Buckingham Palace lay wrapped in a heavy, breathless quiet when Arthur returned to the royal apartments.
He still carried the aura of a man who had just survived a cabinet battle—sharp, charged, victorious in appearance yet exhausted beneath the surface.
He expected, perhaps, the warm embrace of his wife.
But he did not receive it.
Victoria was seated on the velvet sofa near the fireplace, her brown hair falling softly over her shoulders. In her arms, three-month-old Princess Vicky cooed and waved tiny fists at the flickering light. Dash, the pampered spaniel, dozed loyally beside them.
When Arthur stepped in, mother, daughter, and dog all lifted their eyes toward him with the same quiet, suspended expression.
No smile.
No welcome.
Only concern.
"Arthur," Victoria said softly, her voice tender but taut with strain, "I've heard everything."
The words fell like glass.
"Lord Melbourne sent someone to inform me. You've… truly invested in the war?"
Arthur exhaled slowly.
He knew this moment was inevitable—his decision to act first and explain later would weigh on her heart.
He sat beside her, moving with deliberate gentleness.
Carefully, he took little Vicky into his arms.
The baby immediately burst into delighted giggles, reaching for his chin with her tiny hands. Arthur kissed her rosy cheek, cherishing the warm, milky scent that never failed to soften him.
But when he lifted his gaze back to Victoria's eyes, they were troubled, glistening.
"Yes, my love," he said quietly. "I invested."
Victoria's lips trembled.
"Why?"
Her eyes shimmered, reddening.
"You've worked so hard for everything you've built… and now you pour it into a war? I thought you would oppose it. I thought you would stop them. How can you possibly support such a thing?"
Her voice cracked.
The disappointment in her expression cut Arthur more deeply than any accusation in Parliament ever could.
He gently returned the baby into her arms, then clasped Victoria's hand.
"Victoria… listen to me."
His tone was steady, deep, steadying.
"I despise this war. I hate the idea of forcing open another land through cannon fire. But…"
A long silence.
"…I cannot stop it."
Victoria inhaled sharply, confusion overtaking her hurt.
"Our Empire," Arthur continued, "is a colossal beast—centuries old, bred on conquest, expansion, extraction. I say this not with pride, but with brutal honesty. When the Empire smells profit, advantage, or geopolitical opportunity, no single voice can restrain it. Not mine.
Not even yours."
Victoria lowered her eyes.
She knew he was right.
The crown shimmered, but its chains were older than memory.
"So," Arthur said, his eyes sharpening again with that unmistakable strategist's brilliance, "if we cannot stop the beast… then we must seize its reins."
Victoria looked up at him, breath catching.
The same words he had once whispered in the carriage returned now with greater weight.
"I did not invest to help the warmongers," Arthur said softly. "I invested to take the war away from them."
He leaned closer, letting the truth settle between them.
"Every new weapon, every shipment of supplies, every piece of logistical infrastructure for the expedition must now pass through my hands. I have paid for the right to define the technical reality of this conflict."
"And that means," he continued, voice low, "that the power to determine how far the army may advance, how quickly, and with what intensity… belongs to me."
Victoria drew a sharp breath.
"I am not investing in war," Arthur said.
"I am investing in the ability to limit it."
Let the words sink.
Let her see the scope of his vision.
"I can make the war start on our terms," he said. "And I can end it long before it becomes a senseless, bloody catastrophe that steals sons from thousands of families."
Victoria whispered, barely audible, "How?"
Arthur's lips curved—not in arrogance, but in calculated confidence.
"With superior technology. With speed. With precision."
His voice was steady, controlled.
"I will strike only at what matters—swift, targeted, decisively psychological. I will make our adversaries lose the will to resist long before the Empire loses its patience. It will be over quickly, before it spirals into horror."
Victoria stared at him, stunned.
The man she feared was turning into a warmonger…
was in fact doing everything in his power to prevent the Empire from becoming one.
The tears overflowed.
"Oh, Arthur…"
She leaned forward, her lips finding his, her voice trembling with remorse.
"I misunderstood you again. I kept worrying over the surface of things, while you were thinking so far ahead—thinking of all of us."
Arthur wrapped an arm around her, his touch gentle, grounding.
"And I am your husband," he murmured against her ear, "so it is my honour—my privilege—to share your burdens."
Victoria laughed softly, her tears drying.
"And when our little Vicky grows up," she whispered, "what shall we tell her when people ask what her father does?"
Arthur smiled—deep, warm, and quietly triumphant.
"We'll tell her," he said, "that her father wasn't just an inventor…
but the man who learned how to leash an Empire without spilling more blood than necessary."
Victoria rested her forehead against his, letting relief and admiration wash over her.
For the first time that night, the looming war felt distant—
because in her heart, a new certainty had taken root:
Arthur was not becoming a warmonger.
He was becoming the Empire's only restraint.