Momoko-Chan

Chapter 1: The Stranger in the Tavern

The tavern smelled like spilled ale, fried food, and sweat.

It always did after sunset.

The fishermen came in loud and hungry. The farmers took the area near the wall, where they could complain about taxes and their wives in peace.

You had been a waitress for six years. Before that, you had washed cups in the back. Before that, you had been the quiet child your mother kept close whenever unfamiliar ships came into port.

You did not remember much from before the island.

Sometimes there were pieces. White stone under sunlight. A high room with curtains too heavy to move in the breeze. Your mother’s hand tight around yours. The sound of her breathing hard while she carried you down steps you could not see the bottom of.

Mostly, there was only your mother’s fear.

She had brought you here when you were small, to an island so unimportant most maps forgot to name it properly. A place of fishing nets, muddy roads, and people who knew everyone’s business.

She died three years ago.

The cottage was yours now. So were her old warnings, though you had never known what to do with most of them.

Do not speak of where you were born.

Do not trust men in clean white uniforms.

If a ship comes with a world government flag and no trade goods, run.

There had been no ships like that in years.

So you worked. You learned which customers tipped, which customers lied, and which customers needed their fingers bent backward before they understood the meaning of no.

“Another round over here!”

“You still owe for the last one,” you called back, balancing three mugs in one hand and a plate of fried potatoes in the other.

Old Merek slapped berries onto his table. “I was testing your memory.”

“You’ve been testing it every night for six years. It keeps passing.”

The table laughed. Merek raised his mug in salute.

You slid the potatoes in front of Ellen the net-mender, ducked under Torren’s arm as he turned too suddenly, and caught a falling cup before it hit the floor.

Behind the counter, Lysa gave you a flat look.

“You missed one.”

“I caught it.”

“With your elbow.”

“Still counts.”

Lysa snorted and went back to wiping down the counter. She owned the tavern, though half the village behaved like she had been placed on the earth solely to keep them fed and drunk. She had once broken a chair over a man who tried to leave without paying.

You admired her deeply.

The front door opened again. Wind pushed in first, cold and damp off the water, followed by three dockhands you knew and one man you did not.

The stranger took a seat in the far corner.

Hood up. Cloak dark. Boots too clean for the road, steps too quiet for a drunk.

Your eyes slid over him once.

Traveler, maybe. Passing through, definitely. Trouble, possibly.

The night rolled on.

You moved between tables with practiced speed, collecting empty mugs, dodging elbows, cutting off fights before they grew teeth.

“Your wife said if you sing that again, you’re sleeping in the goat shed,” you told Harvin when he climbed onto a bench.

He dropped back into his seat immediately.

You were reaching for a stack of bowls when a hand closed around your waist.

Not a bump. Not an accident.

A grab.

The tavern’s mood shifted before you even turned.

You looked down at the thick fingers pressed into your apron, then slowly back over your shoulder.

The man attached to them was a trader from the mainland. Red-faced, broad, drunk enough to be stupid, not enough to be forgiven for it. He grinned up at you like he had discovered something clever.

“Come on,” he said. “Be friendly.”

Someone nearby muttered, “Oh, bad choice.”

You set the bowls down very carefully. “You have three seconds,” you said.

He laughed. “Or what?”

You took his wrist, peeled his hand off your waist, and punched him square in the face.

His chair tipped backward.

He hit the floor with a crash that rattled every mug on the nearest table.

There was silence.

Then the tavern exploded.

Men howled. Someone slapped the table hard enough to spill his drink. The trader groaned on the floor, both hands over his nose.

“Out,” Lysa said.

The trader rolled to his side, cursing through his hands. Blood dripped between his fingers.

“You broke my nose!”

You picked up a rag from the nearest table and tossed it onto his chest.

“Then something about you finally improved.”

Two dockhands hauled him up by the arms and marched him toward the door while he stumbled and spat threats no one took seriously.

“You’ll regret this!”

“Unlikely,” you called after him.

The door opened. Wind rushed in. The trader was thrown out into the muddy street.

The door shut.

Someone shouted, “Drinks for the lady!”

“You still have to pay for them,” Lysa snapped.

The tavern laughed again and settled back into its noise, warmer now, brighter. That was how it always happened. Someone tested the boundaries. You reminded them where they were. Everyone here had watched you grow from a silent child into a woman with quick hands and a quicker mouth.

You flexed your fingers once.

Your knuckles stung.

The hooded stranger in the corner had not moved. That was what caught your attention the second time.

Everyone else had turned to watch the punch. Everyone else had laughed, shouted, reacted. But he sat exactly as he had before.

You could not see his face clearly, but you knew he was watching.

You looked away first, irritated with yourself for caring.

Travelers stared. Men stared. People with secrets stared. It did not matter.

You had survived worse than being looked at.

Near midnight, the room began to thin. Farmers went first. Then the fishermen.

When you looked toward the corner again, the stranger was gone.

Your hand stilled on the stack of plates.

The bell above the front door had not rung.

Lysa noticed your face before she followed your gaze. “What?”

You looked toward the back hall. The stairwell. The shadow near the side door.

Nothing.

Only the low fire, the scrape of Lysa’s rag over the bar, and the wind pressing against the shutters.

Lysa’s mouth flattened. “You want me to tell Torren to linger?”

“No,” you said, still watching the back hall. “Not yet.”

Outside, across the muddy road and beneath the eaves of the closed smithy, Shamrock Figarland lowered his hood.

The tavern’s lamp caught the edge of his red hair before the night took it again.

So.

It was her.

The missing daughter of the Holy Land, hidden for years on this dull little island, pouring ale for fishermen and breaking noses in a tavern that smelled like smoke and cheap beer.

He had expected fear. Confusion, perhaps. A woman raised in the lower world, ignorant of what she was, easy enough to secure once the truth closed around her.

Instead, she had bloodied a man’s face and made half the room cheer for it.

Shamrock looked through the tavern window.

Inside, you were laughing at something the older woman behind the counter said, your sleeves rolled to your elbows, your hair loosened from work, your knuckles reddened from the punch.

Not polished.

Not obedient.

Not tame.

Worth handling personally.

A Holy Knight waited in the alley behind him.

“Commander?” the man asked quietly.

Shamrock did not look away from the window.

“Confirm the perimeter,” he said. “No action tonight.”

“We have confirmation?”

“Yes.”

Inside, you turned suddenly, as if you felt the weight of his attention.

Your eyes searched the window.

For one brief moment, through lamplight and warped glass, you looked almost directly at him.

Shamrock smiled.

“Not tame at all,” he murmured.

Then he stepped back into the dark.

The rest of the story will be posted soon!

Garling was not a man accustomed to regret. He had always gotten what he wanted. If something caught his interest, sooner or later he ended up getting it. But there was one thing he had never fully come to terms with: letting Shakuyaku slip away.

Even after so many years, the memory still gnawed at him from within. Shakuyaku had been perfect. Beautiful to the point of absurdity, proud, intelligent—a woman worthy of standing by his side. Garling was willing to overlook the fact that she had been a pirate, even when she caused his men too many problems. None of that really mattered to him.

That’s why he was so determined to win that year’s hunt. He had it practically in the bag. Shakuyaku was going to become his wife, the future mother of his children. A former Amazonian Empress Lily was a worthy trophy for someone like him.

But then Silver Rayleigh appeared. That damned pirate not only helped her escape, but Shakuyaku also chose him.

At that moment, he couldn't go after them; his injuries were still too severe, and there were more pressing matters to attend to after the disaster in the Valley of the Gods, so he left Saint Sommers in charge of monitoring the situation. It was a mistake.

Sommers couldn't be trusted with anything important, and by the time Garling had fully recovered and discovered they were both gone, rage nearly drove him to kill Sommers right there.

But it wasn't Sommers he truly hated. It was Rayleigh. That wretch who had stolen something he considered his own. From that moment on, he swore that one day he would have his revenge.

One day he would find a way to strike him where it hurt most, without warning and with no chance of escape.As he reviewed the new bounties issued by the Navy, an image caught his eye. The new Empress of Amazon Lily. That bastard's daughter.

And then she appeared.

Garling smiled the moment he saw her. All those years of waiting had been worth it. He didn't care that she was a pirate. He didn't care that she was Rayleigh's daughter either. If he couldn't have Shakuyaku, he would have her offspring. And through her, in a twisted way, he would still possess a part of the woman he had once lost.

But Garling was no longer young, and though the idea of taking revenge on Rayleigh still gnawed at him, the thought of taking another wife also wore him down. Because he knew exactly what she would be like.

With that blood running through her veins, she would never stay still. She wouldn’t be submissive; she wouldn’t bow her head or agree to obey him in silence. He could put a collar on her, lock her up, and force her to stay by his side, but even that was starting to seem exhausting. He no longer had the patience to deal with someone like that every day.

He had fulfilled part of the mission he had been given as a young man; he had fathered children, established his family’s name, and dedicated his life to serving the King. By that point, spending his final years watching over a rebellious woman seemed more like a burden than a desire. But beyond that, he knew that every time he looked at her, he would end up seeing Rayleigh’s eyes reflected in hers.

But Garling was not a man to give up on getting what he wanted. If he couldn’t possess directly what he desired, then he would find another way to do so.

The sound of the massive doors opening snapped him out of his thoughts. Garling looked up just as his twin sons entered the hall.

The two were identical from head to toe. The same red hair that had once caught that woman’s eye, the same sharp features, and the same intense gaze. Yet, even so, they were both different in their own way.

Garling discovered the existence of his sons during the hunt in God Valley. For a moment, he even felt grateful that the woman with whom he’d had an affair had given him offspring, even if she was a woman he considered inferior to himself. At that moment, it didn’t matter much to him. According to his plans, in a few hours he would have a new wife, and those children would grow up under his name.

But in the end, he lost one of his sons.

For years he tried to get him back. He sent men to infiltrate, to snatch him from that pirate’s ship, far from Roger and, above all, far from Rayleigh. Garling couldn’t allow a man like that to raise someone of his blood. He didn’t feel genuine affection for his sons, not the way other men did, but he understood perfectly what a Fingarland’s place in the world was.

To serve the King.

That was what he had done all his life, and that was what he expected of his sons.

That’s why, when Shanks decided to return on his own after Roger’s execution, Garling confirmed that it didn’t matter how many years someone lived among the trash of the underworld. If you discovered you were a descendant of a Celestial Dragon, sooner or later you would claim the place that was rightfully yours.

For Shanks, his first month in Mary Geoise was exhausting.

In addition to faking the reasons he was there, he had to get used to the new schedules, the heavy silence of the corridors, and the invisible rules that governed every corner of the Holy Land. He also had to bear the truth. His father was a Celestial Dragon, and so was a twin brother.

When he discovered it, Shanks was still sailing. He had already assembled his own crew. He was young, full of dreams, hopes, and ideals passed down by the man he truly considered his father. But everything changed the day he found that familiar emblem in the middle of the vast ocean.

That was when he met his father and his brother, Shamrock.

It was strange at first. Shanks didn’t remember him; he didn’t even know he existed. Shamrock, on the other hand, had always known about him.

The awkwardness between them didn’t last long. Shanks eventually came to understand that, behind the arrogance and impeccable composure, Shamrock just seemed to need someone who truly loved him. Someone who understood the pressure under which he had grown up. After all, for years he had believed himself to be the sole heir of Garling Fingarland, the only son destined to shoulder the expectations of Mary Geoise.

But when Shanks arrived, something changed between them. They grew close faster than anyone could have expected. They discovered similarities—the same tastes, the same favorite books, the same way of reacting to certain things. It was strange.

Shamrock had grown up in that oppressive place, surrounded by cruelty from childhood. On Mary Geoise, it was common to see a nobleman beat a slave until he bled. It was common to hear screams and keep walking as if nothing had happened; yet Shanks had never seen him raise a hand against anyone.

He gave orders, yes. He expected obedience; there was a harshness in him, a coldness learned to survive in that world, but never cruelty. That made Shanks wonder if, deep down, his brother had simply been born in the wrong place.

What would have happened if Shamrock had ended up on Roger’s ship instead of him?

For as long as he could remember, Shanks had lived alongside Roger. No one had ever really explained how he’d ended up there; he only knew fragments of the story. A baby found inside a chest, as if he were a forgotten treasure after the Battle of God Valley.

But even with all the luxuries of Mary Geoise, he couldn’t bring himself to regret that childhood on the Oro Jackson. The constant sound of the sea. The crew’s laughter. The absurd arguments, the nights under the stars, and the freedom.

The years he spent living with Buggy, training to be a pirate, getting into all sorts of trouble that eventually required them to be rescued. The days they would visit the Sabaody Archipelago so Rayleigh could see his family. Days when he no longer just played with Buggy, but also spent hours telling stories of his adventures to a girl who had inherited her mother’s beauty and her father’s cunning.

Those were his best years. That is why, before his execution, and before Roger told him the truth about the world, he promised himself, as his captain drew his last breath, that he would save humanity.

Even if, to achieve it, he had to lose himself in the process.

For that reason, he was there now, walking alongside his twin brother toward the man who had given him life. His footsteps echoed on the polished floor—rhythmic, measured, exactly the same as his brother’s. Both wore the white cloaks of the Holy Knights draped over their shoulders, swords hanging at their sides from their belts, and the same stern expression that Mary Geoise demanded of her warriors.

“My sons,” Garling spoke as soon as the massive doors to the hall finished opening.

Shanks hated that place—the cold silence of its corridors, the cruelty disguised as nobility, and the way everyone seemed to look the other way while the world rotted beneath them. But no matter how much he loathed it, he couldn’t leave.

There was something inside him that kept telling him he had a duty to fulfill. A debt to pay. Roger had entrusted him with the truth about the world before he died. He had placed a burden on his shoulders that was far too heavy for someone his age, and ever since then, Shanks had understood that he could not live only for himself.

By then, he had mastered his role. He had learned when to remain silent, when to lower his gaze, and when to feign indifference. He had patiently built that mask of coldness, forcing himself to harden his face so they would trust him, so they would stop seeing him as the lost son who grew up among pirates.

“Father,” said Shamrock, bowing his head just enough to show respect without appearing submissive.

Shanks did the same a few seconds later. He couldn’t call that man “father.” The word stuck in his throat every time he tried to say it. Because for Shanks, that word had always belonged to someone else. To a man who laughed too loudly, who drank until he fell asleep on the deck, and who was capable of sacrificing everything for his crew.

Garling watched them, his fingers clasped around the hilt of his sword. In the candlelight, his silver hair looked almost white, and his eyes scanned his children with an unbearable coldness, as if he were appraising weapons before a battle.

“I’m glad you came,” Garling said.

His voice conveyed no joy whatsoever. There was something about him that made the air in the hall feel heavier, as if his mere presence crushed everyone else.

“You have duties to fulfill in the coming days,” he continued, “but first I want you to witness something.”

Shanks exchanged a brief glance with Shamrock. His brother seemed as disinterested as ever, almost bored. He had one arm crossed behind his back and the relaxed expression of someone accustomed to the eccentricities of the Celestial Dragons. Shanks, on the other hand, felt an uncomfortable twinge in his chest.

Garling rarely did anything without an ulterior motive. And when he spoke that way, with that almost gentle calm, it usually meant trouble.

“Something important, Father?” Shamrock asked.

Garling smiled. It was a small, elegant, and completely empty smile.

“I have always completed every mission entrusted to me,” he said slowly, as if speaking to himself. “I have always obtained everything I have desired. Everything I have set my sights on has ended up belonging to me.”

Shanks felt a chill run down his spine. He didn’t know why. Perhaps it was the tone of his voice. Or maybe it was the way Garling spoke of people just as other men spoke of objects.

The room fell silent for a few seconds. Then Garling lifted his face slightly.

“But there was one thing that slipped through my fingers.”

“One thing that for years consumed me from within because I didn’t have it.”

Garling’s voice remained calm.

“Do you want us to get it for you?” asked Shanks.

Garling slowly turned his face and smiled faintly, pleased to hear those words come from his son’s mouth. There was a certain satisfaction in his gaze, as if he were finally seeing that, even after growing up among pirates, Shanks had understood the importance of his blood and the place that belonged to him as a Fingarland.

“No… oh, no. I’m too old for certain things now,” he replied calmly. “Besides, I’m bored of having to wait for others to bring me everything. You’re young. Good blood runs through your veins; you deserve to have it all.”

He paused briefly before continuing.

“So allow me to present you with a gift.”

The massive doors to the hall swung open. The sound echoed off the marble columns, and a guard strode in with a firm gait, looking impeccable in his white uniform. He walked to the center of the hall and knelt before the throne, keeping his head bowed.

“Your Excellency, they have brought what you requested.”

Garling gave a slight nod.

“Let them in.”

Shanks kept his face expressionless, though he felt an uncomfortable pressure slowly building in his chest. At his side, Shamrock raised an eyebrow with slight curiosity, clearly intrigued by the spectacle his father had prepared.

Then the guards entered. Two men, weighed down by their armor, advanced through the hall, dragging a third figure between them. A woman.

Her hands were chained in front of her with shackles; her jet-black hair fell in disarray over her face and part of her shoulders, partially obscuring her features. Her dress was covered in dust, with the fabric torn in places and a fresh bruise on her cheekbone. And yet she did not seem defeated.

The guards forced her forward to the center of the hall. One of them dug a hand into her shoulder and shoved her down violently. Her knees struck the marble with a sharp thud.

Shanks recognized her instantly.

It was impossible not to. Even though years had passed. Even though her face had changed over time, becoming more mature and now bearing the marks of a fight.

It was still her.

Shanks felt something heavy tighten inside his chest as he watched her. For a moment, the hall vanished around him. He no longer heard the echo of the chains or the guards’ breathing. His mind dragged him back years, to days when the sea still seemed infinite and life didn’t feel like a burden impossible to bear.

He remembered the little girl running across the deck of the Oro Jackson along side him and Buggy, laughing too loudly every time one of them ended up falling to the ground. He remembered the visits to the Sabaody Archipelago, the endless afternoons at Rayleigh’s house, listening to her talk nonstop while she tried to eavesdrop on conversations that were clearly not meant for children.

She was always there. Following them everywhere, insisting on hearing stories about pirates, adventures, and sea monsters. And every time Shanks exaggerated something just to impress her, she ended up believing it with such earnestness that it made him tease her for days.

They were ridiculous memories. But at that moment, watching as they forced her to remain on her knees in the heart of Mary Geoise, those memories felt unbearably distant.

Because she didn’t belong there. No one like her could belong there.

Shanks kept his face impassive, forcing himself not to react. By then he had learned to control every gesture, every glance, every breath. In Mary Geoise, showing emotion was dangerous, especially in front of Garling.

What was she doing there?

The question struck Shanks’s mind as he continued to watch her. He couldn’t understand how she had ended up in Mary Geoise, chained as if she were a war trophy.

She was supposed to be in Sabaody with her mother. Rayleigh had lived as a pirate practically his entire life, but he would never have allowed his daughter to grow up in that world. She was his princess. Everyone who knew Rayleigh knew that. He always treated her as something too precious to drag out to sea and make her a target for the Government or other pirates. Even Roger used to tease him about how overprotective he was.

She was always there. Following them everywhere, insisting on hearing stories about pirates, adventures, and sea monsters. And every time Shanks exaggerated something just to impress her, she ended up believing it with such earnestness that it made him tease her for days.

They were ridiculous memories. But at that moment, watching as they forced her to remain on her knees in the heart of Mary Geoise, those memories felt unbearably distant.

Because she didn’t belong there. No one like her could belong there.

Shanks kept his face impassive, forcing himself not to react. By then he had learned to control every gesture, every glance, every breath. In Mary Geoise, showing emotion was dangerous, especially in front of Garling.

Shanks never heard any rumors about her sailing, or about a crew, or about bounties. After the Roger Pirates disbanded, she simply vanished from his life along with the rest of them.

The last time he saw her was years ago, during the Oro Jackson’s final voyage. Roger was already ill by then. The crew was sailing toward Laugh Tale, and the atmosphere had changed. Even as a young man, Shanks could feel the strange weight the adults carried, as if they all knew the end was near and none of them wanted to say it out loud.

She had run after him before they left; Shanks could still remember how she had complained that he felt “too old” to spend time with her and Buggy like he used to. And now she was kneeling before the Celestial Dragons.

Shanks felt an uncomfortable pang welling up inside his chest. Because he knew exactly what she must be thinking as she looked at him.

Anyone from the old crew would have tried to understand. They would have asked questions. They would have stared at him for hours before jumping to conclusions. Even Buggy would have ended up demanding explanations amid insults and shouts.

But she wouldn’t look for reasons or try to listen to what he had to say. In her eyes, he had simply chosen that place. He had abandoned everything Roger stood for to don the white cloak of the Holy Knights and walk alongside men like Garling.

Garling began to approach; his footsteps echoed through the enormous hall. She didn’t look up; her eyes remained fixed on the floor, her jaw tense, her back straight. Even kneeling and bound by the Kairoseki shackles, she refused to look defeated.

Garling stopped in front of her and watched her for a few seconds in silence.

“Look at me,” he ordered.

His words hung in the air, heavy with authority, with years of absolute power. Faced with anyone else, it would have been enough to make them bow their head. But she remained motionless.

Shamrock watched the scene with growing interest, amused by that small display of defiance. Shanks, on the other hand, felt his chest tighten, as if something inside him refused to breathe.

Garling raised a hand; his fingers, long and pale as claws, closed around the woman’s jaw and forced her to lift her face abruptly. His nails dug slightly into her skin as he pulled her upward, forcing her to look at him.

The face before him was Shakuyaku’s. The same beauty that had obsessed him years ago in God Valley. The same high cheekbones, the same wild elegance in her features, the same curve of her lips that had once made him believe that woman would end up belonging to him. Even beaten, covered in dust, and chained to the floor, she still had something hypnotic about her.

But her eyes were Rayleigh’s. That cold, steely gaze that seemed to defy the whole world without saying a word. The same unbearable intensity that pirate had whenever anyone tried to break him. A look that could intimidate even the bravest knight.

Garling felt something stir inside his chest. For a moment, he said nothing. He just watched her, clenching his jaw as if trying to swallow all the memories that look had just brought back.

“You’re just like your mother,” he murmured finally, and his voice came out lower than he intended. “The same beauty… damn it, the same beauty…”

His fingers tightened a little more around her jaw, forcing her to remain still before him.

“But you have the same look as that bastard.”

Shanks clenched her fists without realizing it. She felt her nails dig into the palms of her hands as she watched Garling hold her like that, speaking of Rayleigh with contempt, as if he were trash, as if that man hadn’t been more honorable than any of the nobles breathing within Mary Geoise. And she hated the way Garling looked at her, as if she were something he could claim simply for having certain blood in her veins.

But she had never been weak. Ever since he’d met her, she’d always found a way to defy everyone, even Rayleigh. She argued, she insisted, and she did exactly what she wanted, even if it meant getting herself into trouble afterward. Shanks could still picture her crossing her arms whenever someone tried to give her an order, looking at them with that pride she’d clearly inherited from both her parents.

But seeing her there, chained in front of Garling, something inside him screamed that he had to protect her. Not just because she was a woman, nor because she was the daughter of his former first mate. It was something deeper. Something that had been buried for years and was now coming back with a vengeance, twisting inside his chest in a way he didn’t know how to describe.

For a moment, he wanted to shatter the mask he had built up over all those years on Mary Geoise. He wanted to go and grab Garling’s wrist, wrench it right there, turn toward her, lift her into his arms, and take her back home. But before his thoughts could turn into actions, she smiled.

It wasn’t a warm smile. It was dangerous. The smile of someone who had learned that words could hurt more than a sword.

“The only bastard in this room,” he said in a clear, firm voice, without a trace of fear, “is you.”

The sound of the slap echoed through the room like a lash. Her head snapped violently to one side, and the impact sent her crashing onto the marble floor. The sharp thud of her body hitting the floor made something inside Shanks tense up immediately. A trickle of blood slowly ran down from the corner of her split lip.

Shanks felt his own fingernails digging into the palms of his hands. He couldn’t do a single thing except stand there, watching, hating himself for it.

“You should be grateful I’m sparing your life,” Garling said.

His voice sounded furious, though he was trying to maintain that calmness that was so characteristic of him. Even when angry, he refused to give others the satisfaction of seeing him lose control. Garling looked down at her with contempt before continuing.

“Your father caused me too many problems in the past. Problems that someone should pay for.”

Shanks felt her stomach churn. All of this was nothing more than revenge, a punishment aimed at Rayleigh through her.

Garling slowly straightened up and calmly smoothed the cuff of his shirt, as if he’d just crushed an annoying insect under the sole of his shoe. Then he turned on his heel and walked back toward his sons.

“I’ve decided you can keep her,” he said with complete nonchalance, as if he were talking about the weather. “A gift from me. Whoever wants her can take her.”

Shamrock walked toward her with slow, relaxed steps, clearly amused by the situation. He stopped right next to her and began to examine her with the same curiosity one might use to inspect a recent purchase.

He walked all the way around her before whistling softly.

“Not bad, Father,” he remarked. “Not bad at all.”

Then he glanced over his shoulder at Shanks, wearing that arrogant half-smile that appeared whenever he thought he had the upper hand.

"What do you say, brother? Shall we share?"

Shanks didn’t answer. His jaw was too tight, and his heart was pounding too hard against his ribs.

Shamrock ended up crouching down in front of her until he was at her eye level. His eyes slowly traced her face, taking in the cut on her lip, the bruise forming on her cheekbone, and the way her black hair framed her features even in that miserable state. But even so, she looked dangerous and utterly beautiful.

“You’re pretty,” Shamrock said, his tone sounding almost surprised. “I didn’t expect that from someone born on the bottom.”

She lifted her face just enough to look at him. Her gaze was cold and calculating—the look of someone who was already sizing him up, searching for weaknesses, and thinking of the best way to strike as soon as she had the chance.

But before he could fully process it, she lunged at him.

The sound of clashing chains echoed violently through the hall. Her hands reached for the redhead’s face, but they only managed to scratch the air as she was stopped by the guards. They grabbed her violently before she could reach him and forced her back down onto the marble floor. She struggled in their grip, trying to break free as the chains of her handcuffs clanked around her wrists. Her clenched teeth, ragged breathing, and a hoarse growl escaping from the back of her throat made her seem more like a cornered beast than a prisoner.

Shamrock had leaped back without losing his composure. For a few seconds, he simply looked down at her, as if trying to understand what had just happened. And then he began to laugh. It wasn’t a mocking laugh. It was genuine. The laugh of someone surprised by something new.

“Well… she certainly has spirit,” he murmured as he readjusted his cloak over his shoulders.

The guards were still holding her against the marble, but even so, she continued to struggle as if she still believed she could rip everyone’s throats out. Shamrock watched her for a few more seconds before turning his face toward Shanks.

Shanks’ expression remained cold, controlled—exactly the same impassive mask as always. But Shamrock knew him too well not to realize that something was wrong.

Then he walked over to him and gave him a light nudge on the shoulder, snapping him out of his trance.

“I can tell you like her,” he said with an amused half-smile. “Ever since she walked in, you haven’t been able to take your eyes off her.”

Shanks didn’t answer. He didn’t know what to say without giving himself away.

Shamrock smiled a little wider, amused by his brother’s silence.

“You keep her. I have other distractions tonight.”

Shanks blinked. For a moment, the mask of coldness he had built up over the years cracked ever so slightly.

“I…”

“Don’t argue,” Shamrock interrupted him before he could continue.

His tone remained relaxed, almost carefree, as if he truly believed he was doing him a favor. Then he turned to the guards and spoke with the ease of someone accustomed to being obeyed instantly.

“Take her to my brother’s quarters. Have her cleaned up and dressed. Make sure she understands her place, or someone will have to teach it to her in less pleasant ways.”

The guards nodded immediately. One of them grabbed her arm roughly and forced her to her feet. The other took hold of the chain of her shackles and began dragging her toward the exit without the slightest care.

She didn’t protest. She didn’t look back at Garling or Shamrock. But just before she crossed the threshold of the enormous hall, her gaze lifted for just a second, and then her eyes met Shanks’s.

He felt something heavy sink into his chest as he held that gaze he hadn’t seen in years. They were still the same eyes he remembered from Sabaody. The same ones that would light up when listening to absurd stories about the sea. The same ones that would narrow every time he teased her just to see her get angry.

She had recognized him from the start. She had seen the white cloak over his shoulders. The sword at his waist. The place he occupied beside Garling and Shamrock. And now she was trying to understand how the boy who had once sailed alongside Roger had ended up there. How someone like him could stand in that hall doing nothing.

He felt like he couldn't breathe, too many explanations stuck in his throat. Explanations he couldn't give her there, that she probably wouldn't even want to hear. He wanted to tell her it wasn't what it seemed. That he hated that place as much as she did.

That every day inside Mary Geoise felt like slowly rotting from the inside out. That he never forgot Roger, or Oro Jackson, or the people he once called family.

He wanted to tell her he was there for a reason. That Roger had left him with an impossible burden and that he had chosen to go down alone if it meant protecting the world someday. But it all sounded like an excuse.

Because in the end, she was still obeying orders. She was still standing next to the monsters who had just beaten her.

For a moment, Shanks thought he saw disappointment in her eyes. Of all the people in the world, she was one of the last he wanted to look at him that way.

The guards yanked the chains again, and she finally disappeared behind the massive doors of the hall. The metallic echo of shackles scraping across the marble floor lingered for several seconds after she was gone.

Shanks stood motionless, though his heart pounded so hard against his ribs he felt everyone could hear it. Seeing her there had shattered something he had spent years trying to keep intact—what he had built to survive inside Mary Geoise.

Garling turned, beginning to walk away.

“I hope,” she said with a venomous gentleness, “that you will appreciate the gifts I give you.”

Shanks immediately lowered his gaze.

“Yes, Father,” he murmured. The words tasted like poison. He had survived in that place for years thanks to lies, silence, and the mask he had built for himself.

But something inside him was beginning to break.

Because seeing her there had awakened too many things he thought were buried. A desperate need to destroy everything that kept her locked away in that place began to grow.

Shanks slowly clenched his fists, and deep in his mind, a single idea began to burn fiercely. It didn't matter what it cost or if it jeopardized his entire plan. He had to get her out of there.

═════════════════════════════════════════════

I hope it was translated well, thanks for reading.

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 after months of disappearance I finally managed to finish 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❤🖤