The model remained in the studio, a secret talisman. Hadrian would look at it during the day, a touchstone of truth amidst the grinding compromises. Seraphina would sometimes drift in and straighten the copper wire "vein" with a thoughtful finger.
Their fragile, hard-won equilibrium lasted three weeks.
The leak came not from a courtier, but from the palace workshops. A young, over-eager apprentice, tasked with sourcing materials for Lord Greymont's value-engineered version of the opera house, had seen the model. Seeing the Prince and Princess working on it together one evening, he'd thought it a sweet royal oddity and mentioned it to a friend, who mentioned it to a scribe, who sold the tidbit to a society newssheet hungry for content.
The headline was brief, and devastating in its simplicity: "Cottage Industry: Royals Resort to Child's Play for Opera House Design?"
The article was a masterpiece of sly derision. It described the "ramshackle model of wood and glue," speculated that the Princess's involvement meant the design was "swayed by sentimental marine fancy," and implied that the Prince, "perhaps losing his famed edge," was dabbling in toys while serious men like Lord Greymont did the real work. It ended with a cutting question: "Is the 'Aria of the Tides' to be a masterpiece, or a mere craft project of the royal nursery?"
The blow was exquisitely targeted. It didn't attack their morals or their authority. It mocked their creativity, their partnership, and the vulnerable, joyful intimacy of their midnight collaboration. It turned their sacred talisman into a public joke.
Hadrian found Seraphina in the conservatory, standing before the reef tank. She wasn't crying. She was rigid, her hands clenched at her sides, staring at the living coral as if trying to memorize its resilience.
"It was ours," she said, her voice stripped raw. "That one thing. It was just ours. And they've… they've soiled it. Made it small and ridiculous."
He stood beside her, sharing her fury, her humiliation. The model wasn't just a design; it was a symbol of their repaired connection. To have it ridiculed felt like a violation deeper than any gossip about affairs.
"We can have it destroyed," he said, the words tasting like ash.
"That would be admitting they're right.That it was shameful." She shook her head. "I won't give them that."
They were silent, the hum of the water filters the only sound. Then Hadrian spoke, an idea forming from the bitterness. "They've called it a craft project. A toy from the nursery."
"Yes."
"Then we shall put it in the nursery."
She turned to him, confusion wiping away some of the hurt.
"We don't hide it,"he explained, a fierce light in his eyes. "We reclaim it. We move it from my private studio to the children's schoolroom. We tell Leo and Isla it's a collaborative model of the new building, that we built it together to understand its heart. We make it a lesson in imagination and cooperation. We take the 'child's play' narrative and we own it. We make it a story of a prince and princess who weren't too proud to get glue on their fingers to dream together."
He saw the understanding dawn, followed by a dawning, defiant pride. "We take their insult and make it our legend."
"Exactly."
That afternoon, they did just that. They carried the model themselves, in full view of the staff, through the palace to the sunlit schoolroom. They placed it on a central table, amid the books and globes. They called Leo and Isla.
"This," Seraphina said, her voice clear and strong, "is the soul of the new opera house. Your father and I built it together, at night, to find the feeling of it. It's not the final building—that will be stone and steel—but this is the idea. The heart. Sometimes, the biggest ideas start as play."
Leo studied it with an architect's critical eye. "The glue is messy here."
"Yes,"Hadrian agreed, smiling. "It is. Because the idea was more important than perfection."
Isla touched the white stone heart. "It's like the secret cove."
Hadrian and Seraphina exchanged a glance,a shock of shared memory. "Yes," Seraphina whispered, kneeling beside her daughter. "Exactly like that."
The story spread, of course. But the shape of it changed. It was no longer a tale of royal frivolity, but of quirky, charming collaboration. The narrative of the "Midnight Model" and its relocation to the schoolroom began to overshadow the sneering headline. The public, it turned out, had a taste for a love story that involved glue and stubborn hope.
That night, as they lay in bed, Seraphina said, "You were right. Again. To not build a wall. To build a… a ladder out of their trap."
"We built it,"he corrected.
She rolled onto her side to face him in the dark."Hadrian?"
"Hmm?"
"The model is better."
"I know."
And in the dark, they reached for each other's hands, not in passion, but in solidarity. The leak had tried to drown their small, defiant joy. Instead, it had watered it. The thing they had built in the quiet of the night had proven stronger than ridicule. Their love, they were discovering, was not a perfect, fragile crystal. It was glue and wood and stubborn, messy, beautiful play. And it could withstand the weather.