Aiko🖤

"What is it, Commander Figarland? Is your mind troubled because someone has stolen your flower?"

The wind drifted softly, carrying fine grains of sand that glittered like fragments of fire beneath the blazing sun. The Red Desert stretched endlessly, as though the world itself came to an end at the heat-shimmering horizon. There were no markers to guide one's path, no sound but the whisper of sand brushing against itself, like secret murmurs that could never truly be understood.

That merciless land had been turned into a training ground for the Holy Knights. The scorching sun that burned against their skin seemed insignificant compared to the grueling drills they endured. Even so, mirages held no sway over the knights, for their primary focus was not survival or the search for water  but rather every strike hurled at them. Every movement of their sparring opponents, and everything else meant to sharpen their abilities.

The sweat pouring down, soaking both skin and clothing, was the least of their concerns. Strength had to be forged with consistency and precision, like steel heated and shaped into a weapon. Yet even in the middle of that desolate nowhere, beneath such crushing burdens, something was troubling someone.

Saint Figarland Shamrock could not drive you from his thoughts, no matter how deeply he buried himself in missions, training, and instructing others over the past few days. Even after every attempt to cast aside his buried desires, your existence only seeped deeper into him, creeping slowly yet surely until there was no room left for anything else.

No matter how hard he tried to deny it, the more he resisted, the more your image transformed into something beyond his control. A soft whisper lingering in the spaces between silence, an echo that remained long after all noise had faded. As though a siren were luring sailors into the boundless sea of desire.

A man whose discipline was as unyielding as steel, whose life was governed by honor and duty, should not have faltered over the mere shadow of a woman. Least of all someone who had not even tried to captivate him through ordinary means. Yet that was precisely what made you so dangerous in his eyes. You enthralled him effortlessly, even without trying, and that was something he could not comprehend.

Hearing the remark from one of his subordinates only deepened his frustration, for it reminded him how easily you could fall into someone else's hands. "Silence. You would do better to concern yourself with your own bride-to-be, Ward."

The red-haired man poured his strength into his grip, tightly clutching his sword as he blocked his sparring partner’s weapon. With a single stomp into the desert sand, his defense strengthened even further, sending Ward flying backward. The unfortunate man slipped upon a dune, tumbling helplessly until he was blanketed by the sand.

Meanwhile  several knights lounged in the shade watching the spectacle unfold. A tall, ginger-haired man, one of Shamrock’s comrades, stroked his beard as he remarked, "Do not be too hard on him. Ward will not be pleased if he looks battered on his wedding day." Saint Shepherd Sommers reclined against his chair, one hand resting behind his head.

Sommers was not the only one sheltering beneath the canopy. Saint Rimoshifu Killingham was conjuring drinks with his power, able to turn dreams into reality. Even the shaded resting place itself was one of his creations. Nearby stood the female knight with striking heterochromatic eyes, the lower half of her face wrapped in bandages as her defining feature. Saint Manmayer Gunko stood there in silence, observing the training session.

The commander sheathed his sword and cast a glance toward his subordinate, who was now struggling to rise in the distance while brushing the sand from his sweat-soaked body. At the very least, he would not have to worry about his appearance on his wedding day, which was only two days away.

With steady strides, Shamrock approached the Holy Knights who were resting nearby, leaving behind nothing but the imprint of his soles and his sparring partner struggling to follow. Upon reaching the shade, he took the drink Killingham had just conjured to quench his thirst, prompting Sommers to protest that it had been meant for him. Figarland ignored him entirely.

Not long after, Ward joined them, dragging over the last remaining chair before collapsing into it. After that final strike, his body felt as though it might shatter. He found himself wondering when he would be granted the instant healing powers bestowed by the Supreme One, like the other knights. To prove himself worthy, a long road of struggle still lay ahead.

The whisper of shifting sand accompanied the knights’ casual conversation as they relaxed after training, discussing whatever came to mind. This time, Sommers steered the discussion elsewhere, unwilling to dwell on his nearly failed mission. "You are getting married in two days. Is it not a little late to choose a best man?" he asked, turning toward Ward at his side.

"I already have. Commander Figarland will be my best man," Ward declared, fully aware that the ginger-haired knight had been hinting to be chosen, though in truth he had not even made the list of groomsmen.

Hearing this made Sommers visibly irritated; complaints and barbed remarks spilled from his mouth as though someone had stolen what was rightfully his. "Why him? I did not think you and Shamrock were that close. I should have been the one worthy of that honor."

Shamrock casually interjected with unmistakable arrogance, "Because I am the best." It could not be denied that there was a certain satisfaction in knowing he had been chosen over anyone else.

"The best?" Sommers repeated after grumbling, his voice rising half an octave, laden with disbelief. "At what, exactly? Arrogance is hardly a qualification."

Ward chuckled softly, trying to ease the tension, though his eyes gleamed with amusement. "Now, now... this is meant to be a celebration, not a battlefield."

"To me, there is little difference between the two," Shamrock muttered without the slightest trace of guilt.

Groans echoed amidst the whispering sands. This barren expanse of crimson dunes had been deliberately chosen as a training ground, isolated from the city center without requiring descent from the Red Line. The endless desert stretching as far as the eye could see offered complete freedom to unleash the full extent of one’s power. Its merciless climate blazing hot beneath the daytime sun and plunging to freezing cold by night was a trial that offered no mercy, as though nature itself demanded endurance of both body and spirit.

It was in a place like this that one should have been able to forget everything, and Shamrock had nearly convinced himself that he could. Yet like a shadow unwilling to fade before dusk had truly fallen, you remained within his thoughts, refusing to leave. He let out a long breath, allowing the dry air to fill his lungs, as though hoping the sting might replace something far more unsettling.

He did not know how long he had been lost in thought, but by the time he noticed, the Abyss had already swallowed him and carried him back to the city center. Together with Killingham and Sommers, the red-haired man stepped out from its trace and continued onward, certain that Gunko had offered Ward a ride upon her bandaged bird. The cool air that greeted him was a stark contrast to the searing heat of the desert that had scorched his skin only moments before.

Shamrock glanced to his left. The Garden of Eden lay only a few steps away where the Celestial Dragons and other nobles gathered to socialize. He had to admit that it was indeed a fitting place for promenades; the word boredom had no place in any description of that garden.

Not long after the commander shifted his gaze forward, focusing on his purpose of returning to the Figarland residence. He tried not to dwell on the one fact he had just realized, yet failed.

You were there.

There was no need for Observation Haki, no need to catch the scent of your roses.

It was as though he recognized the color of your soul even without crossing paths.

Greenery lined the path, made up of many different kinds of plants. Some vines climbed gracefully along wrought-iron arches, forming natural corridors that felt deeply intimate. As though designed for secret conversations and glances never meant to be witnessed.

Amid the lush leaves, flowers bloomed in rich colors deep crimson, pristine white nearly sacred in its purity, and soft violet like the whisper of dusk itself. Their fragrances mingled in the air, never overpowering, yet enough to leave a delicate trace in the memory of anyone who had ever passed through.

And yet, there was nothing more captivating than your presence.

It felt as though this garden had been deliberately crafted as the earthly embodiment of the Garden of Eden described in holy scripture, fashioned as closely as possible to resemble a fragment of heaven fallen to earth. Artificial rivers and lakes were adorned with bridges for crossing and small boats for exploration, an undeniably breathtaking sight.

Outlook and Didit chaperoned you on your leisurely morning-approaching-noon stroll, walking several steps ahead to ensure everything remained dignified. You noticed the displeasure on their faces despite how carefully they tried to conceal it. And the reason was the gentleman at your side.

Donquixote Doflamingo.

Ever since your growing closeness with The King of Dresrossa at that evening dance, people had begun to notice you once more, as though your radiance had suddenly returned. How ironic that a man's opinion of you could so greatly determine your worth in society's eyes. A woman's identity was tethered to men rather than belonging to herself.

And so, you sought to survive within that system by playing the very game it demanded.

Your arms brushed against one another several times as you walked, yet neither of you paid it any mind. Your attention remained fixed on the light conversation filling this promenade. It was a natural part of a stroll too pleasant to be interrupted by excessive self-awareness.

In that relaxed and pleasant atmosphere, several newspaper boys ran throughout the garden, distributing and hawking the latest issue of St. N.I gossip papers, and naturally, nearly every noble and Celestial Dragon purchased a copy. One boy approached from behind you, and you reached for your handbag to retrieve a coin, but your movement was too slow because the pirate had already handed the boy a bill. You tried to protest, but he dismissed your refusal.

"What sort of man allows a lady to spend even a single coin? In fact, give copies to them as well." The blond man paid for your parents too, who had been observing the two of you with discreetly watchful eyes. The boy nodded and continued on with his work.

After your exchanged refusals, your thanks finally left your lips. Doflamingo answered with a grin laced with playful teasing. "If you are thanking me, then read it aloud for me."

Your fingers, gloved in short wrist-length gloves, held the newspaper folded neatly into thirds. The headline was printed in letters far larger than the article beneath it, as though demanding the attention of every gossip-hungry reader. You cleared your throat before beginning to read the very first line.

Dearest Gentle Reader

What is the true meaning of desire?

You deliberately lowered your voice, attempting to imitate the mysterious writer you always imagined whenever you read this gossip column. Word after word flowed from your lips, weaving together into carefully crafted paragraphs as you recited them while walking, all the while keeping careful watch over your steps.

The contents written upon that small sheet of paper spoke of the scandal surrounding a young lady in her second year upon the marriage mart, who had been caught alone with an armored knight of Pangaea Castle without a proper chaperone. Desire, it seemed had rushed too fiercely to be restrained, leaving her fragile reputation in tatters and forcing the two to marry with all haste.

Nor was that the only matter of note. The considerable debt owed by Saint Jalmack to one of the unnamed elders had become another point of concern. It seemed that nearly everyone knew which elder was being referenced—everyone except you. The desire to amass wealth had, as it often does given way to greed and plunged him into the abyss of financial ruin.

Yet there was one particular topic that captured your attention.

You fell silent for a moment, allowing for a dramatic pause that caused Donquixote Doflamingo to glance toward you to ensure that all was well. Then, at last, you continued.

This author cannot help but admire the remarkable time management possessed by certain distinguished individuals.

Despite his obligations of attending countless meetings as king and as a Warlord of the Sea...

And despite the busy duties of a Maid of Honor assisting in the wedding preparations of her dearest friend...

These two still somehow manage to find time to... meet one another. Entirely honorably, of course.

Indeed, as people often say, “when the heart truly desires something, any obstacle may be overcome.”

Who else could that gossip writer possibly have been referring to if not the two of you? The North Blue cultural exhibition, the theatrical opera telling a tale of a love triangle, even the respectable visit to your residence. The paper revived memories of the past few days you had spent together.

"I suppose privacy has become a luxury in this land," you remarked as you folded the paper in your hands once more.

Doflamingo merely let out a soft laugh, both hands clasped behind his back as he continued walking. "It is difficult to do anything beyond the reach of that gossip writer. He has eyes everywhere."

There was one particular choice of words that caught you by surprise, and you turned toward the pirate to make certain you had heard him correctly. "He? You speak of this writer as though the author is a man, when everyone else refers as 'they'?"

Silence lingered for a moment without response. Unable to resist your curiosity any longer, you pressed further. "Do you know something the rest of us do not?"

"Ah, I have said too much already." Doflamingo turned his gaze away from you, suddenly finding the hedges in the distance far more interesting.

Your eyes narrowed as you searched for the slightest detail within his expression, but it was difficult. The eyes were said to be the windows to the soul, and you could hardly discern what lay in his heart when you could not even see them. "So you admit that you know who this St. N.I. is."

"You are rather quick to draw conclusions." He offered a faint smile, one that neither truly denied nor confirmed your suspicion.

"Tell me. Who is he?" Your voice dropped lower, almost to a whisper so that no one else might overhear.

"I cannot." The king shook his head. The answer was simple, yet because of that, it felt all the heavier. It was not that he would not—it was that he could not.

"Doffy." The nickname slipped from your lips before you even realized it, and with playful reproach, you lightly smacked his arm with the gossip paper still clutched in your hand.

One of his brows arched slightly, followed by that distinct laugh of his. Not because it hurt, but because he was amused.  "Some things are better left a mystery," he said softly, his voice lowered until it was almost like a secret meant for you alone.

At that, all you could do was let out a long sigh, conceding defeat in this battle of words.

The king deliberately steered the conversation away, burying the topic of St. N.I.’s identity beneath far safer subjects. The dull weather and your busy involvement in helping with Layla’s wedding preparations became the new focus instead. You knew when to stop pressing. Not because you had surrendered, but because you were wise enough to recognize when someone truly would give no more.

Speaking of Layla’s wedding, there was something you had wanted to discuss, more precisely something you wished to ask Doflamingo. You tried to gather your courage, something strangely unfamiliar to you. Usually, you spoke and questioned without hesitation, yet this time was different.

But just as you parted your lips to finally form the words, the king suddenly remarked, "Unfortunately, I must return to Dressrosa before noon tomorrow."

Your lips parted slightly in disbelief. You had not expected this meeting to end so soon. The carefully arranged words within your mind scattered instantly. A brief silence settled between you, long enough for you to realize that this meeting. Which somehow had begun to feel far too short was truly nearing its end.

After all, you had only just been about to ask whether he would accompany you as your plus one. With that you buried the thought deep within yourself, praying that no one would ever uncover it.

"I thought you would stay until the Reverie," you said, trying to keep your voice as steady as usual. After all, the gathering of the world’s kings would feel strangely incomplete without the King of Dressrosa in attendance.

Doflamingo explained his intentions. "I never planned to remain in Mary Geoise for long. There are many matters awaiting my attention there. Besides, the grand tournament at the Colosseum will soon begin."

Your shoulders fell, not in relaxation but beneath the weight of something far more complicated. The faint curve that had lingered at the corners of your lips and along your cheeks became noticeably more pronounced in its absence, a silent sign that your smile had faded. Though your gaze remained fixed ahead, your thoughts had already drifted elsewhere.

Without realizing it, the fingers of your right hand reached for your left wrist, seeking comfort in the steady pulse beneath your skin.

The man beside you noticed the slight falter in your expression. It lasted only a fraction of a second, nearly imperceptible to an untrained eye. But Doflamingo was not a man who overlooked even the smallest shift, especially when it came from you.

"Is that so?" you murmured softly, striving to keep your tone light, as though the news held no significance at all.

The sound of your footsteps changed as the path beneath you shifted from the firm paving stones embedded in the earth to the wooden planks of a modest bridge crossing the garden’s artificial river. The wood creaked softly beneath your feet, as though it too had sensed the invisible tension carried by the two figures walking across it.

The water of the artificial river flowed peacefully beneath you, a striking contrast to the silence that settled for several seconds after your conversation had once moved so easily. Gentle ripples drifted across the surface like whispers unwilling to be clearly heard, much like the unspoken feelings now suspended between the two of you.

Doflamingo tilted his head slightly, his pace slowing until he came to a complete stop, silently signaling for you to stop beside him. And you did. This time, the pirate-king stood directly before you as the two of you came to a halt in the very middle of the bridge.

"I will return for the Reverie, of course," he said casually, without the slightest trace of hesitation. And before you could respond, the blond man continued.

"And of course, for you."

The words sounded like a promise spoken with no intention of ever being broken—a vow wrapped in reassurance, meant to soothe any longing before it had the chance to consume you.

At his words, part of your unease was swept away, as though every problem had suddenly found its answer. You pressed your lips together, holding back the small smile threatening to appear. Not because you wished to play hard to get, but because you did not want Doflamingo to misread your expression—to mistake it as proof of feelings too soon formed when the two of you had only just begun to know one another. Better to let this stage of acquaintance linger a little longer before validating anything.

His hand reached for your left hand, lifting it until it was level with his face. You assumed he meant to press a gentlemanly kiss to your knuckles, as etiquette demanded.

But your assumption was wrong.

Without pause and without warning, your hand was lifted higher than it should have been, your wrist drawn closer to his lips in a deliberate kiss. Bare skin met warm lips, crossing a boundary that ought to have remained untouched at such an early stage of acquaintance. It stole your breath entirely, leaving you too afraid to inhale or exhale, as though doing so would shatter the moment at once.

Your body tensed without your realizing it, a natural reflex to something you had not anticipated. Your heart began to race, filling the silence that had suddenly grown heavier than before. You were certain the king could feel your pulse against his lips, beating in a new and unfamiliar rhythm—one caused entirely by him.

The kiss lingered far longer than propriety allowed. If anyone witnessed this, it would have become the principal subject of every gossip paper, a scandal enough to send tremors through the entire Red Line encircling the world.

You silently prayed that no one had seen, yet neither did you make any effort to pull away. You simply stood there, frozen, staring at him with eyes full of questions and quiet hope.

After what felt like an eternity compressed into a handful of seconds, Doflamingo released your hand and let it fall gracefully back to your side. Wearing his characteristic smirk, he murmured, "I never say goodbye. The phrase sounds far too much like surrendering to circumstance."

"This parting is only temporary. We will meet again. So... until next time, my lady."

While you were still trying to process everything, he left you with those parting words that lingered in a way all their own. You remained standing in the middle of the bridge, watching him depart, and how absurd it was that a man who was still little more than a stranger had managed to leave such chaos in your thoughts with only a few words and a gaze far too calm to ever forget.

And the bridge suddenly felt far quieter after his departure.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───

The Wedding Day

It was supposed to be the happiest moment in someone’s life.

But not this wedding.

The bride’s chamber felt suffocating, heavy with tears and sorrow despite the countless luxuries surrounding it. Soft sobs filled the room, accompanied by silent prayers that they would not be heard beyond the doors. All you could do was hold the bride close, offering whatever comfort you could, even if you did not fully understand the reason behind it. Your heart ached at the sight of your dearest friend in such a state, regardless of the cause.

Layla trembled in your embrace, her tears soaking the fabric over your shoulder, but that was the very last thing that mattered. Not the makeup beginning to smear and fade, but the state of her heart. The burdens she had hidden for so long—truths that should have been spoken before standing at the altar, yet for which she had never found the courage.

"How can I marry Lord Ward when my heart already belongs to another?"

The bride confessed through broken sobs. Far away in her homeland, there was someone she loved. Qays, a man whose name she had never dared to speak aloud, for it was as forbidden as the love story they shared. A noblewoman falling in love with a poet was, of course, unacceptable to many, including society itself and the young woman’s own parents. It was a painfully cruel truth that two hearts had been forced apart by the absence of blessing and approval.

She pulled herself from your embrace to continue speaking. Her sobs lingered in the air, as though unwilling to truly fall upon the cold marble floor. The wedding gown that should have symbolized happiness instead felt like chains wrapped around her every step. Her trembling fingers clutched the delicate fabric pooled in her lap, as though by doing so she could somehow keep her breaking heart from collapsing entirely.

After their forbidden love became known to the public, Layla’s father—a man of considerable power in their homeland—naturally did not remain idle. He tore the two lovers apart by banishing Qays and sending Layla far away to Mary Geoise to enter the marriage mart.

The distance was agonizing. It did not merely separate two bodies, but stole their breath, shattered their hopes, and transformed time itself into something cruel. There were no farewell words and no final meeting, and somehow, that was the most painful part of all.

"People call him ‘mad’ because his verses make no sense to them. But I am far more mad for having loved him." Layla confessed before collapsing into your embrace once more, and by instinct, you wrapped your arms around her as any true friend would.

You fell silent upon hearing such a tragic love story, unable to find words that could properly describe the sorrow of enduring something so cruel. All you could do was press your lips together into a thin line, too stunned and speechless to say anything at all. Only you, Layla, and her trusted lady’s maid remained within the bridal chamber. Everything spoken within those walls would become dangerously perilous if ever exposed. Especially the words you were about to say.

A cunning thought crossed your mind. "You do not want to get married, do you? I can help you leave this place."

You pulled away from the embrace so Layla could see the sincerity in your eyes. "Do not worry about money or resources. I can arrange everything. Just say the word if you wish to run away! I will escort you to the gondola so you can descend and board a ship at Red Port."

At the glimmer of hope you offered, you saw life return to her eyes for the first time in what felt like forever. Yet in the very next instant, that light dimmed again, extinguished by the cruel wind of reality that shattered fantasies and hope alike.

"I cannot..." The bitter truth had to be swallowed like medicine that could not even heal the pain it was meant to ease.

Running away on one’s wedding day was never that simple. Especially when both families possessed power and authority, the runaway bride would suffer the consequences most severely. "I may be destroyed if I marry now, but if I flee, they will destroy Qays along with me."

Two lovers sacrificing themselves for one another through separation. Not every love story was destined for a happy ending. Once again, you asked if she was truly certain about marrying Lord Ward, but Layla insisted that this was something she had to do. Not for wealth or reputation, but for the sake of love itself. You looked at her for a long moment, searching for even the slightest trace of hesitation or a small opening through which you might persuade her to change her mind, but there was only unwavering resolve in her eyes.

You had no right to force Layla to flee or to stay. All you could do was support the decision she had made. "Very well, then." With that, you gently wiped away her tears and fixed her makeup, doing your best to erase every trace of her crying before she walked toward the altar.

"Please promise me that you will not tell anyone about this," the bride pleaded as she adjusted the veil to conceal her grief-stricken face.

"I swear I will carry this secret with me to my grave," you answered firmly, without the slightest intention of ever breaking that promise.

After taking some time to compose herself, Layla was finally ready to face reality and proceed with the wedding. Because of that, you left the room to summon the other bridesmaids along with the bride’s father. Before departing, you instructed her lady’s maid not to leave Layla alone, as she was in the most fragile state imaginable. Only after receiving that assurance could you finally step away, if only for a moment.

Yet that fragile peace lasted barely a few minutes after you exited the room to carry out your task. The door had not even fully closed, leaving the lingering tension within exposed to the corridor. Then a voice suddenly cut through the air like unexpected thunder.

"I understand the bride requires time to get ready, but this is becoming excessive."

When you turned toward the source of the voice, you found Shamrock leaning casually against the wall with his arms folded across his chest. His military uniform was immaculate perfectly tailored, orderly, and nearly flawless. Gleaming insignias adorned his chest, each one seeming to tell a story of victory, authority, and perhaps the blood that had once been spilled to earn them.

The weapon hanging at his side was not merely an accessory, but a silent reminder that this man was always prepared for war, even amidst a celebration that was meant to be sacred. His posture stood poised equally for defense and offense, ready should anything go terribly wrong. ‘Is he attending a wedding or commanding an army?’ The thought crossed your mind the moment you saw him dressed like that.

"What are you doing here?" The question slipped from your lips before you could stop it. You knew Shamrock was a colleague of the groom, but this area was meant to be reserved for the bride’s side.

Shamrock did not answer immediately. His lips curved faintly—not into a warm smile, but into something closer to a silent acknowledgment that he was enjoying the tension he had created. He pushed himself away from the wall with an easy motion, though every step he took felt deliberate and measured.

"Merely carrying out my duty as Best Man, ensuring that no one kidnaps the bride."

You nearly rolled your eyes at the mocking edge in his tone. "What era do you think this is? The medieval age?" you shot back dryly, one brow arching with thinly veiled sarcasm.

It did not bother him in the slightest. In the same neutral tone, he added, "I am also here to make sure the bride does not run away."

The words landed heavily between you, and your eyes widened in shock. Instinctively, you pushed the door shut a little harder than necessary. "Were you eavesdropping on our conversation?"

"Am I wrong?" he asked, more quietly this time, his voice lowering like a shadow creeping across the floor.

Your heart began to race faster than it should have. Not because the question was unexpected, but because he spoke as though he already knew the answer. As though this entire exchange was merely a game to him. And somehow, without realizing it, you had stepped directly onto the chessboard he had arranged.

The thing you feared most was this great secret being exposed, especially if it fell into the hands of Saint Figarland Shamrock. Unconsciously, you took a step backward as though trying to place distance between yourself and him. If the escape plan become reality, he would not have hesitated to inflict cruel punishment disguised as discipline and correction. And you could not begin to imagine enduring such a hell.

Shamrock tilted his head slightly, studying your face as though trying to read what you had left unsaid. Fear and vulnerability were written plainly there—things he would normally have savored as a small victory. Yet this time, the commander fell silent for a brief moment that somehow stretched endlessly. His gaze, once razor-sharp, shifted ever so slightly. It did not soften but it lost some of its cold edge.

After several seconds of that fleeting terror, you drew a steadying breath and forced yourself to face him. "It does not matter anymore. The bride has chosen to stay, and the wedding will proceed as planned."

"A wise choice," the commander replied in a neutral tone whose meaning you could not decipher.

At that, you gave a slight shake of your head, as though the fulfillment of expectation was merely an obligation in his eyes. "Of course you would never understand the meaning of love or sacrifice."

The words were not thrown at him as an accusation, nor were they meant as mockery. They were simply a conclusion you had drawn for yourself. And with that, you turned and walked away from the corridor, using your duties as Maid of Honor as an excuse, though another reason was your desperate attempt to avoid the red-haired man.

The corridor seemed to stretch longer the farther you moved from him. The soft whisper of your gown brushing against the marble floor became the only sound brave enough to disturb the oppressive silence. You did not look back, not even once, as though by refusing to acknowledge him you could deny his presence but that was impossible.

One second.

Two seconds.

Three seconds.

Four seconds.

And on the fifth, Shamrock stepped forward to follow you.

His pace adjusted to match yours, allowing the commander to walk just behind you. He abandoned his post of guarding the bride simply because something about you had drawn him away without invitation. A commander who should have been capable of controlling everything was now allowing instinct to overrule discipline.

"You always look down on me."

His voice broke the silence at last.

You did not slow your pace.

"And you never do the same?"

Those two sentences left both your lips and Shamrock’s at the same time, chasing and challenging one another. The sharp clicks of your high heels clashed against the heavy thud of his boots, as though they were competing to see which would crack the floor first. And it was not only the marble corridor that seemed on the verge of breaking, but also the tension that always coiled itself tightly around the two of you whenever your paths crossed.

“Have you ever once tried to act civil and tolerate my presence? I highly doubt it,” the commander snapped, finally giving voice to the irritation that had long gnawed at him.

He did not stop there, but continued his declaration. “The hatred in your eyes every time your gaze lands on me is impossible to miss.”

You did not turn back, not even for a fleeting glance. Yet in the silence of your thoughts, you found yourself wondering why he was following behind you like a hound trailing its master. With his strength, he could have easily overtaken your pace and cut you off from the front. Yet this time, Saint Figarland Shamrock did no such thing, as though by remaining behind you, he could somehow see through everything you kept hidden.

Your steps descended onto the spiraling staircase, one that seemed endless as it curved downward, draped in thick carpet that softened each footfall. His own steps followed close behind, measured and deliberate. Each movement seemed carefully aligned with yours, maintaining the same distance and rhythm without intruding. Yet it was precisely that restraint that made his presence all the more glaring.

You lifted the sides of your gown delicately with both hands as you descended, minimizing the risk of tripping over the sweeping fabric. The dress, a brilliant shade of blue reminiscent of a flowing river, was adorned with intricate lace that added an elegant detail to its design. Made especially for the bridesmaids, it was impossible not to be impressed by how the dressmaker had managed to craft something so exquisite in such a short time and not merely one gown, but several for the other.

Short gloves in a matching shade adorned your hands, accompanied by a silver bracelet resting delicately around your wrist. The short sleeves of your gown covered only half of your upper arms, paired with a modest neckline that subtly highlighted the simplicity of your necklace. As you descended the staircase, the pearl earrings hanging from each ear swayed gently in rhythm with the sound of your footsteps.

Saint Figarland Shamrock ascended the staircase with steady precision, as though he had long memorized the rhythm of every step he was meant to take. His long crimson hair swayed softly with each stride, until a few strands fell over his shoulders and drifted forward, concealing the insignia he usually wore with pride.

As though it symbolized something.

That this time, he was neither a knight nor a commander.

He was simply a man who yearn.

The relentless chase between you and Shamrock caused both of you to ignore the breathtaking architecture surrounding you. The building had been crafted from pure marble, carved with astonishingly intricate detail. Even along the staircase, there should have been works of art waiting to be admired at every inch. Yet neither of you paid them any mind, for both you and the commander had been utterly blinded by emotion.

"I do not need to tolerate you because you disturb my peace far too much," you retorted without hesitation. Yet the more you tried to reject his presence, the harder it became to ignore.

Step after step carried you downward. His pace remained steady and rhythmic, moving in harmony with yours without ever truly matching it. The distance between you stayed perfectly measured, as though an invisible line of discipline had been drawn between the two of you. It felt less like descending toward a wedding celebration and more like participating in a meticulously organized military parade.

The shoes you wore were no help at all, in fact they betrayed you precisely when you most needed to escape him. Before you had even reached halfway down the staircase, your feet already felt exhausted from balancing upon the heels. Your pace slowed ever so slightly, and it became clear that Shamrock would soon catch up to you. Perhaps afterward you would need to inspect your feet for swelling or bruises.

At last, you stopped, granting yourself a brief moment of rest before turning to face him. And just as expected, like a shadow you had already anticipated, he stopped only moments after you did. Your gazes met, each pair of eyes carrying entirely different emotions within them. Slowly, you released your grip on the sides of your gown.

"Now the real question is this—why do you always seem to disturb me wherever I go?" you asked, as though genuinely demanding a definitive answer.

"Always?" he repeated softly, almost like a murmur meant only for himself. The corner of his lips curved faintly upward, though this time there was no mockery in it. Instead, it resembled a reluctant confession. "I had no idea my presence lingered so deeply in your mind."

Without you realizing it, Shamrock stepped closer than he should have. Close enough for you to feel the faint warmth of his breath. Close enough that the difference in height between you no longer felt like distance, but rather a line on the verge of disappearing entirely.

"On the contrary, It is you who has unsettled my thoughts since the very first moment we met." The admission left the commander’s lips with a weight you had never expected from him.

His gaze remained locked onto yours, but something subtle had changed within it. The tension he usually concealed beneath his confidence had surfaced at last. Not entirely exposed, but enough to make his words feel far heavier than before. Enough to leave you stunned into silence in a way you had never anticipated. And he did not stop there.

The red-haired commander continued as though confessing a sin that should have been revealed long ago.

"There has not been a single second in which you have not invaded every cell of my being."

Every rebuttal that had once come so easily now seemed trapped in your throat. All you could do was stand there in bewilderment, trying to catch every subtle detail hidden within his expression.

His gaze no longer carried its usual piercing sharpness. Instead, there was the faintest trace of softness within it. Even the slight lift of his brows, the lines forming across his forehead, seemed almost like marks of fate themselves. Something a shaman might read as prophecy.

Saint Figarland Shamrock stood directly before you, and without realizing it, he took another step forward to erase what little distance remained between the two of you.

"Not when I rise with the dawn. Not when I attempt to sleep beneath the cover of the night sky." He paused only long enough to draw a breath. "Let the sun and moon bear witness, if proof is what you require."

He paused only long enough to draw a breath before continuing. "Your very existence has become an addiction I cannot resist, and I do not know how to overcome it."

You found his words so difficult to believe that for a fleeting moment, you genuinely considered summoning the deities who ruled over those celestial bodies themselves. To call upon them as witnesses on Saint Figarland Shamrock’s behalf before some grand court of heaven and earth. And if such a trial were held, who then would serve as its judge?

You closed your slightly parted lips, pressing them into a thin line and rendering yourself utterly speechless. Now your faces were closer than ever just as close as when you had shared your first dance, perhaps even closer. The staircase draped in blue carpet had become the stage for this dangerous proximity. Even a commander of the Holy Knights had been rendered helpless by it.

You stood frozen, not because you failed to understand.

But because every single word he had spoken carried a meaning so unmistakably clear.

"I never asked for any of this." The words left your lips almost instinctively after you had spent so long searching for the right response.

"Neither did I," Shamrock replied, close enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath.

His crimson eyes studied every expression that crossed your face. The difference in height between you forced you to tilt your head upward just to meet his gaze. Ruby—if those eyes could be compared to any gemstone, then ruby would have been the only fitting answer. They burned brightly with power and desire alike.

Shamrock remained where he stood, his breathing steady yet carrying the faintest irregular rhythm, as though something inside his chest had fallen out of place. His gaze wandered slowly across your features before lowering slightly to your lips. For heaven’s sake, why had you chosen to wear red lipstick at a moment like this? The color resembled rose petals waiting to be plucked.

With a quiet exhale, he spoke again. "I cannot even begin to describe how difficult it has been to tear my thoughts away from you."

"Through missions that bordered on impossible, through the endless reports piled across my study, even during training sessions..." Without confessing the forbidden visits he had made in his attempts to forget you, he nevertheless admitted how deeply your presence had marked him.

"And somehow, you were always there among all of it."

His voice lowered further, a tone you had never once heard from the commander of the Holy Knights before. Yet even then it still carried the same firmness and careful control that defined him.

If he did not care about your honor and reputation, he would have already surrendered to the instinct urging him to claim you as his own. It took every ounce of his restraint to preserve your dignity, even as your existence had already fully taken hold of him. The commander bit down on his lower lip, redirecting that overwhelming feeling into a flicker of pain.

Meanwhile, after everything, you still remained frozen in place. You made no attempt to step back from him. You did not even seek comfort in the familiarity of your own pulse—the habit you usually fell into whenever you were nervous. You simply stood there on the staircase, your breathing uneven, rising and falling out of control.

You knew you should say something to deny all of it, but what could you even say? You had no right to dictate someone else’s feelings toward you. You had never intended for your existence alone to haunt him the way it clearly did, it had simply happened.

And what Shamrock felt was not your fault… right?

"If you mistaken this for love, then you are wrong. It is nothing more than lust, an obsession with something fleeting and mortal." You responded, matching his earlier tone.

Before you, the commander slowly shook his head in quiet disagreement with your statement. To him, this was not merely obsession wrapped in blind jealousy as it may once have seemed. But love? That was a word far too heavy for this moment. Though even he could not fully understand what this feeling truly was, Shamrock knew one undeniable truth he could not ignore.

"You are mistaken. This is desire, dangerous to voice aloud, yet painful to keep buried." The words were not spoken loudly, yet their impact sank far deeper than you had expected.

The staircase remained silent between you. The argument was no longer simply about language, but about who among you was brave enough to assign meaning to what existed between you, and who still clung to denial. Shamrock continued trying to explain himself with details, only for each attempt to meet your resistance.

Desire

It was almost as though Shamrock had answered the question posed by St. N.I. in the previous edition of the gossip paper.

There was no need for some elaborate explanation to grasp the true meaning of yearning. It was simply the quiet understanding of a powerful desire—an intense longing for something just beyond reach.

A profound ache of longing, an overwhelming desire that could not be restrained, a yearning for something painfully difficult to attain. Every definition seemed to describe precisely what he had felt, both now and before. Such a simple word carried a meaning far too deep to be contained within a mere arrangement of letters.

"You may deny all of this as much as you wish, but it does not change the fact that you have rendered a commander of the God's Knights utterly powerless."

Saint Figarland Shamrock felt the burden and tightness that had weighed upon his chest for so long ease slightly after finally voicing it aloud. Yet in speaking those words, it was as though he had transferred that weight directly into your own heart. It felt deeply unfair that he was trying to make you feel what he had endured when you had never intended to haunt him in the first place.

He moved closer still, his hands clenched tightly at his sides to stop himself from reaching for your waist and pulling you into his embrace. His eyes fell shut, as though savoring the familiar fragrance that clung to you and marked your presence so distinctly.

"Even when you despise me."

After staring upward at the man standing before you for what felt like an eternity, your gaze finally lowered. Everything about this felt unfamiliar, strange and entirely new. Silence enveloped the staircase, broken only by the sound of your breathing and the pounding of your hearts, beating in strangely synchronized rhythm. This time it was not because you felt disturbed. It was because you did not know how to respond.

The red-haired man sank into the silence hanging between the two of you, cutting through the invisible barrier that had separated you. You tried to convince yourself that you hated him, so that you would not surrender to... whatever this was. But was that alone enough to ignore all of this? It would be difficult—just as difficult as Shamrock's efforts to force you out of his mind.

Stand by your principles.

Do not trust him.

You hate him.

He is a cruel, heartless man who can do whatever he pleases.

This must all be nothing more than one of his psychological games.

You should not entertain these complicated feelings.

Amid all that closeness and the monologue raging within your mind, someone called your name not merely the title or nickname people had given you, but your real name. The sound made you instinctively step back, putting distance between yourself and Shamrock before you even knew who had called out to you.

Anyone who happened to catch the two of you alone in the middle of the staircase like this, without a chaperone, would surely assume you had been sharing an intimate moment. The few seconds of proximity between you had done nothing to help the situation; if anything, they had only made it worse.

You let out a quiet breath, trying to steady yourself amidst the confusion. Not long after you lifted your gaze toward the source of the voice, only to find it was Liliana. She was dressed identically to you as she was of course one of the bridesmaids as well. How much had she seen? And just how deeply mistaken was she about whatever she believed existed between you and Saint Figarland Shamrock?

“Were you looking for us?” the brunnete interjected. You were so focused on this new distraction that you failed to notice the commander had also taken a step back, restoring a proper distance between the two of you though it was already a little too late.

“Yes, the bride is ready and has asked for all of us to gather in her room.” You had almost forgotten your duty and purpose here, and it was all because of HIM. “Where is Anneliese?”

“She’s already with Layla. I’m here to fetch you.”

At that confirmation, you nodded at your friend and offered her a faint smile that did not quite reach your eyes, merely to reassure her. Of course, such an attempt would never succeed, considering just how observant she was. You quickly told her that you would follow shortly, unwilling to delay the sacred wedding ceremony any further.

Before moving to join your friend, you allowed your gaze to settle briefly on the red-haired man beside you. He was still standing there calmly, though you had no idea that something deep within him was in turmoil and that you were the cause of it all. Without a farewell without a single word, you simply walked away leaving him behind with a strange, tangled storm of emotions he himself could not understand.

The commander neither reacted nor showed any expression as you made your way up the staircase, trying to leave him behind. Yet even amidst all that tension, your arms still brushed against each other once more albeit by accident. His gaze remained fixed ahead, as if trying not to appear desperate, but the eyes and the body can never truly lie no matter how hard one tries.

His fingers encased in dark leather gloves moved beyond his control as though he were trying to stop you from leaving and make you stay with him instead. Yet his sanity and honor remained stronger than the impulsive urges that relentlessly echoed in his mind whenever you were near.

Shamrock had to admit that after finally voicing everything he had long thought and felt, the tightness in his chest had eased if only slightly. It had not disappeared completely, especially not when he overheard your conversation with your friend.

“The diamond of this season has created quite the scandal, with the most sought-after man in all of Mary Geoise.”

“There is nothing between us.”

Those final words that left your lips became a cruel reminder. A lie you deliberately repeated over and over, as though by doing so, your heart might eventually be convinced enough to believe it. But was it truly the case that there was nothing between the two of you? Even one-sided hatred was still something, let alone the whirlwind of emotions that Shamrock himself had never even realized were real until now.

The commander did not look up to watch you leave, for doing so would only remind him of how easily you could slip from his grasp. And yet, he refused to surrender so readily to the emotions you had stirred within him—not without putting up a worthy fight. It was as though this were some sort of competition, and if he gave in, he would lose. Saint Figarland Shamrock had never tasted defeat, nor did he ever intend to experience even the slightest ounce of it.

Now, there was only Shamrock, standing alone upon the staircase, swallowed by the silence.

The wedding ceremony felt unnervingly swift, almost rushed. It seemed as though only moments ago you had been standing behind the bride, holding a bouquet of peonies, and now the officiant had already pronounced them husband and wife. The wedding vows had sounded hollow, more like a political arrangement than a sacred union. Only a select few knew the painful truth hidden beneath it all.

Several times, your eyes caught the Best Man across the room staring at you with unnerving intensity, as though he were reading straight into the depths of your soul. You found yourself holding his gaze, silently challenging who would be the first to break it? him, or you?

Dear Readers,

Sometimes, one must find themselves confronted with situations that are... utterly unexpected.

And desire is often the mastermind behind every chaos that was never meant to unfold.

Is this author the only one that has noticed the striking stiffness between the Best Man and the Maid of Honor at this season’s very first wedding?

The question now is no longer whether there is something between the two of them.

Rather, it is how much longer they can continue pretending that there is nothing stirring beneath those denial-laden glances.

For, dear readers, history has proven time and time again that desire suppressed for too long will always find a far more dramatic way to reveal itself.

And one more rather absurd question.

Without knowing the context, which would you choose: the bridge or the staircase?

Yours faithfully,

St. N. I.

Note: Saint Figarland Shamrock is finaly here AAAA 😍 the man, the myth, the legend himself (i'm fall for world government propaganda) anyway i saw 'walk them like a dog' edits of bridgerton men so i was like 'oh this is so Shamrock, especially he's the owner of cerberus' that's why i made him to have some hound move 👀. Btw i took some element of very old story of 'Layla Majnun' here, it's literary Romeo and Juliet of the East that i grew up with. I once played as Layla back in theatrical extracurricular on middle school, i've never forget those experiences 🖤

A white quill pen danced across the blank page, forming word after word, number after number, along with symbols meant to describe something. Thick books lay scattered open and the once-clean sheets were now stained with ink some crumpled after you squeezed them in frustration whether from accidental spills or strokes that failed to match the thoughts in your mind.

The sun had only just reclaimed its throne after the night’s long rule, yet you had already buried yourself in work. Still dressed in your nightgown, its color matching the quill in your hand, you sat in focused silence on an intricately carved teakwood chair. Soft morning light filtered through your window, gently illuminating the room before gradually turning harsh and hot against your skin.

Investments, asset management, the very things people claimed were 'too complicated for women.' And yet in truth, such essential knowledge had long been monopolized by men deliberately kept out of women’s reach. The reason was simple: to ensure women remained dependent on them for life. A woman who was too intelligent, too independent was far more difficult to control or so they said.

Why did they want to control us? Were women truly that powerful, capable of ruling and leading better than men that they constantly tried to belittle us with the excuse of 'know your place'? This world was never fair. Equality was nothing more than an illusion,a dream that would never be reached.

All this time, you secretly studied finance something strictly forbidden by your parents. Only men were allowed to be educated in managing assets and land, while women were expected to learn dancing, music, and how to become obedient wives who managed household affairs. That had been the aristocratic code for centuries.

Yet in reality women from common society had far more freedom than you. They could work, earn money through their own efforts, and even own assets in their own names. Meanwhile, noblewomen lived at the mercy of men, unable to truly possess anything not even their own bodies or souls.

You had to admit that you felt a quiet envy toward them. More than once the thought crossed your mind to run away from this society and live a simple but free life like a bird soaring through the open sky. Even at your age already labeled a spinster you were still dependent on your parents.

You found yourself wondering how Outlook had become so wealthy enough to afford your debut, which was far from cheap — the sea voyage to Mary Geoise, this luxurious residence with its unimaginable rent, your gowns, and countless other expenses. By your own analysis his wealth even surpassed that of the Earls in your city, despite holding only the title of a Baron.

Was your father truly that skilled in managing his assets? Or was there influence from your adoptive sibling who married the crown princess of Goa and became part of the royal family? You didn’t know. But one thing was certain even if he paid for everything, there was always a price you had to pay in return.

Your freedom.

That was why you began to gather your own money by little, building assets that truly belonged to you and learning how to manage them. Just like what you were doing now, studying something considered taboo for women. However being self-taught came with unavoidable drawbacks. When there was something you didn’t understand, there was no one to give you answers.

As you continued studying your Den Den Mushi suddenly rang with its distinctive tone pulling your attention away from your work. You rose from your cluttered desk and walked over to the small table near your bed where the receiver rested.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Y/N. How are you?”

“We haven’t heard from you in a week.”

“Are you alright after… you know?”

It was a group call you could hear Layla, Annelise, and Liliana’s voices from the other side. The transponder snail mimicked their voices and facial expressions so perfectly that it felt as if your friends were right there in front of you.

You answered, “Hi, everyone. I’m doing well. How about you?”

Light teasing and small talk flowed easily among the four of you, lasting long enough for you to lie back on your bed holding the call like any other girl confiding in her friends. With them, you could almost reclaim the youth that had been taken from you by the weight of expectations from your parents and from society.

The chatter continued as they filled you in on everything you had missed during the week you isolated yourself. You had even refused to meet potential suitors, prompting St. N.I. to claim that your shine as the season’s diamond was already beginning to fade.

To hell with those gossipmongers. After the way a nobleman had so shamelessly humilientirely after you, and made you chose to withdraw yourself from the marriage market entirely.

“You missed quite a lot. A whole week without socializing must have been boring,” Liliana chimed in, clearly ready to spill everything. “Especially last night, I won’t give any spoilers but you have to read today’s St. N.I. gossip column.”

“That sounds interesting. What did you guys do?” you asked, your tone turning slightly interrogative as you suspected one of them had caused a scandal.

None of them admitted to anything, leaving you to figure it out yourself and letting the question hang unanswered. Strangely, Layla was much quieter than usual — not like the girl you had met just a week ago. Still you didn’t dare to ask about it. Perhaps it was simply another side of her personality revealing itself.

Anneliese the blonde, drew your focus back to the conversation with a careful question. “What about… the new girl who was with you?” she asked, clearly trying to avoid saying the word 'slave'.

“Her name is Nada. She works as my lady’s maid now,” you answered satisfying their curiosity. You could hear the three of them murmuring softly their questions finally answered.

That was indeed what happened, Nada became your personal maid after she asked you to employ her. Until nowbyour mother’s servants handled everything under her command so you never really had a choice. But now, you finally had someone you could rely on and trust to manage your needs.

However, your father refused to pay her the same wages as the other servants, claiming she was merely a 'gift'. From your own observation Nada performed far better than the rest of the staff, it was undeniably unfair. Paying her so little was no better than treating her like a slave and so you planned to compensate her properly with your own allowance.

Then Layla, who had been unusually quiet, finally spoke. “Was your family invited to the Donquixote ball?”

The name sounded familiar the same family name as one pirate captain who was also a king of a certain country. Perhaps it was just a coincidence. The world could feel so small at times yet unbearably vast at others.

Liliana and Anneliese gave the same answer they had both been invited to the ball. You were certain Didit had mentioned it during dinner the night before. Still, you had no intention of attending. Not when there was a chance you might run into HIM.

“Why won’t you come? That party is going to be spectacular.”

“Is it because you’re avoiding Sir Shamrock after what happened? Don’t let him stop you from enjoying your life.”

Liliana and Anneliese kept trying to persuade you to attend the ball that evening. You continued to refuse, offering one excuse after another yet they remained persistent. With no other option left, they decided to play their trump card.

“Remember our bet? The loser of the card game has to do whatever the winner says,” Anneliese declared, her tone regal as if she were a queen issuing a command. “So, Y/N, we order you to attend the Donquixote ball tonight.”

That made you rise from your bed, the Den Den Mushi mimicking an arrogant expression as if trying to intimidate you. You didn’t waver in the slightest and immediately denied it. “I didn’t lose. Our game was never finished ! there was no winner or loser.”

“Oh, we saw your cards and they were terrible,” Liliana said, offering you absolutely no support.

You let out a quiet sigh. It was true your cards had been bad, and you would have lost no matter how the game ended. It seemed you had no choice but to accept your defeat and the bet that came with it.

“Please, Y/N. Come tonight. There’s something I want to talk about with all of you.”

This time, it was Layla speaking. Her voice sounded different softer, more uncertain than usual. Your instincts told you something wasn’t right with her and that your presence might truly matter. You didn’t press her for an explanation now. You would let tonight reveal the answer.

“…Alright. I’ll come,” you said at last, giving in.

The three of them immediately sounded delighted upon hearing your answer, and you could have sworn you heard Layla let out a quiet breath of relief as if she had been holding it in the entire time, waiting for your response. That only made you more worried.

Before you could voice your concern, the call had to end. Nada knocked on your door, informing you that Mr. Li wished to see you. You quickly said your goodbyes, promising to see your friends tonight before ending the call. The transponder snail immediately fell asleep, the small creature finally getting its rest after listening to your long chatter.

Afterward, you rose from your bed taking your dressing robe to cover your nightgown and tidying your hair slightly before allowing your family’s butler and your personal maid to enter.Without much delay, they stepped inside. Mr. Li said nothing, he simply presented a suitcase to you. And that alone was enough for you to understand.

Not long ago, you had asked him to sell the jewelry Shamrock had given you.

You refused to keep anything that would remind you of him. It almost felt deliberate the ruby he chose matched the color of his eyes, eyes that held no kindness within them. As if it were a silent message, a constant reminder that he was watching you through that very shade. That was why you decided to sell it. Even the bouquet he had given you had already withered, and you had instructed the staff to throw it away.

The suitcase felt slightly heavy in your hands not only because it contained money, but because you had asked Mr. Li to convert half of the jewelry’s value into gold bars. When you opened it, you were met with the gleam of gold and the distinct scent of paper currency two things people would do anything to obtain, even through the dirtiest means.

Your family’s loyal butler reported that the total came to 50 million berries, a considerable amount for what was merely a gift from a potential suitor. You had asked him to do this many times before, not out of greed, but because you wanted to build your own assets, so you would never have to depend on anyone in the future.

You made sure to pay Mr. Li for his services and thanked him for helping you in secret. You also handed Nada some hush money, ensuring that this would remain a secret even from Outlook and Didit. She looked slightly confused trying to process the meaning behind all of this, while the dark-haired butler simply nodded, already accustomed to the tasks you assigned him.

“Could you prepare a horse for me? I believe there’s a Line Bank nearby, isn’t there? Could you give me directions?” you asked the man who had long served your noble family.

At first he offered to arrange a carriage and insisted that you should not travel alone. It was unsafe for a woman to go unaccompanied, especially while carrying such a large sum of money. A reasonable concern and Mr. Li seemed genuinely worried for your safety.

But you simply thanked him and declined politely, saying that a spinster like you did not need a chaperone. Besides, you wanted to experience riding a horse in a place thousands of feet above sea level. You could take care of yourself and once you made up your mind nothing could change it.

Having known your obedient yet quietly rebellious nature for so long, he finally gave in and agreed.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───

The queue at the bank was long filled with people of all kinds of needs. Some wanted to withdraw cash, others to open new accounts, and a few were applying for loans each neatly organized into separate queues. Matters involving money never seemed to end.

You waited for your turn seated among them, your appearance now vastly different from your usual self. You blended into the surroundings without drawing unwanted attention. The brown-toned outfit you wore would never make anyone suspect you were a noble. In fact, some might even assume you were a servant or a working-class woman.

Didit would probably faint if he saw you dressed like this, wearing trousers and a coat like a man paired with black paddock boots that only reinforced the image. Though you added a touch of femininity with a matching headscarf that concealed your hair, it also served as a precautionary disguise.

After quite some time, your turn finally arrived. The teller greeted you politely and asked how they could assist you.

“I’d like to deposit a sum of money into this account,” you said, handing over the cash along with a bankbook you had brought from Goa, from the same bank.

The teller took the book and checked it through the system. From the subtle shift in their expression something you easily caught there was a hint of suspicion. Before they could question you, you spoke up to clarify.

“It’s under the name Sabo. It belongs to my younger brother. I’m just depositing it for him while he’s out at sea in case he needs extra funds.”

The excuse you gave was rather cliché ,the same one you used every time you dealt with the bank. You used the name of your late younger brother to store part of your assets, avoiding suspicion, since a noblewoman was not allowed to hold wealth under her own name. Yet each time you made a deposit, there was always that lingering doubt another risk waiting to surface.

If you were ever discovered, it could be considered identity fraud. But for years, everything had gone smoothly. And this time was no different. Besides, the identity you used did not belong to a stranger who would be harmed. The teller simply nodded and proceeded with your transaction after your explanation.

A few moments later, it was done. The teller returned your bankbook, and you checked it 20 million had been successfully deposited into your account (Sabo’s account). The remaining 5 million, you planned to keep in your bed chamber alongside the gold as an emergency reserve in case you ever needed immediate cash.

You thanked the teller and left the bank as quickly as possible, not once looking back hiding both the truth and your doubts behind you.

Outside, numerous carriages were lined up near the entrance, their coachmen waiting patiently for their masters and mistresses to finish their affairs. And in the nearby several horses were tied to wooden posts loyally waiting for their owners and one of them was yours.

The black Friesian horse as dark as a moonless night turned its head toward you and let out a soft neigh, as if greeting your return. It felt like he was calling for you, eager to carry you wherever you wished to go. You approached him and gently stroked his neck.

“Missed me already Raven?”

You weren’t particularly good at naming things. It was a bit strange perhaps to name a horse Raven. But the resemblance was undeniable and besides the creature had quite ravenoush appetite so you thought the name suited him well enough.

You untied the reins from the wooden post and guided the majestic horse a few steps back before mounting him. Your foot settled into the stirrup as you lifted yourself onto the saddle secured on Raven’s back. After adjusting into a comfortable position you guided him forward.

The rhythmic sound of his hooves echoed like your own heartbeat, thudding against the ground and leaving trails of dust in your wake. A gentle breeze brushed against your face and with that you hoped the knot of your headscarf beneath your chin wouldn’t come loose and be carried away by the wind.

You weren’t entirely sure what you were thinking but you flicked the reins signaling Raven to pick up his pace.It wasn’t that you were in a hurry but it would be better if you returned before anyone noticed you had left the inn.

The ball would not begin for several hours, but you needed a long time to prepare. Besides, your new gown still had to be adjusted to fit you perfectly, and you were in no mood to listen to another lecture from Outlook and Didit about your lateness.

In your mind, you began to map out what you would do with the money you had saved. Should you buy land and become a landlady? But most of the land in the Kingdom of Goa was already controlled by nobles and the royal family. Perhaps you should purchase land in another country? Or invest in other instruments?

Your thoughts drifted away for a moment from the road that should have been your main focus until you realized that right ahead of you was an intersection, where from the right lane another rider was passing by nearly causing you to collide.

It all happened so fast.

“Woah, there!”

“Oh, my—”

You quickly pulled on your horse’s reins to slow it down and bring it to a halt. The sound of its neigh echoed through the air as Raven reared up on his hind legs, lifting his front hooves and tossing his head high. The sudden movement pushed your body backward, but fortunately, you managed to keep your balance, gripping the reins tightly. You only hoped your beloved horse wasn’t hurt by the abrupt stop.

Your adrenaline surged making your heart pound rapidly and your breath come in uneven gasps. The thud of hooves was clearly audible as both horses brought their feet back down to the ground. Thankfully the two riders had managed to stop just in time before a collision could occur.

You tried to steady your breathing before turning toward the rider you had nearly crashed into due to your own carelessness. There you found a man with tousled blond hair riding a horse as white as snow contras with yours. At a single glance anyone would assume that the man before you was a prince from a fairytale and you wouldn’t blame them.

“It seems this road isn’t quite wide enough for the two of us,” he said, a soft chuckle accompanied his words clearly not expecting to encounter a beautiful woman in such an unexpected way.

The man handled his horse with calm precision as if the incident had not disturbed him in the slightest. He hadn’t even flinched when you nearly collided, while you though only slightly were still shaken. He did it all while observing you closely, as if he were counting every breath you took, though you were completely unaware of it.

“I’m sorry, sir. I shouldn’t have been riding so fast with an intersection ahead,” you said quickly offering your apology. After all this had been your fault.

“Are you alright, miss?”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? You seem troubled.”

“I’m not, truly.”

“Were you being chased by bad guys?”

“No.”

“In a hurry, I see.”

“Not really.”

You answered each of his questions swiftly without the slightest hesitation because you had nothing to hide. The man furrowed his brows clearly puzzled and unable to understand. You could see his expression plainly even though he was wearing sunglasses. There was no strong reason for you to have been riding your horse so recklessly earlier.

He murmured, though you could still hear him, “I just thought you were… in trouble.”

You fell silent for a moment, the all-too-familiar assumption lingering that a woman must be weak, always caught in trouble waiting to be saved by a man.

“And why would you assume that?” you cut in before the man could speak. “Just because I’m a lady doesn’t mean I’m always in distress, does it?”

“No, of course not,” he agreed immediately, a hint of embarrassment crossing his face at having thought of you as a damsel in distress.

“Good.”

An awkward silence settled between you, filled only by the sound of the horses’ breathing, two creatures so starkly different in color.

That silence gave you a moment to study him more closely. You couldn’t quite tell the color of his eyes behind those… peculiar glasses. A white shirt hung loosely on him, its buttons left open, paired with a feathered cloak in a striking shade of pink. Dyed goose feathers, perhaps?

Not that you meant to judge a book by its cover, but from his appearance alone, he was clearly no Celestial Dragon nor a soldier of the Holy Land. His style was far too unrestrained for someone bound by rigid aristocratic norms.

You felt as though you recognized him perhaps from a newspaper? Or maybe even from a wanted poster?

“Well then,” the man said, breaking the tension. He guided his white horse a step back, giving you space to pass. “Ladies first.”

At his gesture you inclined your head and the blond man mirrored the motion a silent exchange of respect. You flicked the reins lightly, urging your horse forward along the road.

In the end, you left behind nothing but a trail of dust and the fading echoes of hoofbeats And just like that it was over so abruptly that the man forgot to even ask the name of the woman he had met in such an unexpected way.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───

The Donquixote Ball, the most anticipated social event this week and here you were standing in a grand ballroom whose brilliance could almost blind the eyes. Several couples were already gliding gracefully across the dance floor, while the cello, pianoforte, violin, and other instruments wove a melody that accompanied every movement.

Crystal chandeliers illuminated every corner, as if banishing even the slightest trace of darkness unwelcome in a celebration like this. You could hear the faint squeak of shoes brushing against the polished marble floor, whether from careful steps or the sweeping motions of dancers locked in elegant rhythm.

You were blending into the crowd, hoped and prayed that you would go unnoticed staying far from anyone’s attention. But a diamond remains a diamond, even when its shine is dimmed. You could feel several pairs of eyes upon you, as though stripping you bare with their gaze. You tried not to respond tried to make yourself invisible but failed.

The bold red gown you wore only made you stand out even more. Yet it was the only new dress you hadn’t had the chance to wear. It had been a sudden decision you chose to wear what was available rather than commission something new. The embroidery crafted with golden thread had been tailored perfectly to your figure but the neckline dipped far too low, as if deliberately designed to reveal more of your cleavage than you were comfortable with leaving you feeling slightly exposed.

This time gold jewelry completed your appearance, a delicate headpiece resting upon your neatly arranged hair, earrings that swayed with every movement, a necklace adorned with an oval diamond pendant, and bracelets encircling your gloved wrist alongside your dance card.

Your eyes scanned the entire ballroom searching for your friends amid the huge crowd. In the midst of your search you spotted Outlook and Didit engaged in conversation with someone you assumed to be the host Lord Donquixote. Whatever they were discussing you could only guess. Perhaps your father was building connections to further his plans.

You shifted your gaze and continued looking. On the dance floor, you saw Layla dancing with a gentleman- no, her bethrored. The St. N. I. newspaper had announced the first engagement of the season between Lord Ward and Miss Layla, a debutante from the West Blue. You had only learned of it while reading that gossip column as you prepared to attend this very ball.

So that was why she had asked you to come, she wanted to introduce her fiancé to you and the others, perhaps?

Good for her… maybe?

You weren’t sure.

You had not the slightest right to interfere in someone else’s personal affairs. But this felt too fast. The season had only just begun, barely a week, and to you that was far too little time to truly know someone you were meant to spend a lifetime with. Society however seemed to think the opposite: the sooner a couple became engaged and married the better.

The tension between the two was unmistakable, even from a distance. Throughout the dance Layla never once met her partner’s gaze keeping her eyes lowered instead. Their movements felt mechanical like two rigid machines made of iron devoid of even the faintest trace of emotion. You supposed you shouldn’t expect much from an arranged match.

Your concerns were momentarily pushed aside when Liliana and Anneliese approached you after finishing their conversation with a group of gentlemen. You took the chance to chat with them about everything you had missed during your self-imposed seclusion and quickly realized just how much you had fallen behind including your own friend’s engagement.

One set of dances had come to an end. The couples bowed to one another, expressing gratitude for a delightful performance. They stepped off the dance floor and went about their own affairs everyone except Lord Ward. The moment the dance ended he hurried away leaving Layla standing there awkwardly on her own. There was no affection, no trace of romance.

Trying to save her from what was quickly becoming an embarrassing situation, you waved at Layla, signaling for her to come over. And she did, stepping down from the dance floor and making her way toward you and the others.

“I read that one of us is already engaged. Congratulations, Layla.” You took both of her hands, and the dark-haired girl blushed like a bride.

Layla lowered her gaze as she explained, “Lord Ward courted me all week, we shared dances, promenades. And he proposed just yesterday during dinner with his family.”

“I had intended to introduce him to all of you, but… it seems he’s rather busy at the moment.” Her tone shifted, laced with a hint of disappointment.

“It’s alright, we can get acquainted another time, can’t we?” Anneliese chimed in, gently taking over the conversation as she tried to reassure the newly engaged girl. You and Liliana nodded in agreement.

“If you’re happy, then we’re happy for you,” you said sincerely almost as if you were trying to convince both Layla and yourself.

She only offered a faint smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes, her lips curving in a way that felt forced. You could read her like an open book and you weren’t the only one who noticed.

Liliana spoke softly, “If there’s anything you want to talk about, we’re here to listen.”

Unfortunately, Layla shook her head and immediately denied it. “It’s not like that. I have to be happy- I am happy with this bethroral. The marriage will benefit me and my family, I will have secure future.”

The irony was almost painful. It sounded as though Layla was trying to convince herself far more than she was trying to convince any of you. But not every woman was granted the luxury of romance. Security and a guaranteed future often took precedence over the desires of the heart. Perhaps there was no one to blame.

Sensing the tension thickening in the air, you decided to steer the conversation elsewhere.

“I have a question,” you said, attempting a lighter tone. “After we marry a Celestial Dragon… do we actually have to wear those ridiculous space suits with the helmets?”

At your teasing question, the trio couldn’t hold back their laughter. They covered their mouths trying to muffle it, momentarily forgetting the weight of society and all its expectations hoping no one overheard such a dangerously candid conversation.

“That’s a good question. Let’s use Layla as our reference.”

“Please, anything but that outfit.”

“Maybe I should negotiate with my fiancé to give me permission to wear whatever I want.”

You chimed in, “As much as I hate feeling suffocated by a corset, I do love wearing beautiful dresses.”

Everyone seemed to agree, being constricted by a corset was far preferable to wearing the uniforms of the Celestial Dragons especially those ridiculous outfits. It felt like a fair sacrifice in the pursuit of beauty. After all beauty required suffering and pain.

“Speaking of dresses, I love yours. Red suits you,” Anneliese said, admiring your appearance this evening.

You thanked her for the compliment but admitted that red felt too bold for your taste it made you stand out too much and drawing attention you didn’t necessarily want.

“I think if you wore ruby it would make your look even more… intense.” Layla added.

Since that humiliating gift, you found yourself suddenly disliking rubies. You wanted nothing associated with that man Saint Figarland Shamrock. Besides there was no point dwelling on it. You had already sold the jewelry and tonight was meant for you to enjoy.

“Ruby just isn’t my stone. I think I’m more of an emerald person,” you replied.

The conversation carried on, drifting from wedding plans to lighter topics, drinks in hand accompanying your laughter. For tonight, you allowed yourself to forget your troubles and simply live in the moment. And perhaps, if your mood remained pleasant, you might even step onto the dance floor with a gentleman who dared to ask.

As you discussed bridesmaids, your gaze wandered and then stilled. A figure had just entered the ballroom. He drew attention effortlessly. A blond-haired man wearing distinctive glasses, someone you recognized from earlier that day now dressed in a striking red suit, his polished black shoes gleaming under the lights.

You knew him. There was no way you could forget the man you had nearly collided with just hours ago, not with those unmistakable glasses.

Still uncertain, you listened closely to the whispers around you following his arrival. And soon enough, the truth revealed itself.

One of the Seven Warlords of the Sea.

The King of Dressrosa.

Donquixote Doflamingo.

No wonder his face had seemed so familiar it was one you had often seen in the newspapers. You hadn’t expected to cross paths with someone so important in such an unexpected way. You could only hope that whatever first impression you left on him had been… decent.

It seemed the man noticed your observant gaze as well. Your eyes met across the distance, separated only by space and the tint of his lenses. Now you stood composed, refined, and proper a stark contrast to the free-spirited girl he had encountered earlier that day. Yet he still recognized you.

Recognition and curiosity.

As if drawn by a magnet, the king stepped forward, closing the distance between you even leaving his previous conversation behind without explanation. And without realizing it, you too took a step forward, as though ready to meet him halfway.

“I didn’t expect to see you again at my cousin’s ball,” Doflamingo began. That alone explained his presence here.

You were standing before a king. Your body responded instinctively, one foot stepping back your knees bending slightly as you lowered your gaze in a respectful curtsy.

“Your Majesty, please forgive me for not recognizing you earlier today.”

He raised a brow, clearly amused by your sudden shift. “And now that you know who I am, your attitude changes so drastically, miss?”

“I’m simply behaving… according to proper norms,” you replied shortly choosing your words with care.

“There’s no need for all that formality. I’m not a king in this land… at least,” he said, his tone blending teasing and charm. “Go on, look into my eyes though I should warn you not to fall in love with them.”

A joke and a flirtation in a single breath. He seemed intent on making you meet his gaze, as if he wanted to memorize every detail recounting your lashes though unfortunately for him your lashes were not entirely your own tonight.

At last, you lifted your head accepting the challenge and matching his tone. “How could I fall in love with your eyes when I can’t even see them behind those pink glasses of yours?”

Hearing you respond in kind, Doflamingo let out a small laugh perhaps a little louder than he intended. “That’s good. Then I suppose I should keep them on just in case, to prevent any broken hearts.”

You hid a soft chuckle behind your gloved hand, the noise of the ballroom fading slightly around you.

“Do you truly believe in love at first sight?”

“I don’t think so, not with someone whose name I don’t even know.”

And so, you introduced yourself. Your name lingered in his ears, as if he were carving it into memory not into his heart. Not yet. As for him a man whose name and face were known across newspapers he hardly needed an introduction. And yet for you he offered one anyway a gesture of respect.

It was undeniable Doflamingo couldn’t take his eyes off you. Captivated by your beauty and the way you carried your words, the king found himself drawn in. It wasn’t difficult for any man to be interested in a woman like you at least, that’s what he thought.

The music began again, signaling the second round of dancing, but to you, it faded into the background nothing more than a soft hum beneath your conversation. This time, there were no flirtations, only a steady exchange of words flowing like a river from source to sea.

“A pirate and a king at the same time. I imagine your schedule must be quite busy,” you said casually, keeping the conversation moving.

Doflamingo almost groaned. “Oh, tell me about it. Sailing and politics are two completely different worlds, yet I have to manage both.”

“So, do you steal treasure and share it with your people?” Your question was simple almost innocent in its curiosity.

“I’m not that saint,” he replied easily, unconcerned about how others might judge him.

“Besides, not all the ‘Saints and Saintesses’ here are truly noble” you murmured, your voice lowered to a near whisper careful not to offend even if it was the truth.

“Ah, so you know quite a bit for someone who’s only been here a few weeks,” he noted.

You turned your head, looking for your friends whom you had momentarily ignored but none of them were in sight. Had they been upset because they left behind without a word just because of a man? Hopefully not. Or perhaps they noticed something between the two of you and chose to give you space, quietly wondering from afar.

But instead, what you found was a figure with long red hair someone you despised. Of course Figarland Shamrock would find a way to disturb your night. His crimson eyes locked onto yours as if warning you not to speak with Doflamingo. And in response, you simply looked away indifferent as if you had never seen him at all. Who was he to tell you what to do?

“Sir. Doflamingo—”

“Too long, isn’t it? Why don’t you call me ‘Doffy,’ like my family does?”

“Family? Isn’t it a bit too soon for nicknames especially one that intimate?”

“You’re right, perhaps a little too soon. But when I say ‘family,’ I mean the officers of my pirate crew, people I trust completely. My loyal ones who have been with me through highs and lows.”

“I see, I thought you meant your real family, like your parents or siblings.”

“…Perhaps that’s a conversation for another time.”

While you were absorbed in conversation with someone new, Shamrock still watched you from afar, tracking your every movement as if trying to read your lips to understand what you were saying to that pirate. Donquixote Doflamingo might be a Warlord of the Sea and a king of certain county but he was still someone who had once been cast out from the Holy Land.

And perhaps that was what made his gaze feel different. Not mere curiosity but something hungrier. A desire for control, for understanding, for something he couldn’t simply claim. His eyes were sharp, yet not just cautious deeper than that. There was something in them that almost resembled curiosity or perhaps a judgment not yet finished.

You let out a soft laugh at something Doflamingo said light, but enough to make Shamrock’s shoulders tense. He didn’t hear the words but he didn’t need to. The slight narrowing of your eyes and the genuine curve of your lips something he rarely saw, or perhaps had never seen you give him were enough.

Shamrock had never liked this feeling. It crept slowly from his chest, climbed to his throat, and settled there like something bitter that could neither be swallowed nor spat out. He stood not far from the crowd, yet his mind was nowhere in that room.

All of his attention was on you. On the way you tilted your head ever so slightly when you listened. On the way you smiled something that, he wasn’t sure when, no longer felt like it belonged to him to witness. And what disturbed him most was the man beside you. Donquixote Doflamingo stood too close, too relaxed, far too confident as if he had every right to share the same space as you, perhaps even too certain that he could make you stay there.

His jaw tightened. Shamrock didn’t know what unsettled him more, the words he couldn’t hear or the fact that he desperately wanted to stop it all. To stop the conversation, to stop that laugh, to stop the way you looked at someone else like that. His hand slowly curled into a fist at his side.

This is ridiculous, utterly ridiculous. The Commander of the Holy Knights muttered inwardly.

He was no one to you. No rights, no promises, no bond that had ever truly been spoken between you. And yet, that was precisely what made him more restless. Because without a bond, there was nothing he could demand. And without the right to demand, all he could do was watch.

And he hated that.

Meanwhile, you didn’t bother sparing him a glance, your focus fully immersed in the conversation before you. At the very least with Doflamingo you didn’t feel belittled you were treated as an equal, not someone to be looked down upon. That, at least, was the conclusion you had drawn.

Now, you became aware that the melody was nearing its end, the instruments softening as they signaled the close of the current set and the beginning of the next dance. You were certain some of the debutantes had already secured their partners. And now you found yourself wondering and betting, would this gentleman ask you to dance in this set, the next one, or not at all?

Unaware of the quiet wager you had made with yourself, the blond man glanced toward the dance floor, where the final movements of the dance were unfolding. “What’s the next dance? A waltz?”

You answered casually without checking because you already knew. “I believe the next one is a quadrille, according to my dance card.”

“Forget that little card. This ball is far too short to be bound by a schedule.” He hummed, followed by his distinct, booming laugh.

His words left you puzzled. “What do you mean by that?”

Doflamingo extended his hand, waiting for you to accept his invitation. “Let’s do a tango.”

You could hardly believe what you had just heard, your lips parting slightly in disbelief. Tango was almost never danced during the social season at any ballroom—it demanded a level of closeness that was… scandalous. Bodies drawn together like a stamp pressed against an envelope, moving in a rhythm as quick and intense as a racing heartbeat.

Silence lingered between the two of you, giving you just enough space to reconsider his invitation. Meanwhile, the blond man looked almost impatient, as though he were already anticipating the moment you stepped onto the floor with him. And so, a quiet negotiation began.

“If you can’t do the tango, it’s fine. A quadrille will do,” Doflamingo said, his tone hovering somewhere between offering you a choice and issuing a challenge, you weren’t quite sure which.

“It’s not that. I’ve learned the tango, I just never had the chance to practice it. Besides, I don’t think my dress is exactly practical for it.” And it wasn’t, the gown didn’t allow much freedom of movement, though at least your corset wasn’t unbearably tight this time.

“I will lead. Do you trust me?” His hand remained extended waiting for yours to rest upon it, a silent request for trust.

Around you, the couples on the dance floor completed their steps and bowed to one another signaling the end of the set. If you didn’t answer soon others would take the floor.

It wasn’t greed not really but something within you wanted to claim that entire space just for the two of you.

And you knew exactly what that something was.

Passion

Dressrosa, a land famed for love and passion and now you had its king wrapped around your fingers. You had won your little wager with yourself and what you gained was far better than you had expected. It would be foolish to turn away something so enticing.

You placed your hand in his, a silent acceptance, your smile carrying a thousand unspoken meanings. “Very well, lead the dance, Your Majesty.”

Doflamingo laughed at your answer, amused by the teasing formality of your address even after he had asked you to stop being so proper with him. He enjoyed your little game perhaps more than he should have. But then again you were the one who had started it.

And so, your hands intertwined as you stepped forward together with effortless grace like a perfectly matched pair. When the blond man requested five minutes to claim the dance floor and instructed the musicians to prepare a piece suitable for a tango, the red-haired man remained where he was watching everything unfold.

So now Doflamingo dared to have you dance with him alone? He had been the first to claim you for a dance or so he believed.

The tango did not begin with movement, but with closeness. Your bodies stilled for a brief moment in the opening position your chest nearly brushing against his. One of your hands remained entwined with his, while the other rested upon his shoulder. His hand settled at your back not rough enough to intimidate or force yet firm enough to guide your every direction.

Then the first step came slow and deliberate. Your foot slid back, guided by the subtle pressure of his hand at your back, a wordless signal. Tango was more than a dance, it was a silent conversation every gentle push, every measured breath forming a language only the two of you could understand.

Your head tilted slightly to the left, while Doflamingo’s angled in the opposite direction. Accompanied by the violin’s commanding presence you glided across the polished marble floor, your shoes whispering against its smooth surface. Any trace of envy from the room was swallowed by the music and the murmurs of the audience fresh gossip unfolding before those hungry for a story.

In a swift motion, your heads turned, and your eyes met. You held that gaze for a moment as your feet crossed in perfect sync. You couldn’t help but wonder about his eyes their color, their shape. You would wager they were hazel, sharp and cunning like a fox.

Once again you claimed the dance floor as your own.

It seemed you had a way of making anyone want to share it with you.

And you knew exactly how to use that.

Doflamingo guided you through each movement right and left, forward and back. With effortless grace you followed without hesitation, as though you had entrusted your very life to him. Your foot swept lightly between his forming a swift gancho teasing and almost like a trap, yet executed with such precision that it remained perfectly refined.

The music had reached its midpoint, the violin soaring higher, signaling the approaching climax. Your body spun with precision, your skirt flaring with the momentum yet its length and weight dragged against the floor. Then in a fleeting misstep the tip of your heel caught the delicate fabric nearly throwing you off balance.

Before you could even process it, an unseen force pulled you back steadying you holding you in place. Your arm lifted into the air beyond your control, your wrist crossing above your head as if guided by invisible threads shaping your movement into something unexpectedly mesmerizing.

The man only smirked. “I told you, trust me.”

The pirate had used the power of his Devil Fruit to guide you, to catch you just as you nearly stumbled over your own gown. Your heart pounded faster than the rhythm of the dance itself and it drew a matching smile from you in return.

All of it happened right before Shamrock’s eyes.

And he could only watch, gripped by a feeling he had never truly known before.

Consumed by burning jealousy.

At first the Commander had refused to acknowledge it, from the very moment he saw you speaking with another. But the longer he let it linger and the closer you became to that man the more it ignited within him until he was certain it could set the entire ballroom ablaze or perhaps even more.

From where he stood Shamrock felt his chest tighten painfully. This was no mere dance, It was too close, too intimate.

The way Doflamingo’s hand rested at your back. The way your body yielded to his every lead. The way your face seemed to glow alive in a way he had never seen when you were with him.

He stood rigid like a statue carved from restrained anger. Every movement you made on the dance floor felt like a series of small blades, slowly carving into something deep within him. Your closeness with another man only fed the fire burning in his chest.

And what hurt him most was the simple truth you were not being forced. You chose to be there in another man’s embrace. A stark contrast to the last time you had danced with him. No matter how much Shamrock tried to deny it that truth remained absolute.

Pathetic.

That final dip almost made him move. As your body arched backward, held so close by Doflamingo your faces only inches apart your hand resting on his shoulder and your form fully supported by his strength, something inside Shamrock cracked. His fist clenched again tighter this time until his knuckles turned white.

From that dipped position, your gaze caught him upside down in your line of sight. Close enough to witness everything, yet distant enough to remain uninvolved. And when his eyes met yours, burning with jealousy, you returned nothing but an indifferent look as though he were nothing more than a stranger in the crowd merely another spectator to your performance.

After holding you there for a few lingering seconds Doflamingo pulled you back upright guiding you into the final movement. As your body returned close to his once more Shamrock could no longer pretend to remain composed. He looked away for a moment drawing a slow breath trying to suppress something that was rapidly slipping beyond his control.

And before he even realized it the music had come to an end. The tango was over.

Doflamingo kept you in place for a moment even after the dance had ended. At first, no applause followed the audience seemed to be holding their breath still processing what they had just witnessed. Then you noticed three of your friends begin to clap and soon enough, the rest of the room followed.

“So, what do you think?” the King asked.

Your breathing was still slightly uneven but in a pleasant way as your heartbeat gradually began to steady. “That was… full of passion.”

“And that passion is what defines Dressrosa.”

Still standing at the center of the dance floor, Doflamingo offered his hand once more. “The next dance is a quadrille, isn’t it? Shall we?”

You raised a brow clearly amused. “Oh? And now you suddenly wish to follow the rules?”

“Perhaps,” he replied casually.

“Then you should write your name on my dance card.” Without hesitation he obliged pulling a pen from his pocket and inscribing his name onto your card.

Once again, your hands found each other. Several other couples began stepping onto the floor alongside you. Before the dance could begin, you spoke again your tone light yet deliberate.

“I suppose I should warn you, one dance is like testing the waters. A second with the same lady signals interest. But three in a row…” you paused, letting the implication settle, "it essentially means a bethroral.”

“I know,” the blond man answered, utterly unfazed.

The harp strings were plucked by slender fingers, the pianoforte keys pressed into a flowing melody, violins rising in harmony alongside the cello. Couples took their positions four pairs forming a square each facing a different direction. Yet to your surprise at the southern point stood someone you had no desire to engage with.

Saint Figarland Shamrock.

And now he had brought along a random girl to join him.

The quadrille allowed for brief exchanges of partners meaning whether you liked it or not you would inevitably dance with him. If his intention in bringing another lady was to make you jealous in return, then it was rather unfortunate for him it would not work.

If the tango had felt like a dangerous whisper between two people now the ballroom was filled with something brighter structured, elegant, bound by rules. The notes of the quadrille flowed lightly yet deliberately inviting more couples onto the floor.

Each pair offered a polite bow before beginning the first sequence, three steps forward, a pause, then retreating back to their original place. There was no excessive contact only the occasional brush of fingertips before separating again in time with the music. And perhaps because of that restraint every touch felt more intentional.

Doflamingo guided you with effortless ease, as though the intricate patterns were nothing more than a simple game to him. A turn, a change of place hands meeting for only a fleeting second before parting again.

Meanwhile, Shamrock moved with his partner as well precise and controlled yet unmistakably stiff. There was a tension between them, a subtle awkwardness that stood in stark contrast to the fluid harmony you shared with your own partner.

The Commander followed the quadrille as though it had been etched into his very being. Every step landed perfectly on time, every turn was precise, every exchange executed without hesitation.

And yet—there was no warmth.

His hand held, but never truly grasped. His gaze looked, but never truly saw.

Because even as he danced with another, his eyes were searching for you.

Meanwhile you paid none of it any mind. You simply enjoyed the dance exchanging light conversation with Doflamingo. The ballroom had become a grand stage an unspoken performance of love, reputation, and honor, surpassing any opera. A spectacle where the performers did not need to act.

Then came the next sequence the formation that required partners to change.

Before you could prepare yourself to face him, the blond man spun you gently in time with the music, guiding you into the exchange. Whether he was unaware of the tension between you and the red-haired man or simply chose not to acknowledge it you couldn’t quite tell.

And then a gloved hand caught yours, Firm also almost forceful and Desperate.

You didn’t need to look to know whose it was. Saint Figarland Shamrock. With a single pull, he drew you into him as though that was where you belonged. Your eyes met at a distance far too close after a night spent only watching each other from afar.

Red roses, you still carried that intoxicating scent as though your very being was made of their petals. Was there a secret to it? He was too close leaning just enough that the tip of his nose nearly brushed the curve of your neck. Shamrock forced himself not to close his eyes despite how much he wanted to lose himself in your fragrance something that had become unmistakably yours.

So instead he focused on your eyes, on the dance, and anything but the way he wanted you.

He had to admit at least one thing.

He was yearning for you.

You nearly lost your rhythm but his hand caught you first, steadying you, pulling you back into the flow of the melody. This time, with him. His fingers closed around yours firm. Not rough but far from gentle as if he was making one thing clear: this time you would not slip away.

There was authority in every lead he gave, a stark contrast to the fluid ease of your dance with Doflamingo.

The steps continued.

Forward.

Turn.

And then, Shamrock finally spoke “What does he have that I don’t?”

You averted your gaze, as though already tired of looking at him. “Everything,” you answered, sharp and without hesitation. “Integrity. Honor. Respect. I could make a long list.”

The Commander remained at your side, his hand never once leaving yours. As you moved through a half-turn forward and back your shoulders and arms brushed against each other. You kept moving refusing to meet those crimson eyes.

“So you’re calling me immoral?” His voice droppedblow and dangerous like a wolf’s howl under a full moon. It wasn’t just jealousy anymore. It was insult something he had never been forced to endure before.

His step faltered half a beat too late and barely noticeable to anyone else but unmistakable to you. Not because he lacked skill but because his emotions were beginning to take control of him.

“Let me tell you something,” the Commander continued, a warning threading through his tone. “You know nothing about what that man did after his family was cast out of the Holy Land.”

“And that makes you better than him?” you shot back, your attention no longer fully on the music.

The formation pulled you back side by side once more. This time, his arm hovered dangerously close to your waist, his breath brushing the side of your face—too near, too intrusive, like a hound catching the scent of something forbidden.

“Do I need to reveal the truth to you?” he murmured. “About how he became the king of Dressrosa?” He spun you slowly. The next step forced a slight separation just enough distance to breathe but nowhere near enough to ease the tension.

This time, you dared to meet his eyes not in search of truth but in defiance.

“You belittle others just to make yourself look better? To feed your ego?” Your voice was steady. “How pathetic.”

“At least I don’t need a mask to hide who I am,” he shot back his tone laced with mockery. “Unlike that man playing king-and-pirate, or you hiding behind your perfect-yet-defiant-lady façade.” The insult was clear—sharp and deliberate.

You wanted to retaliate to point out just how ridiculous he looked dragging another girl into this drama just to confront you in the middle of a dance floor. But the melody shifted signaling the return to original partners.

Before you could speak a familiar presence returned. A blond figure stepped in, his arm slipping around your waist gentle yet unmistakably possessive as though reclaiming something that was always meant to be his. He didn’t spare Shamrock a glance. You wondered briefly if he had noticed the tension between you and the Commander.

“Did I miss something?” Doflamingo hummed, answering the question you hadn’t voiced.

You let out a soft laugh as you moved with him once more “Just a minor disturbance.”

And you had to admit there was a trace of pride in the way you dismissed Shamrock, as though he were no longer worth your attention.

And with that, the quadrille came to its close—the final notes rising into a graceful finish. One last turn, and your bodies dipped in unison. It was the longest dance you had ever taken part in, filled with far more than just steps and music.

After the final movement Doflamingo guided you back onto steady footing before the two of you bowed to one another.

While the audience busied themselves with hushed whispers piecing together the spectacle they had just witnessed and other couples remained occupied with their own partners you and Doflamingo quietly slipped away from the dance floor. He had offered to show you around the manor and the invitation came at the perfect time.

“We don’t need to sneak around like thieves just to give you a tour,” the King remarked, his hands resting behind his back.

You glanced at him, meeting his gaze despite the barrier between you. “I simply wish to avoid my chaperone for a while.”

“Very well. Then let the tour begin. Did you know this place used to be my home before my family moved below?”

“Oh? Really?”

“And after we left, my cousin inherited the title and the estate including this residence. I still stop by whenever I have business in Mary Geoise.”

Doflamingo led you through the manor guiding you from one space to another. After being overwhelmed by so much attention this was exactly what you needed aquiet reprieve. Just a slow walk free from prying eyes as you admired the elegance of the grandp, classical architecture surrounding you.

Just as you were certain no one had noticed your quiet departure with a gentleman without your assigned escort Saint Figarland Shamrock saw everything with perfect clarity.

He could have acted. He could have struck ignited whispers turned suspicion into scandal with a single spark. But he chose silence. Not for himself but for your reputation, suddenly he cared about your reputation?

Even so, the Commander no longer spared a single glance for the partner who had unknowingly helped him reach you. He abandoned the dance floor alone leaving behind the very ball he had attended out of obligation.

Outside the Donquixote estate, the front courtyard was lined with waiting carriages, coachmen, and footmen standing at attention. The moment his presence was noted Shamrock’s personal coachman approached without a word.

“Take me to the red-light district.” The command left no room for questions.

The coachman bowed his head, unsurprised. It was not his place to comment only to obey. With the help of the footmen, the carriage was readied at once.

Drawn by four horses, the ornate coach carried the red-haired man away from the 'civilized' quarters of the Holy Land toward its other face. A place where reputation and sin blurred into one. Where the line between imagination and reality dissolved. And where as long as one had the coin any desire could be indulged.

Lights flicker brightly along the street since entering the district gate. Shamrock looks out the window of his carriage at the prostitutes seductively enticing potential customers from the balconies above, like a serpent hypnotically luring its prey into a deadly embrace. This place never sleeps.

The Commander was neither amused nor shocked by the sight. To him it was just a normal interaction like a casual conversation. Having frequented various brothels he wasn't bothered counting how many women he had slept with or concealing his reputation as a casanova, a rake or whatever other names he was called.

Until he arrived at one of the high-class brothels he often visited. Shamrock dismounted his carriage, leaving his servant to handle parking or whatever else. At the entrance, the brothel owner who knew him well greeted him warmly as a loyal customer.

"Show me your best whores" Shamrock demanded eager to unleash all his pent-up desires and jealousies that had burned throughout the night, and the fleeting sense of ownership even if only through these sex workers.

Without a moment's hesitation or shame, the owner summoned the girls to line up as if on display presented like dolls rather than living beings. Barely clad and provocatively enticing entry into the trap, they stood in sharp contrast to the elegant ladies at a society ball.

His crimson eyes scanned every women before him, searching for a glimpse of you in their features to quench his thirst. Swiftly, his piercing gaze fixed upon one girl whose eye color matched yours but differed in shape, a nearly identical posture yet too many curves, facial features that at first glance seemed similar but were clearly not you. At least she was the closest among the rest.

"That one," Shamrock declared with authoritative tone, having made his selection which could not be disputed.

For how long he had been made up with the prostitute trying to find escape. Yet he still couldn't find you there despite the Commander's attempts being slightly too forceful. He didn't need to know the name of the woman currently serving him. Each kiss, each touch was directed towards you and unleashing his desire.

The man released his kiss and gazing hungrily at the nude woman sprawled beneath him panting heavily. It must be acknowledged that she was indeed a very attractive, sexy and talented woman. But his purpose here was to bring his fantasy of possessing you entirely to life.

In the midst of their session Shamrock noticed a vase filled with fresh red roses in a dim light decorating the room of this brothel. You were everywhere but in the place he desired most. And this realization frustrated him until he groaned absently stroking his long red hair.

Still not fully undressed, with only the buttons of his shirt open and his belt undone Shamrock rose from the bed to pluck the roses. With a bit too much roughness he tore the petals from the stem inadvertently causing the thorn to prick his finger and draw a small bead of blood - but it didn't hurt him at all.

Then aggressively he tossed the rose petals at the sex worker he was about to bed. The woman closed her eyes and accepted it all interpreting it as a romantic gesture like a newlywed couple swept up in passionate love unaware of anything else.

With the familiar scent of the rose wafting around him, Shamrock could almost imagine your presence here, closing his eyes. With fervor, he jumped back onto the bed, kissing the prostitue imagining it was your soft lips he was kissing, using the fragrance of the flower to envision caressing your body trying to claim you as his own.

Without shame he called out your nickname amidst the depraved act.

"Rose..."

Note: Hello 🖤 after months of disappearance I finally managed to finished this part. Just a quick note originally I wanted create another OC from Nerona family (imu's descendant) for this jealous Shamrock arc but when i thought about it again Doflamingo is perfect for this. That's why i included him. And just want you to know please pay attention to Layla's mini arc story too because I knew some of you has familiar with that story, Thank you very much❤🖤