you're willing to put in the time."

She smiled, though it looked strangely worn at the corners. "I am."

"You'd have to quit Beacon."

The change was immediate—her wings puffed up, and she took a step back like she was scared he was about to explode. "Excuse me?"

Whitley gave her his blandest smile. "Running the company is a full-time job. You won't have time to tramp across the Kingdoms killing Grimm. Unless you planned to strip it down and sell it, so that you can get your girlfriends shiny new swords or something."

"Yang doesn't even use—never mind. Whitley, I'm not going to quit being a Huntress."

"Why not? It's not as though you'll need the extra employment."

"Because," she said softly, "if I hadn't gone to Beacon, I would have kept fighting for Father's approval until it killed me."

His throat tightened.

"I'm happy there. Before I left, I didn't even think I could be happy. I'd like to change the company with you, but I'm not going to give up my life to do it. I've already spent too much time destroying myself for our last name."

"Fine, then! Maybe I should just name Dolores Dianthus instead!"

Weiss blinked. "Who?"

Honestly. There wasn't even any point taunting her if she was going to be this dense about it. He stomped off and ducked into the elevator, and didn't turn around when she shouted, "Good luck!" at his back.

"Master Whitley," said Dolores Dianthus, in the tones of someone who didn't find Whitley's latest joke very funny at all. "This is a serious matter! The company is already in dire straights after the riots and your, ah, half-sister's meddling. You must name a real candidate, and soon, so that we can repair the damage done to our brand."

Whitley thought he might be beginning to understand his sisters a little better—flipping the table was fun.

"Well," he said, over the babble of of several dozen humans in sharp white suits that were clearly a sad imitation of his father's. "Seeing as none of you can actually stop me, I think we'll proceed to the press release as planned."

A chorus of "Master Whitley!" followed him out of the room. Security kept pace with him, though a few of them stumbled—unsure, perhaps, of whether or not they were supposed to bar the door.

Outside was a pandemonium of flashing lights. More media had arrived, more onlookers, more eyes on Whitley as he stepped up to the cordon than had ever graced one of Weiss' concerts. He straightened up, clearing his throat as a roomful of preferred candidates watched impotently from the sidelines. To try and keep him quiet now would only cause a bigger disaster.

"I've been given an amazing opportunity tonight," he said. His eyes drifted over the crowd, searching... and then alighting on the news crew he knew his father would be watching. His eyes fixed on their camera lens, and he smiled.

"There were many impressive candidates, and I'm sure any one of them would have worked tirelessly to uphold the legacy of the company my grandfather started, and my father so courageously shaped into what it is today."

Whitley could almost see him through that little black eye recording his every move. Scowling now, certainly. "I know he shaped me into who I am today."

I learned your pattern, he told the camera. I can learn others, too. I don't need you anymore.

"This has been a chaotic time for our Kingdom. I don't think anyone will disagree with that. I experienced it firsthand, very recently." He let that sit for a moment—comfortably, as he knew it would.

"It's easy to call Taurus a raving lunatic. I'll do it right now. But where would Atlas be now, if we only ever did what was easy?"

I don't need mother. I don't need Winter.

"Is it really a coincidence, that of the two arsonists who did everything they could to destroy our kingdom, who were shunned by even the White Fang... both of them have such bloody ties to the SDC? I'm not convinced. This company doesn't need to stay the course—it needs to change, quickly and drastically."

It was easy to find Weiss in the crowd. She was staring at him with a hand over her mouth, eyes shining. Her wings were flared out in a way he mentally cataloged as hopeful.

I don't need you, either. I can do right without you—I don't have to give you and your new family anything.

"To accomplish this, I've decided to honor my father's touching dedication to my sister," Whitley said, putting a hand on his chest and dripping irony, "by splitting the decision power of my majority share between the workers she is so concerned with. Every SDC employee will control an equal portion of the company, and can participate in any and all votes on policy—"

He didn't get farther than that, because the crowd had finally registered what he was saying and questions started flying. Whitley paused to drink it in for a moment. Weiss was too far away for him to see her face fall, but her wings made a little fluttering motion that he filed away as the avian equivalent.

It took a while for it to sink in among the press that he was, in fact, serious, and a while longer for them to ask all the clarifying questions they needed. By the time they were finished with him, Whitley's feet were sore and he never wanted to see another camera flash. He stepped past the cordon, ignoring follow-ups now that the main event was over, and approached his sister with his hands on his hips for a quick victory lap.

"You had your chance," he said airily. "But since you're so happy rolling around in the mud with the Grimm—"

Weiss seized him by the shoulders and yanked him into a bone-crushing hug. Her wings folded around him, feathers tickling the back of his neck. They were very soft. "You're brilliant," she told him.

What.

Confused and alarmed, he started to squirm. She pulled back, holding him at arm's length with her hands on his shoulders. "Why didn't you just tell me this was what you were planning?"

"Why should I?" huffed Whitley, who had only thought of it during the elevator ride up. "It's none of your business, now. Happy?"

Weiss beamed at him. "A little. Mostly I'm just proud of you."

What?!

Whitley's entire face turned a humiliating shade of crimson. He spluttered something that did not come out like the protest it had been intended as, and somehow instead of elbowing her when she tried to draw him into another hug, he went limp with his head on her shoulder.

"Do you think..." She hesitated—he realized with a pang that she was nervous. "Could we get lunch, after this? Just the two of us?"

"You don't want to bring them?"

"I think you'll like them, once you get to know them." She gave him a last squeeze, and let go. "But that can wait a little while."

He realized with a slight chill that the three of them were all smiling at him. Unnerved, he hunched his shoulders and started walking away. "Klein has to drive mother home," he said. "So we'll have to take another car."

"Okay."

"She had cocoa with me, the night he left." Whitley wasn't sure why he said it like it was some kind of secret—or why he didn't dare look at her face as he spoke.

Maybe Weiss knew. She sighed like she did, anyway.

"Maybe someday," she told him. "Just... not today."