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Dublin, May 27, 1868

The church was packed.

Hundreds filled the pews and spilled into the aisles for Sir Benjamin Lee Guinness’s funeral. Incense hung thick in the air, mixing with the scent of damp wool and polished wood. Outside the stone walls, the streets simmered with unrest. Fenian protesters shouted against the Guinness family’s English ties, while Temperance zealots condemned the man who had made his fortune selling stout. The tension was palpable even inside the church.

You sat with the extended family, heart heavy as the service unfolded. As a third cousin, you were close enough to be present but far enough back to observe everything.

The four siblings sat in the front row.

Arthur, the eldest, shifted restlessly in his seat, as though the weight of Dublin itself bored him. Anne sat tall and composed beside him, though her jaw was tight. Benjamin looked half-lost, eyes glassy and hands unsteady. And Edward…

Edward Cecil Guinness remained still and focused. At twenty-one, the youngest son already carried an air of quiet command. While chaos brewed outside, his gaze stayed fixed on the coffin, sharp and unyielding.

When the time came for the family to pay their final respects, you rose with the other cousins and approached Arthur and Edward near the front of the church.

Arthur noticed you first. He offered a tired, lopsided smile. “Cousin. Thank you for coming. Today has been… a lot.”

You curtsied slightly. “I’m so sorry, Arthur. Sir Benjamin was a giant in this city. The family — and Dublin — will feel his absence for years.”

Arthur nodded vaguely. “Yes. Everything’s about to change now.”

You turned to Edward. His intense eyes met yours directly. Even in mourning black, he looked composed and thoughtful.

“Edward,” you said softly, “my deepest condolences. Your father was so proud of the work you did at the brewery. He spoke of your dedication often.”

Edward held your gaze for a long moment. His voice, when he replied, was low and steady amid the murmurs of the crowd.

“Thank you,” he said. “Loyalty matters a great deal right now.”

There was nothing improper in his words. Nothing overt. But the way he looked at you — calm, assessing, quietly intense — made the noise of the church fade for a brief second.

Before you could say more, the service began drawing to a close. The family was ushered toward the doors as distant shouts from the streets grew louder. Edward gave you one last small nod as you stepped back.

The wake at the grand townhouse on St Stephen’s Green was heavy with tension. Guests offered condolences while whispers about the will spread through the rooms. Arthur drank steadily. Anne sat apart, composed but distant. Benjamin had already withdrawn. Edward moved through the gathering like a shadow — speaking with managers, listening carefully, his expression never fully cracking.

You stayed toward the edges of the drawing room, still shaken by the day. Several times you felt Edward’s gaze drift toward you across the room. Each time he simply gave a small, polite nod.

As the afternoon wore on, a servant quietly approached you.

“Mr. Edward asks if you might spare a moment before you leave, miss. In the small parlor.”

Your stomach tightened, but you followed.

The small parlor was quieter, lit by a single lamp and a low fire. Edward stood near the window, sleeves rolled to his elbows, staring out at the street. He turned when you entered, his expression calm but tired.

“Thank you for coming today,” he said quietly. “It was… a difficult day for the family.”

You nodded, hands clasped in front of you. “Of course. The church was full. Your father was greatly respected.”

Edward studied you for a long moment, the firelight catching the sharp lines of his face. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully.

“The coming weeks will test us all,” he said finally, voice low. “The brewery. The family. Everything my father built is now in our hands.”

He paused, eyes still on you.

“Loyalty and steadiness will be important now more than ever.”

His words were perfectly polite, yet the way he looked at you carried a weight that had nothing to do with mourning.

Edward gave a small, polite nod. “The carriage is ready whenever you wish to leave. Try to rest.”

You murmured your goodbye and left the parlor, heart beating faster than it should. As you stepped out of the townhouse and into the carriage, you couldn’t shake the feeling that Edward Guinness had begun to see you in a new light.

And that the real storm was only just beginning.

A few days had passed since Sir Benjamin’s funeral, yet the heaviness in the air refused to lift.

You sat in the drawing room of your family’s smaller but respectable home on the edge of Dublin, a half-finished cup of tea gone cold beside you. The house felt quieter than usual, as if the city itself was holding its breath. You had barely slept, replaying the chaotic funeral, the Fenian shouts, and the strange weight of Edward’s gaze in the small parlor.

A knock at the door pulled you from your thoughts.

It was your cousin Clara — a chatty second cousin on your father’s side who always seemed to know everything about everyone. She swept into the room with flushed cheeks, still wearing her cloak.

“You won’t believe what I’ve heard,” she said without preamble, dropping into the chair across from you. “The will was formally read yesterday. The entire family was there. It was… explosive.”

You straightened, a knot forming in your stomach. “What did it say?”

Clara leaned forward, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Arthur and Edward get the brewery. Jointly, of course, but everyone knows Edward will be the one actually running it. Arthur gets his share of the fortune, but he’s already talking about spending most of his time in London. Poor Anne… nothing. Not a single meaningful share. She was furious. Left the room before the reading was even finished.”

You felt a chill. Anne had always been sharp and capable. To be cast aside simply because she was a woman…

“And Benjamin?” you asked.

Clara shook her head. “Very little. Enough to live on, but nothing with real power. His… habits have cost him. The lawyers made it clear.”

She continued talking, detailing the arguments that broke out afterward, but your mind kept circling back to Edward. The youngest brother. The one who had stood so still at the graveside. The one who had looked at you like he was already calculating the future.

“Edward must be pleased,” Clara said lightly. “He’s been preparing for this for years. They say he’s already at the brewery from dawn till dusk.”

You thanked Clara for the visit, but as soon as she left, the silence felt heavier. The family was fracturing faster than you expected. And something told you Edward would not let that fracture weaken the name.

Later that afternoon, you found yourself making a decision you couldn’t quite explain. You told your maid you were going for a walk to clear your head. Instead, you had the carriage take you to St. James’s Gate — the heart of the Guinness brewery.

The smell of malt and hops hit you the moment you stepped through the gates. Workers moved between towering buildings, barrels rolling past on carts. It was a world of controlled chaos.

You asked a foreman where Edward might be. He directed you toward the main office building with a respectful nod.

You found him in a large, wood-paneled office that still carried the faint scent of his father’s cigars. Edward stood behind a massive desk covered in ledgers and correspondence, sleeves rolled up, dark hair slightly disheveled. He looked up when you entered, surprise flickering across his face before it settled back into that calm, composed mask.

“Cousin,” he said, voice smooth. “This is unexpected.”

You lingered near the doorway, suddenly unsure. “I… wanted to check on you. After the funeral. And everything that’s happened since.”

Edward set down his pen and studied you for a long moment. The intensity in his gaze made the large office feel smaller.

“That’s kind of you,” he replied. He gestured for you to sit, but you remained standing. “The days have been long. There is much to be done.”

You nodded toward the papers on his desk. “I heard about the will.”

A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. “News travels fast in this family.”

“Arthur and you… the brewery,” you said carefully. “Anne must be devastated.”

Edward’s expression didn’t change, but something colder entered his eyes. “Anne has her place. As do we all.” He moved around the desk, stopping a few feet away from you. “My father built something extraordinary. I intend to protect it. Expand it. Someone has to.”

There was a quiet fire in his voice — ambition wrapped in logic. His eyes lingered on your face, tracing your features with that same assessing look you had noticed at the funeral.

“You’ve always been steady,” he continued softly. “Reliable. The family needs more of that now.”

The compliment felt heavy. Almost possessive.

You swallowed. “I should let you get back to work.”

Edward didn’t move to stop you, but as you turned toward the door, his voice followed you.

“Come again, if you wish. The brewery can be… enlightening.”

You left with your heart beating too fast. The scent of malt clung to your clothes as the carriage carried you home, but it was Edward’s calm, calculating gaze that stayed with you long into the evening.

The family was changing.

And you had the sinking feeling that Edward Cecil Guinness was only just beginning to show his hand.