Maria paced around her room, the rhythmic tapping of her shoes against the wooden floor the only sound filling the small space. Her hands were clasped together tightly, her fingers occasionally tugging at the sleeves of her habit as she struggled to steady her racing thoughts. Today was the day.
A sudden knock at the door startled her, and she turned just as it creaked open. Sister Margaretta peeked inside, her expression gentle as always. "Maria," she said, stepping just past the threshold. "Frau Lulu sent word—she'll pick you up at six."
Maria nodded absently but didn't stop pacing.
Sister Margaretta frowned. She had been guiding Maria through the complexities of life outside the convent, patiently explaining the city's workings and the people's expectations. Seeing her in such a state of distress, however, made her worry. She stepped inside fully. "Today is the vote," she reminded softly.
"I know," Maria said, her voice edged with nervous energy. She paused just long enough to glance at the older woman. "Can you tell Frau Lulu that she doesn't need to pick me up? I'll meet them at the council."
Sister Margaretta hesitated before nodding. "I'll let her know," she said. "She also asked if you've prepared a speech."
Maria exhaled sharply, her anxiety tightening its grip. "Yes," she answered quickly, gesturing toward the sheet of paper resting on her desk. "Please tell her not to worry."
The sister followed Maria's gaze to the paper but remained still, her presence lingering in the doorway. "Are you sure—"
Maria turned away, already resuming her pacing, her mind too preoccupied to finish the conversation. Taking the hint, Sister Margaretta left the room.
Maria walked towards the desk, her fingers trembling slightly as she picked up the neatly written speech. Taking a steadying breath, she read aloud:
"Calling for the councilors, families from Vienna, brothers and sisters. In this political assembly, I wish to bring attention to the importance of remembering God and fulfilling our responsibilities toward Him. We are here to defend families."
The words felt hollow as they left her lips. Her brow furrowed, and with a frustrated sigh, she threw the paper onto the bed. Sitting beside it, she clasped her hands together, disappointment weighing heavily on her chest.
She should have asked Father Norman for help. He would have known the right words, the kind that could truly move people. But instead, she was left with this—just words on paper, words that might not reach anyone's heart.
Her gaze lifted to the wooden cross above her bed, its familiar presence a quiet comfort. Closing her eyes, she whispered a prayer, asking for guidance, for the right words to say. The right words to make them listen.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
The facade of the council building was a battleground of voices. The stone steps leading to the grand entrance were overflowing with protesters—one side rallying against the Hyssop Homes project in Stuwerviertel, the other, mostly religious groups, fervently supporting it. The air was thick with chants and shouts, emotions running high as people waved signs and banners.
Police officers struggled to maintain order, forming a barrier between the opposing sides while attempting to clear a path for those permitted inside the building. The sheer number of bodies pressing forward made their task difficult, and every now and then, a particularly heated exchange would cause the officers to step in.
Amidst the crowd, Max navigated his way through, closely following behind his reporter friend. The press pass hanging from the man's coat granted them access past the throng of people, allowing them to move freely among the protesters. As the reporter stopped to interview individuals, Max listened carefully, absorbing the sentiments being shared.
"The Hyssop Homes project is a scam," one man declared, his voice raw with frustration. He gestured wildly, his face flushed with anger. "And who do you think will pay for its construction? Us! The taxpayers! That's who!"
The reporter took note of his words, nodding along, while Max's gaze swept over the crowd. He couldn't help but notice several familiar faces among the chaos. Nearly all the employees of the Edelweiss had gathered here, their presence unmistakable.
His eyes landed on Daniela, who nearly stumbled due to her impractical choice of high heels—why on earth did she think stilettos were a good idea in a place like this? Max shook his head. Beside her, Lilian was in a heated discussion with her, arms crossed as she complained to Daniela about a certain councilman.
"He's a regular at the club," she said, her tone dripping with disdain. "And now look at him, standing on that side, pretending he's better than us. Hypocrite."
Karl, leading the Edelweiss crew through the crowd, caught onto the conversation and scowled. "That crook," he muttered, cracking his knuckles.
Max continued to follow his reporter friend, who had now moved to the other side of the protest. A veiled lady with a small Bible in her hand was speaking passionately into the microphone, explaining her support for the Hyssop Homes project.
"That district is a—"
But Max didn't hear the rest. A sudden outburst shattered the tension in the air.
"I'll send them six feet under!"
A sharp yell cut through the noise, and all heads turned in alarm. It was Big Boy, towering over the crowd, a gleaming razor in his hand. His face was twisted in fury as he shouted threats toward the politicians, waving the weapon dangerously. Gasps and shouts of panic spread like wildfire.
Max tensed, his gut telling him that things were about to spiral out of control.
The sudden burst of smoke sent the crowd into chaos. Protesters stumbled back, coughing and shielding their eyes as the thick cloud spread across the steps of the council building. The police took full advantage of the moment, raising their batons and shouting threats to disperse the most aggressive demonstrators.
Slowly, the stairs cleared—though not completely. A few stubborn protesters remained, standing their ground despite the chaos.
Inside the building, Max exhaled, adjusting his coat as he followed his reporter friend to a safer vantage point. Being with the press had its perks; while others were forced back by force, they had managed to slip through, avoiding the worst of the violence.
Then, a new sound rose above the unrest. A mix of claps and boos echoed outside, their intensity cutting through the lingering tension.
Curious, Max turned toward the doors, pushing them open just enough to peek outside.
A sleek car had rolled to a stop at the foot of the stairs. From it emerged a familiar figure—one that instantly turned the divided crowd into a storm of reactions.
The manipulative priest from the Alliance stepped out, a practiced smile on his face as he raised a hand in greeting. His supporters erupted into applause, their voices filled with reverence. The religious faction of the protest clung to his presence, as if he were their guiding star.
But the others—the ones who saw through him—were not so welcoming. Furious voices shouted over the applause, spitting accusations at him.
"Opportunist!"
"Traitor!"
The priest turned to face them, his expression unreadable. But Max could see it—the arrogance in the way he stood, the unwavering confidence in his calculated gestures.
He wasn't just here to support the project. He was here to prove that he owned this moment.
The priest barely acknowledged the uproar as he entered the building, his robes swaying with each step, as if he were immune to the anger outside. The moment the doors closed behind him, the next car rolled up.
Herr Böhm stepped out, his presence immediately shifting the atmosphere. Unlike the priest, who moved with an air of untouchable superiority, Böhm stood among the people, breathing in their energy. Max's reporter friend wasted no time, snapping a picture of him before darting outside to capture the unfolding moment.
Then, Böhm raised his arms and shouted, "Long live the people!"
The words ignited a roar of approval from those against the project. His name echoed through the crowd, chanted by those who saw him as their voice in the council.
But not everyone was pleased. On the opposing side, the religious faction raised their crosses high, an unmistakable show of defiance.
And then—chaos.
Big Boy and Marie, emboldened by the moment, started causing trouble again. Marie's sharp voice carried over the noise, laced with fury. Big Boy's presence alone was enough to send some of the more timid protesters stepping back, wary of his unpredictable temper.
The tension swelled, on the verge of exploding—until a new name ripped through the crowd.
"Captain!"
The familiar title rang out, sending a jolt through the gathered masses. Those who saw Georg as something more than just a club owner, as a symbol of their fight, turned toward the street.
Max followed their gaze just in time to see Georg step out of the car.
The moment was electric. The chaos briefly quieted, as if everyone was recalibrating their expectations.
Georg looked up at the stairs, locking eyes with Max.
A single nod.
"I'm here," it said.
Max nodded back.
"I never doubted it."
⸻⸻⸻⸻
The council chamber buzzed with tension, the echoes of protestors' shouts from the balcony above mingling with the hushed conversations happening below.
Georg stepped inside, scanning the room. His eyes passed over the familiar chaos of opposing sides—those fighting for Stuwerviertel, those supporting the Hyssop Homes project, and those who simply wanted to see how it all played out.
His gaze landed on Frau Lulu and Frau Luttenberger. The two women whispered furiously to one another, their sharp glances cutting in his direction. Their anger was palpable, but Georg barely acknowledged it. He wasn't here for them.
Instead, he let a slow, knowing smile across his lips as he spotted some of the Edelweiss employees—his people—scattered among the balcony crowd. They had come to support him, their presence a quiet assurance that he wasn't standing alone in this fight.
His attention shifted to the Valenta couple, caught in a hushed but heated argument. Herr Valenta looked deeply uncomfortable, his shoulders hunched as his wife hissed something in his ear. No doubt, he was here because of her insistence rather than his own convictions.
Georg strode further inside and took a seat in the back pew, right among a group of religious women. He felt their immediate discomfort, saw the way they stiffened, clutching their rosaries a little tighter as if his presence alone was something to be wary of.
He grinned.
The reaction was expected, and honestly, it amused him more than anything.
Then, he caught the gaze of the Alliance's priest. The man was studying him, curiosity flickering in his expression. Georg met his look head-on, giving him a nod—deliberate, challenging.
The game had begun.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
Maria kept walking, her steps steady despite the weight of disapproval pressing against her from the protestors gathered outside the council building. Behind her, the religious laywomen followed closely, their presence both a comfort and a reminder of the expectations placed upon her.
She was late. Frau Lulu had already called the convent multiple times, no doubt fuming over Maria's delayed arrival. But she had needed the extra time—rewriting her speech, searching for the right words, words that would actually reach people's hearts. She wasn't sure she had found them, but there was no more time to refine them now.
As she approached, the tension in the air became undeniable. From afar, she could already hear the boos rising from one side of the stairs. Maria stopped at the edge of the road, taking in the scene before her.
The rejection stung, but she understood it. They saw her as part of the Alliance, a symbol of the very thing they were fighting against. They didn't know—perhaps they didn't care—that she was trying to fight for them too.
But it didn't matter.
Maria took a breath, steadying herself.
What mattered was that she helped them.
Maria kept her gaze forward, forcing herself to stay composed as the shouts from both sides grew more heated. She had seen it all before—resentment, distrust, anger—but witnessing it so directly, being at the center of it, made it all the more overwhelming.
Then, a booming voice cut through the chaos.
"Enough!"
Maria turned her head slightly, recognizing the man from Georg's club. He stood firm, his towering frame commanding attention. "Have some respect! She's a woman of God—leave her alone!" he bellowed, his voice filled with conviction.
But the opposition was quick. A woman from the crowd shot back, her voice sharp and defiant. "She's here to deceive us! To lull us into submission!"
Maria barely had a moment to process her words before the man surged forward. With shocking force, he shoved her. Gasps rippled through the crowd as the woman stumbled, only narrowly caught by those behind her.
"If you mess with religion, you mess with me!" the man roared, his face flushed with anger. "St. George gives me strength! He sustains me!"
The police reacted instantly, moving in to hold them back, their presence the only thing preventing a full brawl.
Maria's heart pounded, but she pressed on. The steps of the council building loomed ahead, and she refused to falter.
Then, from the barricades, a figure slipped through. A petite woman, familiar yet unexpected, broke past the others and hurried toward her. Before Maria could react, the woman reached for her hand and pressed a reverent kiss to it.
It happened so quickly that the police barely had time to pull her back.
Maria stood frozen for a moment, watching as the woman disappeared back into the crowd.
Despite everything—the anger, the hostility—her heart felt lighter. Hope stirred within her.
Maybe, just maybe, the people of Stuwerviertel were not so far out of reach.
Slowly, Maria approached the two people fighting on the stairs. The big man kept resisting the people holding him up and asked to let himself go a few times, flailing his arms until he was able to break off from their grip. Because of his wild movements, his razor slipped from his grasp, spinning through the air before landing dangerously close to Maria.
She barely managed to step back in time, the sharp blade glinting under the dim light as it clattered onto the stone steps.
For a brief moment, the chaos seemed to pause. The people surrounding them—protesters, police officers, and onlookers alike—held their breath as Maria's gaze dropped to the weapon.
The big man, still catching his breath, followed her line of sight. His expression flickered between frustration and something else—something unreadable.
Maria lifted her head and met his eyes.
She did not speak.
She did not scold.
She simply looked at him.
The tension between them was heavy, charged with unspoken words.
Behind her, the restless murmurs of the crowd stirred once more, waiting—watching—wondering what would happen next.
Maria picked it up and looked at the razor for a bit, then she stepped forward to the man.
The big man calmed down significantly, his heavy breathing slowing as his tense shoulders slumped. "Sister, I—" he began, his voice rough with the remnants of his earlier anger. "I didn't mean—"
A police officer stepped closer, his hand outstretched. "Toss it here, Sister," he instructed firmly.
Maria didn't move right away.
Instead, she looked at the big man—really looked at him. His broad hands, rough from years of labor or struggle, twitched slightly, as if even he wasn't sure what to do next. His gaze darted between the officer and Maria, his usual bravado replaced with something uncertain.
Maria saw that hesitation, that flicker of something vulnerable beneath his toughened exterior.
She made her choice.
Stepping forward, she extended the razor—not to the officer, but to the big man.
A murmur rippled through the surrounding crowd. The police officer took a sharp step forward, but Maria held steady, her expression unwavering.
The big man was motionless, his eyes locked onto the razor in her hand. For a moment, it seemed like he wouldn't take it. But slowly, cautiously, he reached out.
His fingers brushed against the cold steel as he took it from her grasp.
A breath passed between them—heavy, silent, understood.
A woman from the side of those who were in favor of the project suddenly spoke, her voice trembling with awe. "It's a miracle!" The words spread quickly through the crowd like wildfire.
As the people parted to let Maria pass, murmurs rippled among them. "Did you see that?" a man whispered to another. "It was a miracle. He almost killed her, but the hand of God struck his hand, and the razor fell to the ground!"
Maria kept walking, her steps steady but her mind restless.
Inside the council hall, the echoes of the outside chatter still reached her ears. Miracle. Divine intervention. Proof of righteousness.
She exhaled slowly. People were becoming too blind, she thought. They followed what they wanted to believe, clung to signs and symbols, but did they truly understand? Did they follow what God truly wanted them to do?
Her heart felt heavy as she continued down the hall. She finally entered the council chamber, the room filled with people.
At her right, Frau Lulu stood waiting for her, relief evident in her expression. "Thank God you finally arrived," she whispered.
Maria scanned the room, searching for a place to sit. As she moved, she felt a strong presence to her left. The sensation was undeniable, like a pull she couldn't ignore. Slowly, she turned, her gaze traveling across the people sitting in the back pew. She managed to find one unoccupied seat—until her eyes landed on the person occupying the seat next to it.
Georg.
He was looking at her, his expression unreadable, though she could see the way he forced himself to suppress a smile.
Maria fidgeted, suddenly unsure. Sitting next to him would not be a good idea. The disapproval in Frau Lulu's face confirmed that much. She hesitated.
Then, turning back toward the right side of the chamber, she forced herself to walk away. She glanced back just once.
Georg was still looking at her. But this time, his eyes were different. The hurt in them was unmistakable. Then, just as quickly, he looked away. Maria's heart tightened.
There were no seats left on the right side. So, without another word, she stood near the doors.
Suddenly, a familiar face stood beside her. It was Max, accompanied by another man who appeared to be a reporter. Max smiled at her but said nothing, simply standing by her side at the back of the chamber.
Then, Frau Lulu approached. Her expression was a mixture of frustration and relief. "I thought you wouldn't come," she said.
Maria lowered her gaze slightly. "I'm sorry for being late," she murmured. The two men behind her stepped back, giving them space.
Frau Lulu sighed. "It's too bad you didn't come early enough to make a speech," she said. "It would have been important." Maria felt a pang of guilt.
"But," Frau Lulu continued, "it's not important anymore. Your presence speaks louder. Hopefully, it will be enough to convince the councilmen to side with us."
Maria nodded, barely processing the words. Because, despite everything, she couldn't keep her eyes off Georg.
She glanced at him again—just for a second.
And in that second, she saw it. The hurt in his eyes.
But this time, it was different. It was mixed with anger.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
Herr Böhm stood at the dais, his voice firm and resolute as he addressed the council chamber. His speech carried a weight of conviction, each word carefully chosen to persuade his fellow councilmen to vote against the controversial project. He spoke of the moral fabric of their city, of the dangers that lurked behind promises of economic prosperity.
"The red-light districts exist in other countries," he declared, his voice echoing across the grand hall. "Even in Rome itself, beneath the shadow of the Holy See. Yet despite its presence in such a sacred place, the Pope has never been known to neglect his duties to make campaigns against sinners."
A murmur rippled through the chamber. On the balcony above, the crowd was split. Those who opposed the project applauded, their cheers filling the air in support of Herr Böhm's stance. But those in favor of it sneered and jeered, hurling accusations and insults.
"Libertine!" someone shouted.
"A hypocrite!" called another.
Maria stood among the spectators, hands clasped tightly in front of her. She had come not to voice an opinion, but to observe, to listen. The tension in the air was palpable, a battle between ideals waged with words instead of swords.
Her gaze drifted, almost involuntarily, to where Georg sat. His arms were crossed, his expression unreadable. But it was not his stance or his demeanor that caught her off guard—it was the way his suit strained against his frame, the tailored fabric stretching over the broad muscles of his arms. And his face—the strength of his jaw, the straight angle of his nose, and those lips…
She looked away abruptly, a heat rising to her cheeks. Foolish. It was foolish to notice such things. To even entertain such thoughts.
She shook her head, steeling herself. She was close—so close—to becoming a nun.
And Georg... Georg was a thing of the past.
Herr Böhm pressed on, his voice unwavering despite the mounting tension in the room. "It has never been known," he said firmly, "that a politician has successfully abolished the oldest profession in history. It is so ancient it verges on the biblical—was Mary Magdalene not one of them?"
A murmur rippled through the chamber at the mention of her name. Some nodded in agreement, others scoffed in disdain.
"The right way to help them is not through forced eviction, as many here seem to believe," Herr Böhm continued. "It is through education, through stable employment, through healthcare. That is how we uplift people—not by casting them aside."
Applause rang from the balcony where the opposition sat. Those in favor of the project, however, whispered among themselves, their expressions hard.
Maria shifted uncomfortably, but her gaze was drawn once again to Georg.
He wasn't clapping, nor was he reacting to the speech. Instead, he was watching. His blue eyes were locked onto a few of the councilmen, his gaze unwavering, almost piercing.
Maria frowned. Who was he looking at? Curious, she followed his line of sight.
Across the chamber, several councilmen sat rigid in their seats. Their hands twitched, their gazes darting away, their bodies betraying an unease that Georg seemed to be reveling in.
Maria's stomach turned. Whatever power play was happening in this chamber, Georg was very much a part of it.
Herr Böhm turned back to the council, his grip tightening on the stack of documents he held. His expression was composed but unyielding, a man ready to strike a decisive blow against the project he so vehemently opposed.
"The moralistic campaign for the Hyssop Homes," he declared, his voice slicing through the chamber's rising tension, "is nothing more than a smokescreen. A carefully crafted illusion meant to conceal the hidden and dubious interests of those who stand to profit."
A rustle of whispers spread through the assembly. Some councilmen exchanged uneasy glances, while others leaned forward in their seats. The president of the council regarded Herr Böhm with a measured stare, but before he could respond, a chair scraped against the wooden floor.
Father Cohen rose abruptly. "Dubious interests?" he repeated, his tone sharp. "It is not those behind Hyssop Homes who are dubious, Herr Böhm, but those who frequent the red-light district—the ones who wish to keep such filth alive in our city."
A murmur of agreement rippled from the supporters of the project, but Herr Böhm remained undeterred. He turned sharply, leveling his gaze at the priest.
"Ah," he said, voice heavy with meaning. He lifted his hand, pointing directly at Father Cohen. "You and your allies are not concerned with morality or righteousness. You are set on the increased value of properties in the neighborhood."
Gasps punctuated the silence that followed. Some councilmen turned toward Father Cohen, waiting for his rebuttal. The priest's eyes narrowed. "A bold accusation, Councilman," he said coolly. "Perhaps you would care to prove it?"
Herr Böhm raised the documents higher. "Gladly," he responded. "These records will be at your disposal—and at the disposal of this entire assembly."
The council chamber swelled with restless energy, the weight of the revelation hanging over the room like a storm about to break. But Herr Böhm was not finished.
"There is one name," he continued, "that stands above the rest in this scheme. A name that should surprise no one." His eyes flickered across the faces of his fellow councilmen before settling on the president of the council. "Herr Theodor Mendler."
The murmurs returned in force, louder this time, more charged. One of the richest men in Vienna, a man known for his business acumen—and, as Herr Böhm was now suggesting, for financing not just the campaign, but the very construction companies that stood to benefit.
From her place among the spectators, Maria felt the air grow thick with tension. She turned her gaze toward Georg once more, drawn to him in the midst of the unfolding political battle. He had not looked at her the previous times her eyes found him, his focus remaining on the debate.
But now... he noticed.
Their gazes locked, unwavering.
For a moment, the voices in the chamber faded into a distant hum. The weight of everything—the debate, the accusations, the uncertain future—hung between them in silence.
As Father Cohen continued to defend his side, Maria could not look away. And neither did Georg.
The chamber was filled with an uneasy silence as Herr Böhm stepped forward once more, his hands steady as he held up a collection of receipts. The papers rustled faintly, a quiet but potent sound that seemed to echo in the tense atmosphere.
"These," he announced, his voice firm, "are records of payment—proof of who has been funding the posters and leaflets distributed by the so-called Alliance Against Acts of Evil."
A wave of murmurs spread through the crowd, some hushed, others urgent. The president of the council extended a hand, and Herr Böhm walked over, placing the receipts into his grasp. The council president examined them briefly before looking up, his expression unreadable.
As Herr Böhm returned to his seat, the sound of measured footsteps rang against the chamber's wooden floor.
Father Cohen was on the move.
With the slow confidence of a man who had been waiting for this moment, the priest made his way to the dais on the opposite side of the chamber. His robes swayed slightly as he turned to face the assembly, his expression composed yet resolute.
"The concerns of the moralistic families of Vienna," he began, his voice carrying through the hall, "will be addressed. That is our duty. And we will not be swayed by baseless accusations."
He lifted his own stack of documents, holding them up for all to see. "These," he declared, "are reliable. Unquestionable."
Some councilmen leaned forward, intrigued. Others nodded, reassured by the priest's unwavering conviction. But Herr Böhm was not so easily swayed.
Without hesitation, he rose from his seat once more. "Unquestionable, you say?" he challenged. "Then surely, Father Cohen, you would have no trouble pointing out any forgeries in these?" He lifted his own documents again, the challenge clear in his tone. The two men locked eyes, and for a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath.
The air buzzed with tension as Father Cohen continued his speech, undeterred. He spoke with passion, gesturing occasionally to emphasize his points.
Maria, still standing among the spectators, let her gaze drift across the chamber. Inevitably, it found Georg again.
He was watching the councilmen, his face thoughtful. But as if sensing her eyes on him, he shifted his attention—directly to her.
Their gazes met, and this time, he did not simply acknowledge her presence.
He raised a brow.
And then, with an almost infuriating ease, he gave her a smug smile.
Maria stiffened, her grip tightening on the railing in front of her. She tore her gaze away, ignoring the flicker of warmth that threatened to rise to her cheeks.
Georg, however, seemed entirely pleased with himself.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
Georg leaned back against his seat, arms still crossed, exuding an air of nonchalance that was only partially genuine. He could feel Maria's gaze flicker toward him again, brief but telling. She thought she was being discreet, but he noticed.
He had always noticed.
A part of him told him to ignore it, to keep his face forward and pretend she wasn't there. He didn't want to indulge her, didn't want to feed whatever lingering feelings still remained between them. But despite himself, his resolve wavered, and he found his gaze drifting back to her.
Their eyes met—just for a second.
Georg mentally shook his head and tore his gaze away, forcing himself to focus on the scene before him.
The councilmen.
Some of them were regulars at his establishment, men who now sat at their polished desks, dabbing at their foreheads as they struggled to maintain their composure. Georg smirked. The hypocrisy was almost amusing. These were the same men who had whispered their desires under the dim lights, who had indulged in pleasures they now condemned. And yet, here they were, passionately trying to convince the others to vote against the project as if they had never set foot in his world.
At the dais, the priest from the Alliance continued to speak, his voice measured and unwavering.
"To prevent this project," the priest declared, "is to go against the values that make Viennese families the reservoir of morality in this country."
Georg let out a breath through his nose, rubbing his forehead. The man's words barely registered. Values, morality, righteousness—meaningless words dressed up to sound noble.
Georg knew better. He had seen what truly lay behind the closed doors of Vienna's finest homes. The desperate secrets. The carefully curated lies. The quiet misery disguised as respectability.
And yet, here they were—pretending.
Georg was kept aware of Maria's lingering glances. And yet, when he slanted a glance at her direction, she kept looking away as if burned.
Georg smirked to himself. So, they were on the same side of the magnet after all—pushing against each other, pretending the pull wasn't there.
He should have ignored it, should have dismissed the entire thing as a fleeting amusement. But somehow, he found himself subtly straightening his posture, adjusting his cuffs, running a hand through his hair—not for any reason in particular, of course.
Not for Maria.
The sound of the council president's voice cut through his thoughts. "The votes in favor of the project."
Georg turned his attention back to the chamber, suddenly aware of how much time had passed. This was it.
He listened closely as the votes were called.
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
"Yes."
His heart clenched. The fate of Stuwerviertel was balancing on a knife's edge.
The next councilman was called. He hesitated, glancing at Frau Valenta, who stood firmly for the project, holding a sign raised high for all to see. Then his gaze shifted—to Georg.
Georg simply raised a brow at him. A silent challenge.
The councilman faltered, then sat back down.
"Abstain."
Georg rolled his eyes. Coward.
He made a mental note—one more name to cross off the club's guest list, if the club still existed after this vote.
The next name was called. This time again, both Frau Lulu and Georg fixed their gazes on the councilman, their silent persuasion at play.
Georg allowed himself a smirk as the man spoke.
"No."
The councilman—one of Stuwerviertel's most discreet regulars—glanced toward the women on the balcony, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
Georg smiled, too. Perhaps there was still hope.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
The chamber was alive with tension, a palpable weight pressing down on everyone in attendance. Seven votes in favor. Seven votes against. The tie sent ripples of agitation through both sides, the whispers growing louder, the anxious glances more frequent.
Maria's hands clenched against the railing as she looked at Georg.
She caught the moment he reached into his pocket, retrieving a small notepad and quickly scribbling something down. Whatever it was, he kept his expression unreadable. Then, without hesitation, he tapped the man seated in front of him and gestured subtly toward the final councilman.
Maria's gaze followed the small piece of paper as it passed from hand to hand, each exchange done with the careful subtlety of men accustomed to backroom dealings.
When it finally reached the last councilman, Maria studied his face, trying to decipher what had been written.
His lips pressed into a firm line. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, his fingers tightening around the paper. Whatever was on that note—it was not pleasant.
Maria's thoughts were interrupted by the low murmur of Frau Lulu's voice.
"Calm down, ladies," the woman assured those around her, her tone confident, almost smug. "We've already won. He gave me his word that he'll vote for the project."
Maria frowned, her eyes darting back to the councilman. Had she not noticed Georg's intervention? But if she had, she showed no concern.
The final name was called.
The last councilman hesitated, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He opened the note once more, rereading its contents, his brows knitting together. Then, exhaling deeply, he stood.
"Council president," he said, his voice measured, "I request a moment."
The entire room stilled.
A heavy silence settled over the assembly. No one spoke. No one moved.
All eyes were on him.
Maria's pulse quickened. This was it.
The man looked across the chamber, his expression carefully neutral.
Then, at last, he spoke.
"No."
The word rang through the hall like a final bell toll.
Maria exhaled, but whether it was in relief or unease, she wasn't sure.
The chamber erupted into celebration. Cheers and applause filled the air as those against the project rejoiced in their triumph. Stuwerviertel would live another day—its people would keep their homes, their livelihoods, their place in the city that had tried to erase them.
Maria stood amidst the commotion, watching as the council president called for order once more.
"With eight votes against seven," his voice echoed through the hall, "the Hyssop Homes project is officially rejected."
The reaction was immediate—shouts of relief, hands grasping one another in gratitude, tears welling in the eyes of those who had feared displacement.
Maria did not linger.
She turned toward the chamber doors, each step measured, her fingers grazing the cold metal handle. But something—someone—made her glanced back and there he was.
Georg, beaming, clapping along with the rest of the crowd. It had been years since she had last seen that smile, so full and unrestrained. For a fleeting moment, it transformed him—made him look younger, lighter, as if shedding the burdens of time.
Maria swallowed.
Then, in an instant, the scene changed.
A woman near Georg—one of the many celebrating—turned toward him, her joy overflowing. She threw her arms around him, pressing a quick, playful kiss to his lips before pulling back with a bright laugh.
Maria stiffened.
She turned away, her heart twisting in a way she hadn't anticipated.
Why? Why did she care?
Surely, she had no feelings for him left.
With a quiet inhale, she pushed through the doors, stepping out of the chamber—out of the noise, out of the celebrations, and away from the sight of Georg's smiling face.
She didn't want to stay there any longer.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
The laughter and cheers continued around him, but Georg barely heard them.
He gently pushed himself away from the woman, his hands settling on her shoulders, steady but firm.
She was familiar—one of his club regulars, someone he'd shared drinks and conversations with on more than one occasion. Her smile was unbothered, playful, as if she expected no consequence for her impulsive display of affection.
Georg, still grinning, wagged a finger at her. "Let's not do that again, hmm?" His voice held no real reprimand, just amusement.
The woman only laughed, throwing her hands up in surrender before disappearing back into the jubilant crowd.
Georg stepped out of the chamber, the weight of victory settling over him. The hall was packed with people—supporters, opponents, onlookers—all moving with buzzing energy, their voices a constant hum around him. Some reached out to shake his hand, clapping him on the back, offering congratulations. He accepted them absentmindedly, nodding, smiling, but his mind was elsewhere.
His feet carried him toward the exit when suddenly—
A bump.
He stopped, and there she was.
Maria.
For a moment, everything around him seemed to mute. The noise of the crowd faded into nothingness, the press of bodies disappeared, and all that remained was the woman standing before him.
His pulse quickened.
Just as he opened his mouth, a heavy slap landed on his back. Georg snapped out of his daze, turning sharply.
Max was there. Grinning, congratulating him, speaking words Georg barely processed. By the time he turned back, Maria was gone.
She had slipped through his fingers once again.