#divfics

“I suppose such is my fate. Do fetch the carriage, will you? It is a long ride to London, and it would suit us all to be there before sundown.”

Poor Mydeimos could do nothing else but oblige, though he did so reluctantly and made his displeasure known to all. He snapped at the footman and the driver, curtly told your maid—poor Erinyes, you would miss her so!—that the ruby necklace she had picked out for you was too gaudy and she ought to replace it with the diamonds instead, and ordered the cook to make your favourite dish for breakfast, though you did not think you could stomach even a morsel of it. You appreciated his efforts, however, and tried, at least, to feign taking a bite so that he would not feel guilty.

In the carriage, where you sat still as a statue, you unfolded Lady Whistledown’s papers once more. It read thus:

Dearest Gentle Reader,

Though this news has been nothing more than a rumour for the better part of a month, it has now been officially announced that the King’s wedding has been arranged.

The lucky young lady in question, however, remains something of a curiosity to this author—being neither a reigning beauty of the marriage mart nor a frequent fixture of our glittering assemblies. Indeed, one might wonder whether His Highness has chosen discretion over delight, or whether this match is yet another reminder that crowns, much like fortunes, are so often secured by strategy rather than sentiment.

Those inclined to sigh for romance would do well to temper their expectations. The King has long been known for his reserve, his temper, and his marked disinterest in the softer pursuits of courtship. If affection is to bloom between bride and groom, it will do so under circumstances far less indulgent than poetry and stolen glances.

Still, this author cannot help but observe that unions forged under necessity have a habit of producing the most interesting consequences. Whether this marriage shall prove a triumph or a tragedy remains to be seen—but rest assured, gentle reader, I shall be watching.

Yours truly, Lady Whistledown.

“Impetuous woman,” you said, tossing the pamphlet aside. “What does she know about me?”

“She is not entirely wrong, is she?” Mydeimos, who sat opposite you, said. “You did not want this marriage, and it is my fate to deliver you to it.”

This time, you truly did feel a pang of sympathy for your older brother. “You did say this was a match made the day I was born, Mydeimos. What could you have done to stop it?”

“Annulled the agreement,” he said. “Father and mother are no more, so how would they know?”

“Perhaps,” you said patiently, “but that betrothal is not the only reason, is it not? I know how our funds have been dwindling, brother. Our crops are failing, and you need the money in order to help our farmers and tenants.”

Mydeimos shifted awkwardly in his seat. He looked anywhere in the carriage but directly at you: his gaze darted from the window to the spot above your head, and back down to his boots. He’d worn his finest clothes—as had you, of course; it would not do to meet the King in anything less—but he looked smaller than you’d ever seen him.

“Yes,” he said finally. “It is for the money.”

“Then it is settled. I am quite fond of our estate and its tenants. Its upkeep shall keep me very happy.”

“I will do my best to ensure it,” Mydeimos said. “You will have to know a few things about the castle and the King—they sent me a whole book full of customs and information you ought to know as the next in line to be the Queen. Would you like to read it now?”

“Perhaps later,” you said, though in truth you did not want to read it at all. In fact, you found yourself wanting to grab the book from Mydeimos’ hands and throw it out of the carriage. Instead, you settled for imagining the pages being set on fire.

He nodded and reached over to pat your hand where it rested on the seat. “Try to rest. Tomorrow will be a long day.”

You sighed and closed your eyes.

The palace was grand—grander than anything you’d ever laid eyes upon before, and much bigger than your manor back in Kremnos.

The footman opened the carriage door, and the evening air rushed in, cool and sharp, carrying with it the scent of roses from the palace gardens. You took Mydeimos’ offered hand and stepped down onto the cobblestones, your skirts rustling as you steadied yourself. The palace loomed before you, its white stone façade gilded by the light of the sun, making its windows gleam.

“What do you think?” Mydeimos murmured beside you.

You said nothing. Your gaze swept across the grounds—the manicured hedges, the marble fountains. Cold beauty, you thought. Beauty without warmth.

A line of servants stood waiting, their livery immaculate and their faces blank. At the head of this assembly stood a woman, tall and severe, with silver hair swept back from a face that might have been handsome if it were not quite so forbidding.

“My lady,” she said. “I am Lady Caenis, the palace stewardess. His Highness sends his regrets that he cannot greet you personally, but urgent matters of state require his attention.”

Of course. You forced your expression into one of gracious understanding, though privately you thought it rather convenient that the King could not spare even an hour to meet his bride-to-be. What urgent matters, you wondered, could possibly be more pressing than this?

“How very conscientious of His Highness,” you said. “I should hate to distract him from his duties.”

“Indeed. Come, your rooms have been prepared. Lord Mydeimos, arrangements have been made for your accommodation in the east wing. You will, of course, be free to visit your sister as propriety allows.”

The implied restriction was not lost on you; it meant, you suspected, that your time with Mydeimos would be carefully monitored and limited. The thought of losing even his company made something uncomfortably sad twist in your chest.

You walked through corridors lined with portraits of stern-faced royals, their painted eyes seeming to follow your progress. Chandeliers dripped with crystals overhead, and your footsteps echoed on marble floors so highly polished, you could see your reflection in them.

“These will be your apartments,” Lady Caenis said at last, pushing open a set of doors carved with intricate patterns of roses and thorns. “The Dowager Princess’ chambers. They have been empty for some time, so we have had them thoroughly aired and refreshed for your arrival.”

The rooms were vast: a receiving parlour that opened into a bedroom, which in turn led to a dressing room and private bathing chamber. The walls were papered in silk the colour of early morning skies, and the furniture was lined with brocade. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, as though trying to warm a space far too large for such modest flames. French doors opened onto a balcony that overlooked gardens so extensive you could not see where they ended.

“Your maid will arrive shortly,” Lady Caenis continued. “She comes with excellent references, and has served in the palace for many years. I trust you will find her more than adequate.”

“I had rather hoped my own maid might attend me,” you said. “Erinyes has been with my family since I was a child.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. The Queen’s household staff are all palace employees—it is tradition, you understand. Your brother’s attendants will, naturally, remain with him during his stay.”

“I understand,” you said, though you understood very well that you were being given no choice in the matter.

“The wedding is tomorrow at noon in the palace chapel,” the stewardess said. “You will have time this evening to review the ceremony with the archbishop, and there will be a private dinner tonight where you and His Highness will dine together. It is… expected that you use this time to become acquainted.”

How romantic, you thought.

“What time is dinner?” you asked.

“Eight o’clock. Someone will come to escort you.” Lady Caenis moved towards the door, then paused. “A word of advice, my lady. His Highness is not what you might expect. He is… complicated. I would suggest keeping an open mind.”

Before you could ask what she meant by that, she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her. You walked to the balcony and stepped out into the cool air. The gardens spread below you in geometric circles, hedges trimmed to sharp angles, flower beds arranged in unnatural patterns.

“Well,” you said aloud, “here we are.”

The gardens remained silent. Even the birds seemed to have deserted this place.

You turned back to the room and discovered that your trunks had already been brought up and placed in the dressing room. At least you would have your own clothes, even if everything else was being stripped away. Small mercies. You were examining the wardrobe—mahogany, you thought, and probably worth more than your family’s entire stable—when there came a soft knock at the door.

“Enter,” you called, expecting Lady Caenis again, or perhaps the maid you were to be saddled with.

Instead, Mydeimos slipped inside, looking furtive and uncomfortably in a way that reminded you of when you were children and he was sneaking sweets from the kitchen.

“I only have a moment,” he said quickly. “Lady Caenis made it quite clear that I’m not to disturb you while you’re settling in, but I had to—I needed to see that you were all right.”

You felt a rush of affection for your brother, this man who had always tried so hard to protect you even when circumstances made it impossible. “I am perfectly fine, Mydeimos. The rooms are lovely. Cold, but lovely.”

“Cold?”

“In spirit, I mean. They’re physically quite warm.” You gestured vaguely at the fire. “It’s all very grand and very proper and very… not home.”

Mydeimos crossed the room to take your hands in his. His fingers were warm, familiar, the same fingers which had cleaned your knees of mud when you slipped and fell in the gardens as a child, the same ones which had held you at night when you could not sleep in the weeks after your parents passed.

“I am so sorry, sister,” he said. “If there were any other way—”

“We’ve had this conversation before already,” you said gently. “There is no other way, and we both know it. I shall simply have to make the best of things. After all, how bad can it be? I shall be a queen, and I shall have all the gowns and jewels and power a woman could want.”

“But will you be happy?”

Would you be happy? You didn’t know. You couldn’t imagine it, but perhaps that was simply because you hadn’t tried hard enough. Perhaps happiness was something that could be learned, like French or needlework or the proper way to address a duke.

“I shall endeavour to be content,” you answered at last. “That will have to suffice.”

Mydeimos looked as though he wanted to argue, but another knock at the door forestalled him. This time, it was a young woman in a maid’s uniform.

“Begging your pardon, my lady, but I am Arielle, your new maid,” she said, curtseying. “Lady Caenis sent me to help you dress for dinner.”

“It’s only—” you glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece—“four o’clock. Dinner isn’t until eight.”

“Yes, my lady, but there’s your hair to be done, and we’ll need to select the proper gown, and you’ll want to be bathed first, I imagine, after such a long journey. Best to start early and not be rushed.”

You supposed she had a point, though the idea of spending four hours preparing for a single meal seemed excessive even by your standards.

“I should go,” Mydeimos said, squeezing your hands before releasing them. “But I’ll see you tomorrow before the wedding. I promise.”

A flutter of panic caused you to ask, “Will you not be joining us for dinner?”

Mydeimos looked pained, his eyes darting away from you. “It would—it is not appropriate, my lady.”

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak, and watched him leave. 

Arielle was already bustling about the room, laying out several different options for evening gowns. “Now then, my lady, what do you think? The green silk might be nice—it brings out your eyes—but the ivory satin is more traditional for a first formal dinner with His Highness. Then again, there’s the rose-coloured taffeta, which is very fashionable just now…”

You let her chatter wash over you as you walked to the window again. The sun was beginning its descent, painting the sky in shades of amber and gold. By this time the next day, you would be married. You would be a queen. You would belong to this place, this palace, and to a man you had never met.

Lady Whistledown’s words came back to you: If affection is to bloom between bride and groom, it will do so in circumstances far less indulgent than poetry and stolen glances. Well, you thought, at least your expectations were appropriately low. That was something, was it not? Better to expect nothing and be pleasantly surprised than to hope for romance and be bitterly disappointed.

“The ivory satin, I think,” you said, turning back to Arielle. “Traditional suits me just fine.”

If the maid thought there was anything odd about your tone, she didn’t show it. She simply smiled and began preparing your bath, humming a cheerful tune that did little to ease your mood.

You caught your reflection in the mirror—a young woman in a travelling dress, her hair slightly dishevelled from the journey. Tomorrow, that woman would put on a wedding gown and walk down an aisle and promise herself to a stranger. Tonight, she would sit across from that stranger at dinner and make polite conversation about… what? The weather? The state of the kingdom? How to divvy up your conjugal duties?

The thought made you want to laugh, but you suspected that if you started, you might not be able to stop, and that would never do. After all, you had very little choice in the matter.

“I am afraid the prince will not be joining you for dinner, my lady. He is… indisposed.”

“What?” you said, and indeed, when you looked around, the long table laden with the finest foods and the most delicious sweets was set for only one. “Is—can my brother join me, at least?”

“I am afraid that is inappropriate, my lady,” Lady Caenis said firmly. “You may enjoy your dinner in peace.”

“He is my brother,” you hissed. “After tomorrow, I may never see him again.”

“Lord Mydeimos will attend the wedding tomorrow, and you will have ample opportunity to say your farewells then. For tonight, His Highness felt it best that you have time to… acclimate to your new surroundings.”

“How thoughtful,” you said, and this time you made no effort to disguise the bitterness in your voice. “His Highness is proving to be remarkably considerate—first too preoccupied with matters of state to greet me, and now too indisposed to dine with me. One might almost think he wishes to avoid me entirely.”

“My lady—”

“Tell me, Lady Caenis,” you interrupted, “is the King always this… elusive? Or is it only his future bride he finds so distasteful that he cannot bear to spend even one evening in her company?”

The stewardess drew herself up, and for a moment you thought she might reprimand you for your impertinence. Instead, however, she sighed and something in her severe features softened just slightly.

“His Highness has his reasons for everything he does, my lady. I cannot speak to them, nor would it be appropriate for me to do so. But I will say this: he is not a cruel man, merely a… cautious one. Give him time.”

“How much time, precisely?” you said. “We are to be married in less than a day.”

Lady Caenis said nothing to that. What could she say? You were right, and you both knew it.

“Very well,” you said at last, turning away from her to face the absurdly long dining table with its single place setting at the head. It looked ridiculous: one plate, one glass, one set of silverware in all that vast, empty space. “I shall dine alone, then. As it appears I shall be doing many things alone from now on.”

“My lady—”

“That will be all, Lady Caenis. Thank you.”

You heard her hesitate behind you, the rustle of her skirts as she prepared to leave, but then, surprisingly, she spoke once more. “For what it is worth, my lady, I am sorry. This is not… this is not how I would have wished your arrival to be.”

You did not turn around. You could not bear to see whatever expression might be on her face; sympathy would be unbearable, and pity even worse.

“Yes,” you said quietly. “Well. Perhaps you might convey my gratitude to His Highness for his… hospitality.”

The door closed softly behind her, and you were alone.

You stood there for a long moment, staring at that single place setting, and the elaborate dishes that had been prepared for a meal that was meant to be shared: roasted pheasant, by the looks of it, and some sort of fish in a cream sauce, and vegetables arranged in artful little pyramids. Desserts gleamed on a separate side table—tarts and cakes and what looked like a towering confection of spun sugar. All of it was wasted on a woman like you, who found she had no appetite whatsoever.

You walked to the table slowly, your ivory satin gown whispering against the floor. Arielle had done an excellent job with your hair, pinning it up in an elaborate style that had taken the better part of an hour and left your scalp aching. Your jewellery—the diamonds Mydeimos had insisted upon—caught the candlelight and threw it back in cold, brilliant sparks. You looked every inch a princess, though you had never felt less like one.

Sitting down in the chair that had been pulled out for you, you stared at the feast spread before you. A servant appeared from somewhere—you had not even noticed him standing in the shadows—and began to serve you, spooning portions onto your plate.

“That’s enough,” you said when your plate was only half full. “Thank you.”

The servant bowed and retreated back into the shadows. You picked up your fork, examined a piece of pheasant, and set the fork back down again.

This was absurd! This whole farce was absurd. You had travelled for hours to get here, and had spent four hours being primped and perfected for a dinner with a man who could not even be bothered to attend. You had dressed in your finest gown, and allowed Arielle to arrange your hair until it was perfectly elegant, and had put on jewellery worth more than most people saw in a lifetime—and for what? To sit alone in a cavernous dining room and pick at food you did not want?

Lady Whistledown had been right, you thought bitterly. Those inclined to sigh for romance would do well to temper their expectations indeed.

You forced yourself to eat a few bites—the pheasant really was excellent—and pushed your plate away. The servant materialised again, asking in hushed tones if you would care for dessert.

“No, thank you,” you said. “I find I’m quite finished.”

“Perhaps some wine, my lady? Or tea?”

“That will be all, thank you. I would like to retreat to my chambers now.”

If Lady Caenis found out that you had run away on the morn of your wedding day, you feared her wrath would scare you more than living as an old, unmarried spinster in some far-off county where the King could never find you. How could he? He had not deigned to see your face the evening before, as it was, so you were certain he would not be able to recognise you regardless.

Either way, you consoled yourself, the odds of the King himself finding you attempting to climb over the trellis on the garden wall was a chance that was nigh impossible.

The morning air was cool against your flushed cheeks as you struggled with the branches, your wedding gown—an elaborate confection of white silk and lace that had taken Arielle and two other maids nearly an hour to get you into—catching on every available branch and rose thorn. The skirts were impossibly voluminous, designed to make you look like some sort of ethereal being floating down the aisle, but they were decidedly impractical for climbing.

“Blast,” you muttered as another section of lace tore free with an audible rip. The gardeners would have a fit when they discovered what you’d done to their roses.

Arielle had arrived promptly at six. The next three hours had felt like a blur: the bath, the hair, the undergarments, the stockings, the gown itself with its thousand tiny buttons, and the diamonds Mydeimos had insisted upon.

Through it all, one singular thought had circled your mind: I cannot do this. I cannot do this. I cannot do this.

So when Arielle had stepped out to fetch your bouquet, you had made your decision. You had gathered up your ridiculous skirts, slipped out onto the balcony, and made your way down to the gardens. The chapel was on the other side of the palace—you could hear the distant sounds of guests arriving, carriages rattling over cobblestones, voices calling to one another. You had perhaps an hour before the ceremony was to begin.

“I wouldn’t recommend that particular route of escape, if I were you.”

You froze. The voice had come from below. You looked down and felt your stomach drop.

A man stood at the base of the trellis, arms crossed over his chest, looking up at you with an expression of blatant, unabashed curiosity. He was tall—as tall as Mydeimos, perhaps—and broad-shouldered beneath grand attire: an intricately embroidered coat, over a white shirt and dress shoes. His hair was light, ruffled gently by the breeze, and even from this distance you could see his eyes were pale, an unusual colour, like ice or the winter sky.

He was also, you noted with some irritation, devastatingly handsome. He had sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, and a mouth that was currently curved into a smile that suggested he found your predicament highly entertaining.

“Who are you?” you demanded, clinging to the trellis with increasingly aching fingers. “And what business is it of yours which route I take?”

“The trellis,” he said conversationally, “is nearly fifty years old. The wood is rotten in several places. You’re likely to fall and break your neck, and that would be terribly inconvenient for everyone involved.”

“I’ll take my chances,” you said. “Now if you’ll excuse me—”

“Breaking your neck on your wedding day seems rather dramatic, don’t you think? Even for a runaway bride.”

You stared down at him. “How did you know—”

“The dress is something of a giveaway,” he said, gesturing at the acres of white silk and lace. “Also, I am fairly certain I was meant to be marrying someone this morning, and given that she’s currently attempting to climb over the garden wall…”

Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no.

“You’re the King,” you stated.

He executed a small bow. “Guilty. And you must be the sister of the Earl of Kremnos. My bride-to-be. Or perhaps my bride-who-was, depending on whether that trellis holds.”

This could not be happening.

“Well,” you said, because there truly seemed to be nothing else to say, “I suppose you’ve caught me, then. Congratulations, Your Highness. You can go inform Lady Caenis that the bride is making a run for it. I’m sure she’ll have some very stern words for me before she locks me in my chambers until the ceremony.”

“I could do that,” the King agreed. He moved closer to the trellis, one hand reaching up to grip the wood—testing it, you realised, checking its stability. “Or I could help you down from there before you fall and further ruin what appears to be a very expensive dress.”

“…Help me?”

“Unless you’d prefer to hang there until the ceremony begins. Though I should warn you, the chapel bells will ring in approximately forty-five minutes, and I imagine Lady Caenis will come looking for you well before then.”

He was right, of course. And the trellis was creaking more ominously by the second, and your arms were beginning to ache from holding your weight, and your fingers were getting scraped by the rough wood and thorns.

“Why would you help me?” you asked suspiciously. “I’m trying to escape from marrying you. Shouldn’t you be trying to stop me?”

“Perhaps,” he said. “But I’m curious to see how far you’ll get.”

Before you could respond to that utterly baffling statement, he had begun to climb. The trellis groaned in protest—it had barely been holding your weight, and now it had to support his as well—but somehow it held. Within moments, he had reached your position.

Up close, he was even more striking than you had thought from below. His silver-white hair fell across his forehead in a way that seemed almost careless. His eyes, the colour of ice over deep water, studied you with an intensity that made you want to look away.

But you didn’t. You held his gaze and tried not to think about how improper this was, the two of you clinging to a trellis together on the morning of your wedding, close enough that you could smell him.

“Now then,” he asked, quieter now. “Where exactly were you planning to go, dressed like that?”

“Away,” you said. “Anywhere. Somewhere you couldn’t find me.”

“Ah. And you thought climbing over the garden wall was the best route?”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Most people who attempt to flee an arranged marriage at least have the good sense to change out of their wedding attire first.”

“I did not have the time,” you said. “Arielle only left for five minutes, and I had to seize the opportunity.”

“Arielle is your maid?” he asked.

“Yes. The poor thing is probably having hysterics right about now, wondering where I’ve gone.”

The King—your husband-to-be, though you could hardly believe it—tilted his head slightly. “You know,” he said, “when Lady Caenis told me you had arrived yesterday, I thought about coming to greet you. I got as far as the corridor outside your chambers.”

You stared at him. “What?”

“I stood there for ten minutes, trying to decide what to say. How to explain…” He trailed off, looking away for the first time since he’d climbed up to meet you. “It does not matter. I didn’t come in. I left. And then at dinner, I… I know how it sounds, but you must believe me. I was truly indisposed. I know what you must think of me.”

“Why?” you asked. “Am I truly so horrific to look at?”

His eyes snapped back to yours. “On the contrary. We should get down from here before this entire structure collapses and we both end up in the rose bushes.”

 Having said this, the King began to climb down, and you followed, more carefully now, acutely aware of how close he was, how his body moved gracefully despite the precarious footing. When you reached the bottom, he held out a hand to help you down the last few feet. Your feet touched the grass, and you stood in the garden, cheeks aflame, your ridiculous wedding gown covered in dirt and torn lace and your hair coming loose from its pins.

“So,” the King said, “what will it be, my lady? Will you run, or will you stay?”

“You will not force me?” you asked.

“I may be a king, my lady, but I am no brute,” he said. “If you do not wish to marry me, we shall cancel the wedding immediately.”

“Tell me something,” you said. “And I want the truth.”

“All right.”

“Do you want this marriage?”

“No,” he said. “I don’t. I do not want to bind myself to someone who will likely grow to hate me, and perform a ceremony in front of hundreds of people and pretend that this is anything other than a political arrangement.”

The chapel bells began to ring—not the full peal that would announce the start of the ceremony, but the warning bells that meant it would begin in thirty minutes.

“If I stay,” you heard yourself say, “and walk down that aisle and marry you—what happens then? What kind of marriage will this be?”

The King was quiet for a moment, considering. “I cannot promise you love, or even affection. I have a temper, and I’m not always kind, and there are things about me that will likely make you regret this decision. But I can promise to treat you with respect, and to speak with you as an equal. I can promise to give you as much freedom as I can within the constraints of this life.”

“Tell me your name, Your Highness,” you said. “I should like to know this, at least, before we are to be wed.”

“Phainon,” he said, a little half-smile gracing his lips. “My name is Phainon.”

“Phainon,” you repeated, testing the way it rolled off your tongue. It was a strange name, foreign-sounding, but you liked it. In turn, you gave him your own name, which Phainon said once, and then once more, his smile widening. The bells rang again. Twenty-five minutes.

“I need to know,” Phainon said quietly. “Are you going to run?”

“No,” you said. “I’m not going to run.”

“You’re certain?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you,” Phainon said.

“Do not, yet,” you said wryly. “I’ve a temper too, you know. And a sharp tongue. And I don’t take well to being ordered about.”

“I would expect nothing less from a woman who tried to escape her own wedding by climbing over a garden wall,” Phainon said. “Come. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

He led you back through the gardens, not towards the main entrance where servants and guests might see you, but along a hidden path that wound between the hedges. You followed, your torn wedding gown trailing behind you. Upon reaching the servants’ entrance, Phainon led you through the corridors—until you ran into Lady Caenis.

She took one look at you both, at your torn dress and loosened hair, Phainon’s garden-stained shirt and your joined hands, and went pale.

“Your Highness,” she said faintly. “My lady. What—how did you—”

“My bride went for a walk in the garden,” Phainon said. “She needed some air before the ceremony. Nerves, you understand. I happened upon her and offered to escort her back.”

“Of… of course, Your Highness,” Lady Caenis said. “My lady, shall we get you back to your chambers? I shall send for Arielle to make some… repairs to your gown.”

“Yes, I suppose that would be wise,” you said, before turning to Phainon. “I shall see you at the altar, Your Highness?”

“You shall,” he said, smiling once more. “Don’t be late, my lady. I should hate to have to come looking for you again.”

You let Lady Caenis lead you away, back to your chambers. As Arielle exclaimed over the state of your dress and began the work of making you presentable again, you found yourself thinking about Phainon.

You had come to this palace expecting a monster. A cold, cruel prince who would treat you as some rare trinket or jewel. Instead, you had found… what? Not love, certainly. Not even affection. But perhaps something that could become those things, given time and patience.

“My lady,” said Arielle. “You’re smiling! I’ve never seen you smile like that, in all the hours I’ve spent with you.”

“Am I?” you said, touching your lips and finding Arielle was right. “How strange. I hadn’t realised.”

When the ceremony was finished and Phainon’s lips had touched yours and you had bid farewell to your brother, Phainon took your hand in his. You refused to cry in front of Mydeimos, though your chest ached when he turned his back on you and loped back to his carriage.

“I have a surprise for you,” he said.

“A surprise?” you said, and found you were smiling so wide your cheeks pained. “How nice!”

Perhaps it was relief that the ceremony was over, that you had survived the endless procession down the aisle, your hand tucked into the crook of Mydeimos’ arm, and persisted through the archbishop’s droning voice and the vows that had felt both impossibly heavy and strangely weightless on your tongue. Perhaps it was simply that you were trying very hard to be optimistic of this new life.

Whatever the reason, you found yourself genuinely pleased by the prospect of a surprise. How thoughtful of him, you thought. How kind, to think of giving you something on this day that had already been so overwhelming.

“Where are we going?” you asked as Phainon guided you down a corridor you had not explored. The palace was a maze, with identical marble floors and soaring ceilings that made you feel very small.

“You’ll see,” he said.

You walked in silence for several minutes, your wedding gown rustling with each step. Arielle had worked miracles with the torn lace and garden stains, but you could still see the evidence of your attempted escape if you looked closely enough—a small rip near the hem, a faint smudge of dirt on the silk. You found yourself oddly fond of these imperfections. They were proof that something real and true had happened this morning, something that belonged to you and Phainon alone.

Finally, he stopped before a pair of ornate doors, larger than the others you had passed, carved with intricate patterns of flowers and vines that seemed to twist and grow across the dark wood. Two footmen stood at attention on either side, and they bowed deeply as you and Phainon approached.

“Open them,” Phainon said.

The doors swung open to reveal a long gallery, flooded with light from tall windows that ran the length of one wall. The other wall was lined with more portraits—queens, you realised, generations of them staring down at you, their faces serious and severe. At the far end of the gallery, another set of doors stood open, revealing a glimpse of rooms beyond.

Phainon led you forward, and you found yourself looking around in wonder. The gallery was beautiful in a way that felt less cold than the rest of the palace. There were fresh flowers in vases in side tables, and the furniture looked comfortable rather than merely decorative. 

“These,” Phainon said, gesturing at the doors at the far end, “are your apartments. The Queen’s apartments. We renovated them after my mother passed—they had been closed up for years, and I thought… I thought you might appreciate them far more than I would.”

You looked up at him in surprise. “You renovated them? For me?”

“The work was completed last month,” he said. “I wanted you to have something that was yours, and yours alone.”

Your chest felt tight with emotion. He had thought of you, had planned for your comfort, even while he was avoiding meeting you. It was such a contradiction: the man who couldn’t face you, and yet had taken the time to ensure you would have a home waiting.

“Thank you,” you said softly. “That was very thoughtful of you.”

He inclined his head, acknowledging your thanks, but his expression remained difficult to read. “Would you like to see them?”

“Of course.”

He led you through the gallery and into the apartments beyond. The rooms were magnificent. The receiving parlour was decorated in shades of cream and gold, with furniture that looked both elegant and comfortable. Beyond it, you could see a bedroom with a massive four-poster bed draped in silk, and what looked like a dressing room and private study. French doors opened onto a balcony which opened out to the garden.

“There’s a music room as well,” Phainon said, pointing to another door, “and a small library. I wasn’t certain what your interests were, but I thought—well, I thought it best to provide options.”

You turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. This was to be your home. “It’s beautiful,” you said, and meant it. “Truly, Phainon, this is… thank you.”

He smiled, then, small and tentative, but genuine. “I’m glad you like it. I worried you might find it too formal, or not to your taste, but Lady Caenis assured me—”

“It’s perfect,” you interrupted. “Truly.”

You thought, then, that perhaps this marriage might not be so terrible after all. Perhaps you could be happy here, in these beautiful rooms with this man who had tried so hard to make you comfortable.

“There’s something else I need to show you,” he said. “Come with me.”

You followed him back through the gallery, back into the corridor, and then down a different path entirely. This part of the palace was quieter and less ornate. The portraits here were of kings rather than queens, and they looked even more severe than their female counterparts—men with hard eyes and harder mouths, who looked like they had never smiled in their lives.

Phainon stopped before another set of doors. These were not as grand as the ones that led to your apartments, but they were still impressive: dark wood carved with geometric patterns, simple but elegant.

“These are my apartments,” Phainon said. “The King’s apartments.”

“Oh,” you said, uncertain why he was showing you this. “They’re very nice.”

He didn’t open the doors. Instead, he turned to face you, and you saw that his expression had changed entirely. The man who had climbed the trellis this morning, who had smiled at you and held your hand—that man was gone. In his place stood the King you had heard about in rumours and whispers. Cold, remote, untouchable.

“There is something I must tell you,” he said. “Something I should have told you this morning, but I… I lacked the courage.”

“…What is it?”

“We will not be sharing apartments,” he said flatly. “You will live in the Queen’s chambers. I will live in the King’s chambers. We will maintain separate households, separate lives. You will have your duties—public appearances, charitable work, whatever other obligations come with being Queen. I will have mine. We will see each other when necessary for official functions, and of course for the production of an heir, but otherwise… Otherwise we will live separately.”

You stared at him, certain you must have misheard. “Separately?”

“Yes.”

“But we just married,” you said, and your voice sounded strange in your own ears, high and thin and confused. “We just made vows. We just—this morning, you said you would treat me with respect, that we would have honesty between us, that—”

“And I will,” Phainon interrupted. “I am treating you with respect by being honest with you now. This is how it must be. This is how it will be.”

“But why?” you said. “I don’t understand. If you didn’t want to be married to me, why go through with the ceremony at all? Why renovate my apartments and give me a library and a music room and make everything beautiful if you were just going to—to exile me on one side of the palace while you hide away on the other?”

“Because this is what is best,” he said. “For both of us.”

“Best? Best for whom, exactly? Because it certainly doesn’t feel the best to me. I left my home, my brother, everything I’ve ever known! I tried to run this morning, and you found me, and you gave me a choice, and I chose to stay. I chose you! And now you’re telling me that was a mistake?”

“I’m not saying it was a mistake—”

“Then what are you saying?” Your voice was rising now, but you did not care if servants heard, if the entire palace heard. “Explain it to me, Phainon. Make me understand why you would show me kindness this morning only to take it away now.”

He turned away from you, his shoulders tense. “I am the King,” he said, flatly. “And as your King, this is what I order. We will live separately. That is final.”

“You’re hiding behind your crown,” you said, sharp as glass and twice as cutting. “You are using your authority as King because you do not want to give me a real answer. What are you so afraid of?”

“I am not afraid!” he snapped, before taking in a breath shudderingly, and continuing, eyes downcast, “I am not afraid. This is the kindest thing I can do for you. You will have your freedom, your independence. You will be Queen in name and power, but you won’t have to—you won’t be burdened with—you will have a good life here. I will make certain of it. You will want for nothing. You will have everything a queen could desire.”

“Except a husband,” you said.

“I—”

“I see. You’ve made your position clear, Your Majesty. As my King, you have ordered that we live separately, and as your subject, I must obey. Isn’t that right?”

“Don’t,” Phainon said. “Don’t do this. Don’t twist this into—”

“Very well, Your Majesty.” You drew yourself up, straightened your shoulders, and looked at your husband—your King—with all the dignity you could muster. “I shall retire to my apartments. I assume you’ll send word when you require my presence for official functions?”

“Please—”

“That will be all, yes, Your Highness? Unless there is something else you need to inform me of? Any other surprises you’ve been saving for our wedding day?”

Phainon looked stricken, his face pale, but he shook his head.

“Then I bid you good night, Your Majesty,” you said, dipping your head in a bow before turning and walking away. Your wedding gown trailed behind you, and you held your head high even though your vision was blurring with tears you refused to shed. 

You found your way back to your apartments and closed the doors behind you. Only then did you let yourself lean against the carved wood, only then did you let the tears fall.

You had been so foolish.

This morning, on that trellis, you had thought you understood Phainon. You had thought he was like you—trapped, frightened, trying to be brave. You had thought perhaps you could be allies, and could face this marriage together and make something bearable out of a situation neither of you wanted.

How foolish you’d been!

He didn’t want an ally or a partner. He wanted… what? A queen who stayed in her own apartments and didn’t ask questions? A wife who existed only when he needed her for public appearances or the production of an heir?

You slid down to the floor, wounded and terribly lonely, and cried for your brother, who you had left behind, and your home, which you would never see again.

Thus did your honeymoon pass, in isolation and brittle solitude, and how desperately did you yearn for companionship for the duration of it! Arielle was chatty and talkative, but your positions could not allow for the kind of casual, mundane conversations that were allowed between friends. Lady Caenis, perhaps having taken pity on you, sent word for a lady she trusted, a friend’s daughter of the same age as you, and invited her to the Queen’s chambers for tea one evening.

Lady Castorice was slight but sturdy, her long, pale hair twisted into an elaborate braid and her hands folded neatly over the folds of her lavender gown.

“May I speak freely?” you asked immediately, upon settling down on the chaise in your parlour.

Lady Castorice blinked, surprised by the question. She glanced at Arielle, who was fussing with the tea service on a nearby table, then back at you. “Your Majesty,” she said, “I am not certain what you mean.”

“I mean,” you said, “may I speak to you as one person to another, rather than as Queen to subject? May we have an actual conversation, rather than a formal, stilted exchange where you tell me the weather is lovely and I agree?”

To your great relief, Castorice smiled, warm and genuine.

“I think I should like that very much, Your Majesty,” she said.

You gave her name. “Please, when we’re alone like this, call me as such. I’ve been called Your Majesty or some other variation of it nearly seven hundred times in the past week, and if I hear it seven hundred and one times, I fear I might do something very undignified.”

Lady Castorice’s smile widened. “Then you must call me Castorice. Or Cas, if you prefer—my nephews all call me Cas, and I’ve rather gotten used to it.”

“It’s a beautiful name,” you said. “Where does it come from?”

“My mother’s family,” Castorice said as Arielle brought over the tea service and began pouring. “They’re from the northern provinces, near the border. The names there are all rather old-fashioned. My nephews got lucky—they’re called Marcus and Julius, which are perfectly normal. I got stuck with Castorice.”

“I think it suits you,” you said warmly.

Arielle finished serving the tea and withdrew to the corner of the room, giving you and Castorice the illusion of privacy even though you both knew she was there, listening, as was her duty. But it was something, at least. Better than sitting alone in your beautiful apartments with no company but your own increasingly bitter thoughts.

“Lady Caenis told me you’ve been rather lonely since the wedding,” Castorice said.

“The truth is I’ve been going slowly mad with nothing to do but wander around these apartments and stare at the walls,” you said. “I tried reading, but I can’t seem to concentrate. I tried the pianoforte in the music room, but I’m dreadfully out of practice and it just made me feel worse. Mostly I’ve just been…” Crying? Raging? Wondering if I made the worst mistake of my life?

“Adjusting?” Castorice supplied gently.

“Something like that.”

Castorice set down her teacup. “May I speak freely as well?”

“Please do.”

“The palace is full of gossip,” Castorice said bluntly. “Everyone is talking about the new Queen who arrived a day before her wedding, and who has not been seen in public since. They’re saying the King has sent you away, that he’s displeased with you.”

You felt your cheeks flush with anger and humiliation. “Of course they are. What else would they say?”

“I’m telling you this not to upset you,” Castorice said quickly, “but because I thought you ought to know what’s being said. I want you to know that I do not believe a word of it.”

“You don’t?”

“No. I’ve known His Majesty since we were children—my family has always been close to the royal family, and I spent a great deal of time at the palace when we were young. I know that whatever is happening between you and the King, it is not because he’s displeased with you.”

“How can you possibly know that?” you asked. You hated how desperate you sounded, how much you wanted her to be right.

Castorice leaned forward, her voice dropping. “I saw him the day after your wedding. I was visiting Lady Caenis—she’s a sort of aunt to me, though not by blood—and he came to speak with her about some household matter. I have never seen Phainon look like that.”

“Did he say anything?” you asked. “About me?”

“Not to me. But I heard him speaking to Lady Caenis as I was leaving. He asked her to make certain you were comfortable, that you had everything you needed. He asked if you were eating properly, if you seemed unwell. When Lady Caenis told him you’d been crying… He looked as though she had struck him.”

You didn’t know what to do with all this information. It didn’t change anything—Phainon had still banished you to separate apartments, broken the promise he made on the trellis, and chosen to hide rather than face whatever it was he was so afraid of. This did, however, serve as proof that he was not entirely indifferent, that your pain had affected him.

Though perhaps that made it worse. If he cared, if your tears troubled him, why would he do this to you in the first place?

“I don’t understand him,” you said quietly. “One moment he’s kind, the next he’s cruel. One moment he’s giving me a choice, the next he’s ordering me to live separately as though I’m—as though I’m some sort of inconvenience to be managed.”

“Men are often cruel when they’re frightened,” Castorice said. “Especially men with power.”

“What could he possibly be frightened of?” you said. “He is the King. He has everything.”

Castorice took a sip of her tea, her expression thoughtful. “I do not know, but I do know that Phainon is… complicated. He always has been, even as a child. He feels things very deeply, but he’s learned to hide it so well that most people think he’s cold and unfeeling.”

“You speak as though you know him well.”

“I did, once,” she said. “We were playmates as children. He, myself, and a few other children of the noble families. We used to run wild through the palace gardens, getting into all sorts of mischief.”

“What changed?”

“His mother died when he was ten. The Queen. She was… she was wonderful, kind and warm and everything a mother should be. When she died, it was as though something in Phainon died with her. He withdrew into himself, and stopped playing with us or smiling so freely. His father—the old King—tried to reach him, but Phainon wouldn’t let anyone close. He built walls around himself, and over the years, those walls just got higher and higher.”

You understood this. You had built quite a few walls yourself after your parents died.

“How did the Queen die?” you asked.

“Fever,” Castorice said. “It swept through the palace one winter. Many people died—servants, courtiers. The Queen was tending to the sick, as was her custom. She never cared much for her own safety when people needed help. She fell ill herself, and within three days, she was gone.”

“That is terrible,” you said.

“It was. The King—the old King, I mean—was never the same either. He loved her desperately, you see. After she died, he threw himself into his work, into ruling, and Phainon…” Castorice shook her head. “Phainon was left to grieve alone.”

“I wish…” you said, “I wish to understand why he’s doing this. I want him to talk to me like he did that morning, honestly and without hiding behind his crown. I want—I want to not feel so terribly alone.”

“You are not alone,” Lady Castorice said firmly. “I shall come visit you every day if you like. We can take tea together, or walk in the gardens, or simply sit and talk about nothing in particular. And if you need someone to rage at about your impossible husband, well, I’m an excellent listener.”

You smiled. “Thank you. Truly, Castorice, I… thank you.”

“What are friends for?”

You spent the next hour talking, the way you used to with Mydeimos when you were younger. Castorice told you about her family, her two little nephews who rode horses and fenced, her mother who was constantly trying to marry her off to unsuitable men. You told her about Kremnos, about your estate and the tenants you had grown up knowing, about Erinyes and how much you missed her.

“You could send for her, you know,” Castorice said when you mentioned your former maid. “As Queen, you have the authority to hire whomever you wish for your household staff. If you want Erinyes here, simply send word to your brother. I’m certain he would release her from service.”

“Truly? I thought—Lady Caenis said tradition required all Queen’s staff to be palace employees.”

“Lady Caenis is very attached to tradition,” she said diplomatically, “but tradition is not the law.”

“Tell me something,” you said, pouring yourself more tea. “Do you know why Phainon—why the King—never married before now? He must be, what, five and twenty? Six and twenty? That’s quite late for a royal marriage.”

Castorice’s expression became guarded. “He is seven and twenty. As for why he waited… there are rumours, of course.”

“What sort of rumours?” you asked.

“Nothing substantiated. Just whispers, speculation. Some say he refused every match his father proposed because he was too particular, and—and there are those who say he’s been unwell, that he apparently has episodes where he’s not quite himself. That’s why he is so reclusive, why he avoids social occasions when he can. The old King tried to keep it quiet, but servants talk, and rumours spread.”

Dearest Gentle Reader,

It is a jarring turn of affairs that has made the ton increasingly worried about why, exactly, the King chose to marry a woman who was never seen in public again after the day of their wedding.

Three weeks have now passed since the ceremony, and yet Her Majesty remains conspicuously absent from all public functions. The King attended the opening of Parliament alone, dined with foreign ambassadors alone, and even presided over the annual charity ball—traditionally the Queen’s purview—alone, looking as forbidding and unapproachable as ever.

Some say the King and Queen maintain separate households entirely. Others whisper something more troubling: that the marriage has not been consummated at all. The succession, after all, depends upon an heir. And an heir requires a certain degree of proximity between husband and wife, the last this author checked. One can only hope His Majesty comes to his senses before his queen decides that the crown is not worth the loneliness and abandonment it brings.

Yours truly, Lady Whistledown.

You threw the pamphlet down on the dining table, a disgusted sneer twisting your lips. “Is this truly what they write about me? They think I have been abandoned?”

True as it may be, you certainly did not want for the entirety of British genteel society—or, indeed, the whole of England—to think that their King and Queen were stuck in a loveless farce of a marriage. It was despicably dishonourable and jilting.

Lady Caenis stepped forward. “Your Highness, there may be a rather… simple solution to this.”

“And what is it, Lady Caenis?”

“Seduce the King,” the old lady said simply.

You stared at her, certain you had misheard. “I beg your pardon?”

“Seduce the King,” Lady Caenis repeated. “Get yourself into his bed. Make him consummate the marriage. Give him an heir, or at least make it clear to the palace staff that you’re attempting to do so. The whispers will stop once people believe the marriage is… functioning as it should.”

You felt your cheeks burn with embarrassment and indignation. “Lady Caenis, I—that is—you cannot possibly be suggesting—”

“I am suggesting exactly what you think I’m suggesting, Your Majesty,” she said. “You are a married woman now. You have duties, and chief among them is the production of an heir. The King may have decided to live separately from you, but that does not exempt either of you from the fundamental requirements of your positions.”

“He doesn’t want me,” you said. “He made that abundantly clear when he exiled me to these apartments.”

“Want and need are different things,” Lady Caenis said pragmatically. “The King may not want a wife in the traditional sense, but he needs an heir. You need to secure your position. The solution is obvious.”

You stood up from the table, too agitated to sit still. “You are talking about it as though it’s—as though it’s some sort of transaction. As though I must simply march into his chambers and—and—” You couldn’t even finish the sentence, so flustered were you by the entire conversation.

“That is precisely what it is, Your Majesty. A transaction. This is not a love match. We all know that. But it is a royal marriage, and royal marriages have certain… requirements. You must get the King into bed, and you must do so in a way that ensures he returns regularly enough to get you with child.”

“I don’t know how to—” You stopped, mortified. “I’ve no idea how to seduce anyone.”

“It is not so complicated as you might think, Your Majesty,” the stewardess said. “Men, even kings, are relatively simple creatures when it comes to certain matters.”

“I will not debase myself by—by throwing myself at a man who does not want me. I have some dignity left, Lady Caenis, even if Phainon seems determined to strip me of everything else.”

“Dignity,” said Lady Caenis, “will not give you an heir, nor will it stop the whispers. And it certainly will not keep you warm at night when you’re still alone in these apartments five years from now, with no children, no purpose, and a husband who has grown so accustomed to your absence that he forgets you exist entirely.”

You stared at the old woman, seeing the hard truth in her eyes. She was right, and you knew it, even if you hated admitting it. “You speak very plainly, Lady Caenis,” you said.

“Someone needs to. Everyone else will dance around the issue with pretty words and false sympathy, but that will not help you. You need practical advice, and I’m giving it to you.” She moved to pour herself a cup of tea from the service on the sideboard. “The King is a man like any other. He has physical needs, even if he pretends otherwise. Your job is to remind him of those needs and present yourself as the solution.”

“And how, exactly, am I supposed to do that?” you asked. “I don’t—I’ve never—”

“You’re a virgin, yes, and I suppose you do not know the… logistics behind this whole debacle,” Lady Caenis said, taking a sip of her tea. “That is fine. Many men prefer that in a wife, though the King likely doesn’t care one way or another. What matters is that you learn to use what you have.”

“Use what I have?”

“Your body, Your Majesty. Your youth, your beauty—yes, you are beautiful, don’t look so surprised—and the simple fact that you are his wife and therefore the only woman he can bed without causing a scandal. Men are not complicated in this regard. They respond to proximity, to a woman who makes it clear she is available and willing.”

You felt as if you were dreaming. This could not be real. You could not be standing in your breakfast room receiving instruction on how to seduce your own husband from a woman old enough to be your grandmother.

“I do not even know where his chambers are,” you said weakly. “Not exactly, I mean. I know they’re in the west wing, but—”

“Second floor, end of the corridor, doors with the royal crest carved into them. You cannot miss it,” Lady Caenis explained. “You shall need to go at night, obviously. After the servants have finished their evening duties but before he retires. Around ten o’clock would be appropriate.”

“And I’m just supposed to… knock on his door? Walk into his bedroom?”

“You’re his wife. You don’t need an invitation.”

“Of course.”

“One more thing,” she said. “When you do get him into bed—and you will, if you’re persistent—don’t expect tenderness. Don’t expect romance or sweet words or any of the things girls dream about. Expect it to be quick, possibly awkward, and almost certainly uncomfortable the first time. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that you do it, and that you do it often enough to conceive.”

After Lady Caenis left, you sank back into your chair and stared at the discarded copy of Lady Whistledown’s paper. The words seemed to mock you: The marriage has not been consummated at all. Was that what everyone thought? That you were so undesirable, so inadequate, that your own husband wouldn’t even bed you?

Lady Caenis was right, as much as you hated to admit it. You needed to do something. You needed to take action, seize some control over this situation that had spiralled so completely out of your hands.

You stood up and walked to the mirror that hung above the sideboard, and looked at yourself, trying to see what Phainon might see. Your face was pallid from too much time indoors, and there were shadows under your eyes from too many sleepless nights. But you were young, and Lady Caenis had said you were beautiful, and surely that counted for something.

Your wedding gown had been beautiful too, before you’d torn it climbing that trellis. Perhaps you needed something else beautiful. Something that would make Phainon look at you and remember that you were his wife, that he had chosen you.

“Arielle!” you called, and your maid appeared almost instantly.

“Yes, Your Majesty?”

“I need you to find me something to wear,” you said. “Something suitable for visiting the King in his private chambers in the evening.”

Arielle’s eyes widened. “Of course, Your Majesty. I have just the thing—a nightgown that came with your trousseau, made of white silk, very fine, with lace at the bodice.”

“Perfect,” you said.

Phainon did not look at all surprised to see you.

This was, perhaps, the most disconcerting thing about the entire situation. You had spent the better part of three hours preparing yourself: bathing in water scented with rose oil, letting Arielle brush your hair until it shone, slipping into the white silk nightgown that left very little to the imagination and wrapping yourself in a dressing gown for the walk through the corridors. You had rehearsed what you might say, how you might explain your presence at his door at half past ten in the evening.

You had not, however, prepared yourself for the way he simply stepped aside and gestured for you to enter, as though he had been expecting you all along.

“Come in,” he said, his voice quiet.

You stepped past him into his chambers, acutely aware of how thin the silk of your nightgown was, how the dressing gown did very little to preserve your modesty. The King’s apartments were darker than yours, decorated in deep blues and greys rather than the lighter colours Lady Caenis had chosen for you. A fire burned in the hearth; there was a desk covered in papers, a sitting area with two chairs, and beyond that, through an open doorway, you could see his bedroom.

Your stomach twisted with nerves.

Phainon closed the door behind you. When you turned to face him, you say that he was dressed for bed himself—dark trousers and a white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, with the sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms. His hair was slightly disheveled, as though he had been running his hands through it agitatedly.

“Lady Caenis sent you here, I presume,” Phainon said, moving past you toward the sideboard where a decanter of amber liquid was placed.

You blinked. “How did you—”

“I met with Lady Caenis this afternoon.” He poured himself a drink and held up the decanter in silent question. You shook your head. “She also informed me that she had advised you to take… direct action regarding our current predicament.”

Heat flooded your face. “She told you that?”

“Not in so many words. But Lady Caenis has been managing the palace household for thirty years. She’s remarkably skilled at communicating without being explicit.”

“So you knew I was coming,” you stated, unsure whether to be mortified or angry. “You knew what I—what I intended—”

“To seduce me?” Phainon said. “Yes, it seemed the logical next step, given Lady Caenis’ particular brand of pragmatism.”

“And you’re just… what? Amused by this?” you said. The anger was winning now, hot in your chest. “You think it’s funny that I’ve been humiliated enough by these three weeks of separation that I’m reduced to—to throwing myself at you in the middle of the night?”

“I don’t think it’s funny at all,” he said. “I think it’s proof that I’ve handled this entire situation abominably, and that you’re paying the price for my cowardice. But I let you in because when Lady Caenis told me you might come here tonight, I—I couldn’t stay away.”

Your heart was hammering so hard you could hear it in your ears. You took a step forward, then another, until you were close enough to reach out and touch him.

“Do you want me?” you asked, the words coming out braver than you felt. “Not because we need an heir, or because Lady Caenis says we should. Do you want me? As a man wants a woman?”

Phainon inhaled, his eyes fluttering shut. “My God. You must think I am a fool, for I’ve wanted you every single day since the wedding, and it’s been torture staying away.”

Something loosened in your chest. You reached up and let the dressing gown slip from your shoulders. It pooled at your feet in a whisper of silk, leaving you in only the thin white nightgown that Arielle had picked specifically because it left very little to the imagination. Phainon’s eyes darkened, tracking the movement of the fabric as it fell, and you saw his hands fist at his sides.

“Then stop talking,” you said, “and show me.”

Phainon closed the distance between you and captured your mouth with his, nothing like the chaste, brief brush of lips at your wedding ceremony. His hands came up to tangle in your hair, tilting your head back so he could deepen the kiss, and you gasped against his mouth. You found yourself pressing closer, your hands sliding from his face to his shoulders to his chest.

“We shouldn’t do this,” he said, pulling back, but even as he spoke, his lips were brushing against your jaw, your throat, the sensitive spot just below your ear that made you shiver. “You should go back to your chambers. This is—we shouldn’t—”

“Stop talking,” you said again, and pulled him down for another kiss.

His hands moved from your hair to your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you felt the evidence of his desire pressing against your hip through the thin fabric of your nightgown. The sensation made heat pool in your belly, made you arch into him with a small sound. He broke the kiss to look at you, searching your face, and whatever he saw there seemed to satisfy him, because he bent and lifted you into his arms.

You gasped, your arms coming up to loop around his neck. “What are you—”

“Bed,” he said simply, and carried you through the doorway into his bedroom.

The room was lit only by the fire from the main chamber, casting everything in shades of gold and shadow. He laid you on the bed; the sheets were cool against your heated skin. You looked up at him as he stood beside the bed, and thought he might change his mind and send you away after all.

Instead, he shrugged out his shirt, his hands moving to the buttons. Broad shoulders, defined muscles, a scattering of scars across his chest and abdomen that spoke of a life that had not been entirely sheltered or safe. He was beautiful in a way that made you want to reach out and trace every line, every scar, every plane of muscle with your fingers.

He caught you staring and paused, one eyebrow raised. “Second thoughts?”

“No,” you said. “Merely… admiring the view.”

That earned you a surprised laugh, genuine and warm. He finished removing his shirt and let it fall to the floor, then moved to the bed, bracing one knee on the mattress.

“May I?” he asked, his hands hovering near the straps of your nightgown.

“Yes,” you breathed.

Slowly, he began to slide the silk down your shoulders, down your arms, exposing you inch by inch to his gaze. His fingers were warm against your skin, leaving trails of heat in their wake, and you shivered despite the fire burning in the hearth. When the nightgown finally pooled around your waist, you fought the urge to cover yourself, instead forcing yourself to lie still and let him look at you, even though your cheeks were burning with embarrassment and something warmer.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. His hand came up to trace the curve of your collarbone with just his fingertips, feather-light. “You’re so beautiful.”

His hand continued its exploration, sliding down to cup your breast, and you arched into his touch with a gasp. His thumb brushed across your nipple, sending sparks of pleasure straight through you, making you squirm beneath him. 

“Sensitive,” he observed, satisfied. He leaned down, replacing his thumb with his mouth, and you gasped, your hands flying up to tangle in his hair.

Phainon took his time, alternating between gentle kisses and firmer pressure, using his tongue and teeth in ways that made you writhe beneath him. When he moved to give your other breast the same attention, you were already trembling, already desperate for something you couldn’t quite name.

“Phainon,” you gasped, tugging at his hair. “Please—”

“Please what?” he asked against your skin; you could feel him smiling.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, frustrated and aroused in equal measure. “Just—more. I need more.”

“Patience,” he said, but his hands were already moving lower, sliding the nightgown down past your hips, past your thighs, until you could kick it off entirely. You were bare beneath him, completely exposed, and you felt suddenly vulnerable. He leaned down to kiss you again, his tongue sliding against yours, and his hand was sliding between your thighs.

His fingers moved slowly, parting you gently and finding places that made you gasp and arch and whisper his name. He watched your face as he touched you, as though cataloguing every response, every reaction, learning what made you sigh and what made you moan.

“You’re so warm,” he said, his voice rough. “So soft. Tell me if this is all right.”

“It’s—” You broke off with a gasp as his finger found a particular spot, circling it with maddening gentleness. “Yes. Yes, that’s—don’t stop.”

Phainon didn’t. He continued his ministrations, gradually increasing the pressure, the speed, until you were writhing beneath him, your hips moving in rhythm with his hand. He slid one finger inside you, and the feeling was so overwhelming you cried out, your back arching off the bed.

“Easy,” he soothed, holding still. “Just breathe, my love. Does it hurt?”

“No,” you managed. “It’s just—it’s a lot.”

“I know.” He began to move his finger slowly, carefully, letting you adjust to the intrusion. “Tell me if it becomes too much.”

It wasn’t too much. If anything, it wasn’t enough. You could feel something building inside you, something that made you restless and desperate and utterly focused on the sensation of his hand between your thighs.

He added a second finger, and you gasped at the stretch, at the fullness. It was almost uncomfortable, but he curled his fingers just so and found a spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids.

“There,” you gasped, your hands fisting in the sheets. “Right there, please—”

He obliged, stroking that spot while his thumb circled the sensitive bundle of nerves above. The dual sensations were overwhelming, maddening, and you could feel yourself climbing towards something, some precipice you’d never reached before.

“That’s it,” he encouraged, his voice low and approving. “Let go for me. I want to see you come apart.”

You did. The tension that had been building suddenly snapped; pleasure crashed over you in waves that made you cry out his name, your body clenching around his fingers as you shook and trembled beneath him.

When you finally came back to yourself, trembling and gasping, you found him watching you with wonder.

“That was—” You stopped, unable to find words for what you’d just experienced.

“Beautiful,” he finished for you. “You’re beautiful like this.”

He withdrew his hand slowly, and you whimpered at the loss, at the sudden emptiness. But Phainon stood, removing the rest of his clothing, and your attention was immediately captured by the sight of him fully naked.

He was magnificent, all lean muscle and smooth skin, and—

Your eyes widened at the sight of his arousal, hard and flushed.

“Will it—” You stopped, embarrassed. “Will it fit?”

That surprised another laugh out of him, though this one was strained. “Yes. Though it might be uncomfortable at first. But I’ll go slowly, I promise.”

He returned to the bed, settling between your thighs, before kissing you again, long and deep, and you felt him position himself at your entrance.

“May I?” he asked again.

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

The pressure was immediate. You moaned, your hands flying to his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin. He was big—bigger than his fingers had been—and the stretch burned in a way that bordered on painful.

“Breathe,” he murmured, holding perfectly still. “Just breathe.”

You did, forcing yourself to relax, to let your body adjust to him. Gradually, the burning sensation eased, replaced by a fullness that felt strange but not unpleasant.

“Move,” you said, and he pushed forward another inch.

You could feel yourself stretching to accommodate him, could feel every ridge and vein as he slowly, carefully worked his way inside you. It seemed to take forever, this gradual joining, and by the time he was fully seated inside you, you were both breathing hard.

“God,” Phainon gasped, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. “You feel—you’re so tight. So perfect.”

“You can move,” you said, experimentally rolling your hips.

The movement made you both gasp—him with pleasure, you with surprise at the feeling it created.

“Are you certain?” he asked.

“Yes. Please, Phainon. Move.”

He did, pulling out slowly before pushing back in. You gasped, your legs coming up to wrap around his hips, and the new angle let him slide even deeper. He set a careful rhythm, slow and steady, watching your face for any sign of discomfort. But the pain had faded now, replaced by pleasure that built with each stroke, each slide of his body against yours.

“Faster,” you breathed, your fingers digging into his shoulders. “Please—”

He obliged, increasing his pace, and you met him thrust for thrust, your hips rising to meet his. The pleasure built and built, spiralling higher with each movement. Phainon’s breathing was ragged now, your name falling from his lips. You could feel him beginning to lose control, his thrusts becoming less controlled, more desperate.

“I can’t—” he gasped. “I’m going to—”

“Yes,” you urged, feeling your own climax approaching, that same tension building in your core. “Yes, Phainon, please—”

He thrust deep one final time, and you felt him pulse inside you as he found his release, his whole body going rigid above you. It pushed you over the edge as well, and you cried out, your body clenching around him as waves of pleasure crashed through you for the second time that night.

Finally, Phainon shifted, pulling out of you carefully. You winced at the soreness, the unfamiliar ache between your thighs. He noticed immediately.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked. 

“No,” you said. “It’s just—tender. Is that normal?”

“For your first time, yes.” He rolled to lie beside you, immediately reaching for you and pulling you against his chest. “It will be better next time. Less uncomfortable.”

“Next time?”

“If you want there to be a next time,” he amended quickly. “I’m not—I won’t force—”

“I want there to be a next time,” you said, pressing your face against his shoulders. “Many next times, preferably.”

You fell asleep like that, wrapped in each other’s arms, and you thought that if this was what marriage could be, then perhaps you could be very happy here after all.

“You asked me to bed her—I have! You asked me to provide her a companion—I asked Lady Castorice to provide her with companionship! Lady Caenis, I truly do not understand what more you want from me!”

“Her cycle is still regular, Phainon,” you heard the old lady snap. The door to the main dining hall was ajar, and though you could not see the two figures quarrelling inside, you could certainly hear them, loud and clear. “How often have you been bedding her? Once, twice? The Crown needs an heir!”

You stood frozen in the corridor, your hand raised to push open the door, your heart pounding. You had been on your way to meet Phainon for luncheon—he had started inviting you to dine with him occasionally over the past two weeks, stiff and formal affairs where you made polite conversation and tried not to think about the three times he had summoned you to his chambers in the dark of the night with a brief message: The King requests your presence.

Three times you had gone to him, had let him undress you and bed you. He was always careful not to hurt you, always made certain you found some measure of pleasure in the act, but there was something perfunctory about it now. You had told yourself you were imagining it; you convinced yourself that perhaps this was simply how married couples conducted themselves, that the desperate passion of that first night had been an aberration rather than a rule.

“Once or twice a week is not sufficient,” Lady Caenis was saying. “You need to be visiting her chambers every night, or better yet, move her into yours properly. The longer this takes, the more people will talk, and the more they talk, the more they’ll question—”

“I am doing the best I can,” Phainon interrupted. “I have given her what she wanted. I have dined with her, spoken with her, and fulfilled my marital obligations. What more can I possibly—”

“You can give her a child! That is your duty as King, Phainon. Your only duty that truly matters. Everything else—the dinners, the companionship, the occasional night in her bed—all of it is meaningless if you cannot produce an heir.”

“I am trying—”

“Not hard enough, clearly. Her courses came again this morning. Arielle informed me.”

“…I see,” Phainon said.

“Do you understand what will happen if you do not get her with child soon?” the stewardess challenged. “The whispers have already started again. People are saying the marriage is cursed, that you’re incapable, that she’s barren. And if those whispers continue, if months pass with no announcement of an heir—”

“I understand the political ramifications, Lady Caenis.”

“Then act like it! Stop treating this like some burden you can attend to whenever it’s convenient. She is your wife, Phainon. Your queen. And she deserves better than to be summoned to your chambers twice a week like some—some courtesan you’re obligated to pay.”

You felt numb. Was that what you were to him? Was that how he saw those nights in his bed—as transactions, obligations, duties to be performed and then forgotten?

“You don’t understand,” Phainon said quietly. “You do not know what you’re asking of me.”

“I’m asking you to do what every king before you has done: to lie with your wife often enough to get her with child.”

“You want me to go to her every night, to pretend that I’m—that we’re—” He stopped, seeming to struggle with the words. “You want me to lie to her and make her believe this is something it’s not.”

“I want you to do your duty,” Lady Caenis said firmly. “Whatever pretty illusions you need to accomplish that, I don’t care. But she needs to conceive, Phainon. Soon.”

You couldn’t stand hearing them discuss you as though you were some broodmare whose only value lay in your ability to produce offspring. You couldn’t bear to hear Phainon talk about bedding you as though it were a chore, an obligation, something he had to force himself to do.

You did the foolish thing and knocked on the door.

“Enter,” Phainon called out.

You pushed the door open and bent in a curtsey. “Good afternoon, Your Highness. Forgive me for being late—I was admiring some portraits in the gallery and lost track of time.”

Phainon’s face shifted through several expressions in quick succession: surprise, concern, before settling into the carefully neutral mask he wore so well. Lady Caenis, standing near the window with her hands folded before her, looked at you sharply, as though trying to determine whether you had overheard anything.

“Oh,” said Phainon, and his voice was gentler than usual, almost tentative. “You’re not late at all. I was just—Lady Caenis and I were discussing palace business. Nothing of consequence.” He gestured to the table, where luncheon had been laid out. “Please, sit. You must be hungry.”

You moved to your usual chair, acutely aware of both of them watching you. Your hands were trembling slightly, so you folded them in your lap where they couldn’t be seen. You felt exposed, as though the conversation you had overheard had stripped away some protective layer you hadn’t known you possessed.

Lady Caenis curtseyed briefly. “I shall leave you to your meal, Your Majesties.”

Phainon took his seat across from you. A servant appeared to pour wine and serve the first course—some sort of soup with herbs floating on the surface—and then retreated to the shadows.

“The portraits in the gallery,” Phainon said, picking up his spoon but not eating. “Which ones were you looking at?”

“The queens,” you said. “There are so many of them. All those women who came before me, who sat in my chambers and wore my crown and—” You stopped yourself before you could say and warmed the King’s bedchambers when duty demanded it.

“They are an impressive lineage. My mother used to tell me stories about some of them when I was a child. Queen Hecuba, who ruled as regent for ten years when my great-great-grandfather was too ill to govern. Queen Hippolyte, who established the first hospitals in the city. They were all remarkable women. As are you.”

The compliment landed wrong, felt hollow somehow, though you couldn’t tell if that was because of what you had overheard or because of something in his tone. You picked up your own spoon and forced yourself to ladle the soup.

“You’re too kind, Your Highness,” you murmured.

“Phainon,” he corrected. “When we’re alone, I wish you would call me Phainon. We are husband and wife, after all.”

You said nothing, only nodded and took another spoonful of soup.

Phainon watched you for a moment longer, then seemed to come to some decision. He set down his spoon and leaned forward slightly. “I wanted to ask—how are you finding palace life? I know it’s been an adjustment, being separated from your home and your brother. If there is anything you need, anything at all that would make you more comfortable—”

“I’m quite comfortable, thank you,” you said automatically.

“Are you truly?” Phainon’s pale blue eyes searched your face. “Because you seem… unhappy. And I thought perhaps—I thought perhaps we might spend more time together. Not just these formal luncheons, but—I don’t know. Perhaps you might show me the gardens you’ve been exploring? Or we could ride together? I understand you’re an excellent horsewoman.”

You stared at him, trying to reconcile this version of Phainon—earnest, almost nervous—with the man you had heard in this very room just minutes ago, talking about bedding you as though it were an unpleasant chore.

You want me to lie to her and make her believe this is something it’s not. Was this the lie, then? This sudden interest in spending time with you, in making you happy? Was this another obligation he was fulfilling because Lady Caenis had told him to try harder?

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” you said carefully, “but I wouldn’t want to take you away from your duties. I know how busy you are.”

“My duties can wait,” the King said. “I—I know I haven’t been the husband you deserve. I want to do better. I want to try to make this marriage into something more than just… than just what it’s been.”

“Alright, Your Highness,” you said quietly, because who were you to disobey the King? “I would like to walk in the gardens with you very much.”

“That is the Ophrys apifera,” Phainon said, trudging along the gravel path with your hand tucked neatly into the crook of his arm, “more commonly known as the bee orchid. It is interesting to look at, is it not?”

You followed the direction of his gaze, to where a cluster of pale blossoms bowed beneath the late-afternoon sun. They were delicate things, ivory petals blushed faintly pink, their centres dark and velvety, uncannily like the bodies of bees poised mid-hover. Pretty, in an odd way. You hummed, noncommittal, and allowed him to guide you a few steps further along the gardens, where the hedges were clipped so neatly they might have been carved from stone. The afternoon sun filtered through the arches overhead, dappling his sleeve, your skirts, the path beneath your feet.

“They deceive pollinators,” he continued, undeterred by your lukewarm response. “The flower mimics the appearance and scent of a female bee. The males are drawn to it, believing it something it is not.”

“That seems rather cruel.”

“I imagine nature does not particularly care.”

“I didn’t know you took an interest in botany,” you said.

“I pride myself on my agricultural knowledge,” Phainon said, with a twitch to his mouth that suggested he was attempting modesty. “If I can make the lives of our farmers, who toil endlessly, easier, then that is a job well done, don’t you think?”

You considered him sidelong as you walked, the way the sun caught in his hair and turned it almost pale gold, the faint crease between his brows that never quite smoothed out, even when he smiled. He did not look like a man who spent much time thinking about crops and irrigation and soil health, and yet perhaps that was precisely why he did. A king’s mind, you were learning, rarely stayed where appearances suggested it ought to.

“I suppose it is, though I imagine they might appreciate lower taxes just as much as improved yields. What flower is that?” you asked, pointing to a cluster of blue flowers.

“Delphinium,” Phainon answered. “They’re rather poisonous, actually.”

Slowing your steps, you peered more closely at the tall blue spires edging the path. Up close, the flowers were impossibly intricate, each petal folded and layered, their colour deepening towards the centre like ink dropped into water. It seemed absurd that something so ornamental, so clearly cultivated to please the eye, could harbour harm.

“They don’t look like it,” you said.

“No,” he agreed. “They were brought here from the western valleys. The soil there is thin and rocky. Farmers cultivate them mostly for trade now—there’s a demand for the extract among apothecaries.”

“What happens if someone touches them?”

“Oh, that’s quite harmless. It’s ingestion that causes trouble. Numbness at first. Then confusion. In sufficient quantities… Well, the gardeners are well-trained.”

“I should hope so,” you said. “I’d hate to think the palace lost staff simply because someone fancied a taste of blue flowers.”

He laughed at that, bright and startled. “You’re not wrong. Lady Caenis would have my head if I let something so avoidable occur.”

The mention of her name made you wonder, not for the first time, how much of this walk—this easy conversation, these small smiles—had been orchestrated at her insistence. Would he still be here, at your side, pointing out flowers and indulging your questions if she had not decided it was necessary?

It did not matter. Enjoyment, even borrowed, was enjoyment nevertheless.

“Those are foxgloves,” Phainon said, following your gaze before you could ask. “Digitalis. Another poisonous one, I’m afraid.”

“Is everything here trying to kill us?” you asked, only half joking.

Phainon then pointed out chamomile—“good for calming the stomach,” he said, “and the nerves, if one is inclined to believe the old wives’ tales”—and rosemary hedges planted near the edges of the beds, meant to deter insects while scenting the air.

“It thrives in poor soil,” he explained. “Farmers plant it near their fields when the land has been overworked. It stabilises the ground and gives it time to recover.”

“Lady Caenis told me that Lady Whistledown has written about us again,” you said one night, curled up in Phainon’s arms, spent and deliciously exhausted. “It appears the general public is awaiting the news of an heir.”

“You know I don’t care about what others say,” Phainon said, running a hand up the curve of your spine. His lips were near your neck, and you could feel his mouth move against your skin as he spoke. “I am their King and you are their Queen; questioning either of us seems extremely redundant.”

“They say our palace walls are too high,” you mumbled, turning around in his arms to face him.

Though you were not certain what your feelings for Phainon truly were, you knew this: you were friends, or at least, so you thought. Walks in the gardens had become commonplace now, as had sharing his bedchambers and eating dinner together. So rarely did you have time to do anything else, apart from your official duties and spending time with your husband, that seeing Lady Castorice now had become a rare occurrence.

The bedchamber was lit only by the glow of a single lamp left burning on the side table. It painted Phainon’s bare shoulders in gold and shadow, traced the line of his collarbone, the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his skin. The sheets were in disarray around you, twisted and rumpled evidence of what the two of you had been doing only moments ago.

“Too high,” he echoed softly, amusement threading his voice. “Is that meant to be criticism?”

“I wouldn’t know,” you said. “Lady Whistledown does enjoy her metaphors.”

Phainon huffed a quiet laugh. “She should be grateful for the walls. They keep us safe.”

“They keep everyone out,” you countered. “No one ever sees us.”

“They see us often enough.”

“Only at court,” you said, shifting slightly, fitting yourself closer to him without much thought. “She says it makes us inaccessible.”

“And does that trouble you?” he asked.

You felt him inhale, the rise and fall of his chest beneath you. Your fingers curled lightly into the sheet near his shoulder. “I don’t know. I think I mind being talked about more than I mind being unseen.”

He hummed softly. “People will always talk. If not about our absence, then about our presence. If not about walls, then about heirs.”

“Yes. That.” You sighed. “Lady Whistledown seems convinced the whole country is holding its breath.”

“Let them suffocate.”

“That’s not very kingly of you,” you said, though you laughed despite yourself. You studied his face, the way his expression softened when he wasn’t being observed. Whatever this was between you—friendship, affection—felt nice.

“They’ll start inventing reasons,” you said quietly. “They already have. First it was the wedding being too rushed; then it was our separate schedules. Now it’s the walls.”

Phainon’s hand slid from your back to your hip, thumb pressing just slightly into the flesh. “Then perhaps we should give them fewer reasons.”

You lifted yourself a fraction, propping yourself up on one elbow so you could see him properly. “You’re suggesting…?”

“A ball.”

“A ball,” you said.

“Yes.” His other hand came up to your side.

You searched his face for irony and found none. “You realise that will only invite more scrutiny.”

“I realise it will redirect it,” he said. “They’ll talk about gowns and music and who danced with whom instead of royal babies.”

“And you think that’s preferable?”

“I think,” Phainon said, eyes flicking briefly to your mouth before meeting your gaze again, “that it would be good for them to see us together properly.”

“Together how?”

“Dancing. Laughing. Being… married, and happy.”

You swallowed. “You don’t dance.”

A corner of his mouth lifted. “I can learn.”

“For the sake of the country?”

“For the sake of my wife,” he said.

You shifted without thinking, knee sliding between his thighs. His breath hitched in response; his grip on you tightened just enough that you felt it everywhere.

“You’re very convincing when you want to be,” you mumbled.

“I haven’t even begun to convince you,” he replied, before leaning in, lips brushing your jaw, then the corner of your mouth. When you tilted your head to meet him, he kissed you properly, slow and unspooling. His mouth was warm, coaxing.

“We could host it within the month,” he whispered, pulling back just slightly. “Before the court grows restless.”

Your hands slid up his arms, fingers tracing muscle and scar alike. “And what would Lady Caenis say?”

“She would say it’s overdue,” he said, grinning, “and insist on seating charts and guest lists.”

“And on making sure I smile often enough.”

“She’ll insist on that regardless.”

You laughed softly. “Then why does this feel like your idea?”

He paused, and for a moment you thought he might deflect, turn it into another dry remark about duty or politics. Instead, his hand slid up your back, fingers threading into your hair. “Is it so much of a crime for a husband to want to see his wife happy? You are happy, are you not? With me?”

“The happiest,” you promised, and found it to be true. 

You were happy. You were not certain what it was, this strange, golden thing that blossomed like a bud in full bloom whenever you were near Phainon. The other day, in the gardens, he’d pointed out a bed of merry sunflowers to you; they exhibited heliotropism, he’d explained, in the sense that they turned their heads to wherever the sunlight was the brightest. Perhaps that was how you were with Phainon—he was the sunlight, and you were the sunflower, basking in his warmth and glow.

He answered by kissing you again, deeper this time, mouth parting over yours, tongue tracing the seam of your lips before you even realised you were opening for him. His hand slid between you, and you gasped softly into his mouth, fingers clutching at his shoulder. He broke the kiss only to murmur your name, before trailing kisses along your jaw, down your throat.

“We should plan it—the ball,” you breathed, even as your body betrayed you, arching into his touch.

“We will,” he said. “Tomorrow.”

“And the music?”

“We’ll have the orchestra.”

“The guest list?”

“I’ll let Lady Caenis handle that.”

“You’re very brave to entrust such a task to her,” you said.

Phainon’s mouth curved into a smile against your collarbone. “I have excellent motivation.”

You tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging just enough to bring his face back to yours. “And what would Lady Whistledown say if she could see us now?”

His eyes darkened. “She’d run out of ink.”

The thought made you laugh again, the sound dissolving into a soft gasp as his fingers slid into your warm heat once more, drawing you closer and winding you tighter. You pressed your lips to his once more, silencing whatever he might have said next.

Your courses came as per usual, and you sighed and told Arielle glumly to fetch you another washing-cloth. Lady Caenis would not be pleased, and neither would Phainon—though you knew his affection for you was not because of your ability to bear him an heir—but the day of the ball was tomorrow, so you were determined to remain in good spirits.

Arielle’s face was sympathetic as she handed you the linen. “Shall I inform the stewardess, Your Majesty?”

“No,” you said quickly, then reconsidered. “Actually, yes. Better she hears it from you than discovers it herself somehow. She always seems to know anyway.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty.” Arielle curtseyed and slipped away, leaving you to sink back against the pillows of your bed—yours and Phainon’s bed, you reminded yourself, though in this moment it felt cavernous and empty.

It had been three months of sharing his chambers, falling asleep in his arms and waking to his kisses, learning the rhythm of his breathing and the warmth of his skin against yours. Three months of trying, hoping, waiting for some sign that all of this intimacy and tentative affection would result in the heir everyone so desperately wanted.

You pressed a hand to your flat stomach, willing yourself not to feel like a failure. It was early yet, you told yourself. These things took time. Your own mother had not conceived Mydeimos until two years into her marriage.

You were still dwelling on it an hour later when there came a sharp knock at the door, and Lady Caenis swept in. Her face was set in lines of severe disapproval, her hands clasped tightly before her.

“Your Majesty,” she said. The two words felt like a reprimand all on its own.

“Lady Caenis.” You straightened, trying to arrange yourself into something resembling regal composure despite the cramping in your abdomen. “I assume Arielle has informed you.”

“She has,” the stewardess confirmed. “This makes three months, Your Majesty. Three months with no result.”

“I’m aware of how long it’s been,” you said.

“It appears you and His Majesty have been rather… distracted. With garden walks and private dinners and this ball you’ve convinced him to host.”

“The ball was his idea,” you protested.

“Was it?” Lady Caenis raised a silver eyebrow. “Or was it another way to avoid the real issue at hand? To distract the court—and yourselves—from the fact that you have yet to conceive?”

“We are trying, Lady Caenis. Every night, we—” You stopped, your cheeks flushing hot. “It is not as though we’re not… fulfilling our obligations.”

“Is that what you think this is about, Your Majesty?”

“Is that not what you told Phainon three months ago? That his only duty that truly matters is getting me with child?”

Lady Caenis went very still. “You heard that conversation.”

“I did,” you said. 

“I see.” She was quiet for a moment. “Then you should also have heard me tell His Majesty that you deserved better than to be treated as an obligation. You deserve a husband who wanted you, not one who was merely going through the motions.”

“He does want me,” you said. “We’re happy. We—”

“Truly?” Lady Caenis challenged. “Or are you simply playing at happiness while avoiding the reality of your situation?”

“What situation?” Your hands fisted in the sheets. “That I haven’t conceived yet? That’s hardly unusual, Lady Caenis. My own mother took two years—”

“Your mother,” she interrupted, “was not Queen. Your mother did not have an entire kingdom watching her, waiting for her to fail. Your mother did not have a husband who—” She stopped abruptly, as though catching herself before saying something she shouldn’t.

“Who what?” you demanded. “Say it, Lady Caenis. Don’t stop now.”

The stewardess shook her head. “It is not my place to discuss His Majesty’s… concerns with you. However, if you and His Majesty continue to avoid discussing those reasons, to hide behind balls and garden walks and pretending everything is fine when it is not—”

“We’re not pretending! We’re trying to be happy. Is that so wrong? Why can’t you just let us have this?”

“Because happiness built on avoidance is not happiness at all, Your Majesty. It is merely another form of hiding, and sooner or later, what you’re hiding from will catch up with you.”

Lady Caenis left then, her skirts swishing against the floor, and you were alone again with your disarrayed thoughts and the growing fear that perhaps she was right.

Phainon returned to the chambers later that afternoon, his face drawn and tired. He had been in meetings all day—something about shipments and trade agreements—and you could see the tension in his shoulders, the tightness around his eyes.

“Hello,” he said, and moved to kiss you, but you turned your head so his lips caught your cheek instead of your mouth. He pulled back, frowning. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you said. “How were your meetings?”

“Tedious.” He studied your face, those pale blue eyes searching. “Has something happened? You seem…”

“My courses came,” you said. “This morning. Arielle informed Lady Caenis, and Lady Caenis came to… express her disappointment.”

“What did she say to you?”

“Does it matter? She said what everyone is thinking—that three months is too long; that we’re distracted; that we’re avoiding the real issue.”

“The real issue,” Phainon repeated.

“The heir, Phainon. The one thing all of this is supposed to be about.” You gestured between you, at the bed, at the chambers you shared. “Isn’t that what you said to her? That you were just going through the motions?”

“No, I—”

“No, I want to know,” you said. “Is that what this is? All of it—the garden walks, the dinners, the ball tomorrow—is it all just… just performance? Another way to fulfill your obligations while making it look like we’re actually happy?”

Phainon’s expression shuttered, closing off in that way you had come to recognise and dread. 

“How am I supposed to know anything about you?” you pressed on. “You won’t talk to me about anything that actually matters. You won’t tell me what Lady Caenis means when she says you have reasons. You won’t—”

“What did she tell you?”

“Nothing! That’s the problem! Everyone seems to know something I don’t. Everyone has some secret they’re all keeping from me, and I’m supposed to—to what? Smile and pretend everything is fine? Keep trying to get pregnant without knowing why it’s not happened?”

“It has been three months. That’s nothing. These things take time—”

“Then why did Lady Caenis make it sound like there’s more to it than that?” you challenged. “Why did she talk about your concerns, your reasons, about—”

“She had no right to say anything to you,” Phainon said, and now he was angry too, you could see it in the set of his shoulders, the clenching of his jaw. “This is precisely why I didn’t want her interfering. She can’t help herself, always pushing, always—”

“Always telling the truth? God forbid someone actually be honest with me about what is happening in my own marriage.”

“I have been honest with you,” Phainon snapped. “I’ve tried—”

“You’ve tried to make me happy,” you retorted. “That’s not the same thing as being honest. That is simply another form of managing me, of deciding what I can and cannot handle.”

“Becuase you can’t handle it!” The words exploded out of him, and you could see he immediately regretted it. “I didn’t mean—”

“No, say it,” you said. “Say what you really think. That I’m too fragile, too weak, too—”

“That’s not what I meant—”

“What is it I can’t handle?”

Phainon stared at you, his face pale, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I think that this conversation has gotten out of hand. We’re both upset. Perhaps we should—”

“Add it to the list of things we don’t talk about?” You shook your head. “I cannot keep doing this, Phainon.”

“What do you want from me?” he asked; there was genuine confusion in his voice, as though he truly didn’t understand. “I’ve given you everything I can. I’ve moved you into my chambers, I’ve spent every night with you, I’ve tried to make you happy. What more—”

“I want you to trust me! I want you to stop protecting me from things and just—just let me in! Is that so hard?”

“I cannot,” he said quietly.

“When can you tell me?” you said. “When will you be ready? When I’m pregnant? When we have an heir? When you’ve decided I’ve proven myself worthy of the truth?”

“It’s not about worthiness—I’m doing the best I can,” Phainon said. “I swear to you, I’m trying—”

“Well, maybe your best isn’t good enough!”

Phainon flinched as though you had struck him. The colour drained from his face; he simply stood there, staring at you, his lips pressed together. Without a word, he turned and walked toward the door.

“Where are you going?” you called after him, panic suddenly replacing anger.

“I don’t know,” he said without turning around. “Somewhere you don’t have to look at me and be reminded of how inadequate I am.”

“Phainon—”

But he was already gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click that somehow felt worse than if he had slammed it. The evidence of your shared life now seemed to mock you—his papers on the desk, your book on the nightstand, the tangled sheets that still smelled like both of you.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. You were supposed to be happy.

How could you have said that he wasn’t trying hard enough? How could you have looked at him—at the man who had tried so hard to overcome his own fears and walls—and told him his efforts were worthless?

The door opened again. Wildly, you thought Phainon had come back, but it was only Arielle, her face concerned.

“Your Majesty, I heard—that is—” She stopped. “Shall I fetch you some tea?”

“Where did he go?” you asked.

“His Majesty? I saw him hurrying towards the west wing. The old King’s study, I think.”

The west wing. As far from these chambers—from you—as he could get while still remaining in the palace.

“Leave me, please, Arielle. I wish to be alone,” you said.

On the eve of the ball, everything was gorgeous.

You danced with Phainon, and he held your hand throughout, and you tried not to pretend there was a large lump in your throat every time you looked at him.

It was a success. Everyone had seen you and Phainon together, smiling and dancing and playing the part of the happy royal couple. Lady Whistledown would write something glowing, no doubt, about how in love you appeared, how well-matched, how perfect, and it was all a lie.

No, that wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t all a lie. The affection between you was real. The friendship was real. The nights you had spent in each other’s arms, learning each other’s bodies and rhythms and habits—those were real.

Thus, faced with nothing but your own thoughts and misery for company—for Phainon had retreated to his study the minute the ball ended—you realised you loved him.

You loved him. You loved his careful intelligence, the way he could recite facts about flowers and farming with equal enthusiasm. You loved the rare, genuine smiles he gave you when he thought no one else was watching. You loved the way he held you after making love, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin, his breathing slowing to match yours.

You rolled over, pressing your face into his pillow, breathing in the faint scent of him that still lingered there, and finally, finally fell into an uneasy sleep.

“What has Lady Whistledown written about me today?” you said, once Lady Castorice had settled into the chair across from yours. Arielle hovered nearby, ready to pour tea at your beckoning, but otherwise, you and Castorice had the relative safety and privacy of your private drawing room. 

Castorice pulled out the latest paper from her reticule, unfolding it with a slight smile. “Shall I read it to you, or would you prefer to suffer through it yourself?”

“Read it,” you said, leaning back in your chair. “I’m not sure I can bear to look at it directly.”

Castorice cleared her throat and began:

Dearest Gentle Reader,

This author is delighted to report that the ball hosted by Their Majesties last evening was an undisputed success. The King and Queen appeared in perfect harmony, dancing with grace and evident affection for one another. Her Majesty’s gown was a beauty of sapphire and lace, and His Majesty’s attentiveness to his wife was noted by all in attendance. Whatever concerns this author may have previously expressed about the state of the royal marriage appear to have been unfounded. 

The King and Queen are, clearly, quite content in each other’s company, and the evening’s festivities have done much to silence the more skeptical voices at court.

You listened, feeling oddly deflated. “That’s… actually rather nice.”

Castorice set the paper down on the table between you, her expression thoughtful. “How have you been sleeping?”

“I—what?” 

“Sleeping. You look tired.” Castorice studied your face with concern. “Are you unwell?”

“No, I’m just—” You stopped, considering. “Actually, I’ve been sleeping terribly. Last night especially. The bed felt too large without—” You caught yourself, felt your cheeks warm. “Without Phainon there.”

“Ah. Yes, I heard from the footman that he spent the night in the west wing.” Castorice poured tea for both of you. “That must have been difficult.”

“It was necessary,” you said, perhaps too defensively. “We both needed space after—after everything.”

“Of course,” your friend said, handing you a teacup. “Though I imagine His Majesty didn’t sleep well either. He rarely does, from what I understand.”

You looked up sharply. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing specific. Just—palace gossip, you know how it is. The servants talk. I’ve heard that His Majesty is often awake at odd hours. Walking the corridors, working in his study. That sort of thing.”

“He works too much,” you said. “I’ve told him he needs to rest more, but he doesn’t listen.”

“Mm. Though I wonder if it’s truly work that keeps him awake,” Castorice said. “My own nephew has nightmares sometimes; he wakes the whole house with his shouting. My uncle wanted to send him to a specialist, but Marcus refused, because he said it would make him look weak.”

“…Nightmares?”

“Oh, it’s nothing serious. Just bad dreams from childhood that he never quite grew out of. But it does affect his sleep terribly.” She paused, then added, “I imagine anyone who’s experienced terrible things at a young age might struggle with similar issues. The mind has difficulty letting go of such things.”

You thought about Phainon, about his mother’s death when he was ten, about all those nights you had slept peacefully in his arms while he—

Had he been awake? Fighting off nightmares? Trying not to disturb you?

“Are you all right?” Castorice asked.

“Yes, I—” You shook your head. “Sorry, I was simply thinking about something.”

“About His Majesty?”

“About everything,” you said. “May I ask you something?”

“Of course, Your Highness.”

“I think… I think Phainon is hiding something from me.”

“What do you think he’s hiding?”

“I don’t know exactly,” you said, frustratedly setting your teacup down. “Something about why he’s so afraid of getting close to people. Why he wanted separate chambers at first. Why he—why he sometimes looks at me like he’s waiting for me to disappear.”

“Grief does strange things to people,” Castorice said quietly. “Especially when it’s complicated by guilt. When someone blames themselves for something that wasn’t their fault, it can shape how they see the world, and how they see themselves.”

“His mother,” you said, and suddenly the answer seemed so simple to you, so obvious.

“Among other things,” Castorice said, “but that’s not really my story to tell. If you want to know what His Majesty carries with him, you’ll have to ask him directly. Or simply be patient enough that he tells you himself.”

You nodded slowly, understanding what Castorice wasn’t quite saying. Phainon had nightmares. Phainon blamed himself for his mother’s death, even though it wasn’t his fault. Phainon was afraid of losing people he cared about. Castorice was telling you this without actually telling you, because she knew Phainon wouldn’t want you to know; because she was your friend, but she was also loyal to him, and she was trying to help you both without betraying either of you.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

“Any time,” Castorice said, smiling. “Though next time, perhaps we could talk about something more cheerful? Like the fashion at the ball, or the truly scandalous amount of champagne Lord Ashford consumed?”

“He was rather drunk, wasn’t he?”

“Absolutely sotted. I’m amazed he made it home without falling into a fountain.”

“I’m still rather surprised by Lady Whistledown’s paper this time,” you said. “Last time she wrote about us, she was speculating about whether the marriage had been consummated at all.”

Castorice’s expression turned odd. “When was that?”

“Weeks ago. Around the time Lady Caenis was pressuring Phainon to—” You stopped, frowning. “Why?”

“Lady Whistledown,” she said carefully, “has never written anything about whether your marriage has been consummated. Or about heirs, for that matter. She’s mentioned the palace walls, and your reclusiveness, and the general state of the marriage, but she’s never been so vulgar as to speculate about… intimate affairs.”

You stared at her. “That’s not—I read it myself. She wrote about how the succession depends on an heir, and how an heir requires proximity between husband and wife, and—”

“I’ve read every single edition of Lady Whistledown’s papers since your wedding. I promise you, she’s never written anything like that.”

“But I saw it,” you insisted. “It was in the paper. It said—

“Who gave you the paper?” Castorice asked quietly.

“Arielle. She always brings me Lady Whistledown’s papers when they’re published.” You felt something cold settle in your stomach. “Are you saying—you think someone fabricated it?”

Though Castorice did not say anything further, you knew what she was thinking. Someone wanted you to believe Lady Whistledown was writing about heirs and succession, someone who had a vested interest in making you feel pressured about conceiving.

Lady Caenis.

You had to tell Phainon.

You had to tell Phainon. The thought consumed you for the rest of your afternoon, through Castorice’s departure and the hours that followed. You paced your drawing room, trying to organise your thoughts, trying to decide exactly how to approach this. 

Lady Caenis had fabricated a Lady Whistledown paper; had manipulated you into feeling humiliated and pressured; had orchestrated that entire conversation for you to overhear. However, you needed proof. You couldn’t simply accuse the palace stewardess of such deceit based on suspicion alone.

You rang for Arielle, and she appeared immediately. “Yes, Your Majesty?”

“Do you remember the Lady Whistledown paper you brought me several weeks ago? The one about—the one about heirs and succession?”

Arielle’s brow furrowed. “Your Majesty, I’m not certain I recall—”

“It was the week before I had luncheon with His Majesty. The day you brought it to me at breakfast, and I was reading it with Lady Caenis before I left.”

“Oh! Yes, I remember that morning, Your Majesty. Lady Caenis had asked me to deliver it to you specifically. She said it was important you read it before the next week.”

“And where did you get the paper from?”

“Lady Caenis gave it to me directly, Your Majesty. She said it had just been published.”

“I see. Thank you, Arielle,” you said. “One more thing: do we keep copies of old newspapers anywhere? An archive of some sort?”

“The library maintains a collection of all published papers, Your Majesty,” she replied, “including Lady Whistledown’s publications. Would you like me to fetch something for you?”

“Yes,” you said. “I’d like to see the Lady Whistledown paper from that same day.”

Arielle curtseyed and withdrew. You continued pacing, your mind racing. If you were right, and Lady Caenis had indeed fabricated that paper, then the library’s copy would be different from what you read—it would serve as ample proof.

Arielle returned twenty minutes later with a paper in hand. “From the date you specified, Your Majesty.”

You took, unfolding it, your eyes scanning the text. The article was about the palace walls, about your reclusiveness, about speculation on the state of your marriage. There was nothing about heirs or succession or conjugal proximity. The paper Arielle had brought you from the library was completely different from the one you had read that morning weeks ago.

Lady Caenis had fabricated an entire false newspaper to manipulate you.

“Arielle,” you said. “Please send word to His Majesty. Tell him I need to speak with him urgently, and ask him to have Lady Caenis present as well.”

“Your Majesty—”

“Now, please.”

Arielle’s eyes widened, but she hurried away.

“Arielle said it was urgent,” Phainon said, his head tilted in that manner he had when he was confused. You had asked him and Lady Caenis to meet you in the formal receiving room rather than your private chambers. “What’s happened? Are you unwell?”

“I’m perfectly well,” you said. “Thank you for coming, Lady Caenis.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” she said. “How may I be of service?”

You held up the paper in your hand. “I’ve been reviewing some of Lady Whistledown’s publications. The one from several months ago, specifically; the day I—forgive my crude manner of speaking—but the day I first spent the night in His Majesty’s chambers.”

Phainon’s brow furrowed. “What about it?”

“It was a week before I overheard your conversation with Lady Caenis before luncheon, about how I needed to conceive and how you were only bedding me out of obligation.”

Phainon’s face went pale. “I—”

“I’m not finished,” you said. “The morning of the day we shared a bed, Arielle brought me a Lady Whistledown paper. One that discussed, in rather explicit terms, the question of whether our marriage had been consummated, whether we were capable of producing an heir. It was humiliating to read, and it made me feel—it made me feel like a failure.”

“I don’t understand,” Phainon said. “What does this have to do with—”

“Lady Whistledown never wrote that article,” you said, holding up the paper. “This is the real edition from that date. It mentions nothing about heirs or conjugal matters. The article I read that morning was fabricated.”

Phainon turned slowly to look at Lady Caenis. “What is she talking about?”

“Your Majesty,” Lady Caenis said, “I’m certain there’s been some misunderstanding—”

“There’s no misunderstanding! Arielle confirmed that you gave her the paper directly that morning, and that you specifically asked her to deliver it to me the week before the luncheon, where—coincidentally—I overheard you discussing my failure to conceive with His Majesty.”

“Your Highness,” Lady Caenis said, patiently. “You were under a great deal of stress at that time. It’s possible you misremembered what you read—”

“I didn’t misremember.” You walked to the desk and laid out the paper. “Here. Read it yourself. Tell me where it mentions heirs or succession or any of the things I supposedly read. You fabricated a paper. You wanted me to feel pressured about conceiving. You orchestrated everything, all to manipulate me into seducing my husband!”

“That’s a very serious accusation, Your Majesty,” Lady Caenis said.

“It’s also true, isn’t it?”

Phainon was staring at Lady Caenis with an expression you’d never seen before—something between shock and betrayal and cold, terrible anger. “Did you do this?” he asked.

Lady Caenis was silent for a long moment. “Yes.”

“You fabricated a newspaper,” Phainon repeated. “You manipulated my wife—”

“I did what was necessary,” Lady Caenis interrupted. “Your Majesty, you were avoiding your obligations. The Queen needed to conceive, and you were treating the marriage like—like one of your botanical studies. Something to be examined from a distance rather than actually engaging with.”

“That was not your decision to make,” the King said.

“Someone had to make it! You were content to keep Her Majesty in separate chambers, to visit her once or twice a week. The kingdom needs an heir, Your Majesty, and if you were not going to take that seriously, then yes, I took steps to ensure—”

“You lied to her,” Phainon said. “You manufactured evidence to make her feel humiliated and inadequate. You manipulated her into believing the entire kingdom was judging her for something that wasn’t even true.”

“I gave her motivation,” Lady Caenis said. “And it worked, did it not? You moved her into your chambers. You started spending every night with her.”

You felt sick, for she wasn’t entirely wrong—her manipulation had worked. You had gone to Phainon’s chambers that night. You had seduced him. You had pushed for more intimacy, more closeness, and yes, things had gotten better between you.

“Get out,” Phainon said.

Lady Caenis blinked. “Your Majesty—”

“Get out,” he repeated, louder now. “You are dismissed from this conversation. In fact, you’re dismissed from your position, effective immediately.”

“You can’t be serious—”

“I am perfectly serious, I assure you.” Phainon’s voice was cold. “You have served this family for decades, Lady Caenis, and I am grateful for that service. But what you did—manipulating my wife, fabricating evidence, orchestrating situations for your own ends—that is unforgivable. You are dismissed.”

Lady Caenis’ face had gone white. “Your Majesty, please. I was only trying to help. The succession—”

“The succession is not your concern. You’ll have until the end of the week to organise your affairs and find alternative accommodations. Your pension will be provided and I shall ensure you have adequate references for future employment. But you will not remain in this palace.”

“Phainon—Your Majesty, please reconsider. I’ve dedicated my life to this family—”

“And I appreciate that dedication, but it does not excuse what you did.” Phainon moved to stand beside you, and you felt his hand settle at the small of your back. “You violated my wife’s trust and manipulated her for your own ends, regardless of how noble you believed those ends to be. That is not acceptable.”

“I was only trying to protect the Crown,” Lady Caenis tried again, looking between the two of you beseechingly.

“I know,” said Phainon, “but the Crown does not need protection from my wife.”

Lady Caenis clasped her hands tightly before her. “As you wish, Your Majesty. Your Majesty.” She nodded to each of you in turn. “I hope you’ll understand, someday, that I did what I thought was right.”

She left, the door closing quietly behind her, leaving you alone with Phainon. You stared at the closed door. Lady Caenis, the woman who had run the palace household for decades and seemed like an immovable fixture of your life here, was gone.

“Are you all right?” Phainon asked finally.

“I don’t know,” you said. “Should I feel guilty? She was only trying to help, in her own twisted way.”

He looked away, seeming terribly tired, and sighed. “I’m afraid I don’t know, either.”

Queen Audata was truly a magnificent figure in paint, and, not for the first time, you wondered what she was like as a person. 

You had come to the portrait gallery late at night, unable to sleep. The conversation with Lady Caenis had left you feeling unsettled, restless. Phainon had returned to his study after she left, claiming he had work to finish, and you had spent the evening alone in your chambers; so, you had risen from the empty bed and wandered the corridors until you found yourself here, standing before Queen Audata’s portrait.

She had kind eyes. That was the first thing you noticed. Despite the formal nature of the painting, and the crown and the elaborate gown and the regal bearing, there was warmth in her painted eyes. She looked like someone who had laughed often, who had loved freely. You wondered if Phainon remembered that, or if his memories of her were coloured only by grief and guilt.

“She would have liked you.”

You turned to find Phainon standing in the doorway of the gallery, still in his daytime clothes, his hair disheveled. He looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, his shoulders tense.

“I’m sorry,” you said. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I couldn’t sleep, and I…”

“You’re not intruding.” He moved into the gallery, coming to stand beside you. “I couldn’t sleep either.”

You looked at him more closely. “Bad dreams?”

He went very still. “What makes you say that?”

“Just a guess,” you said. “I’ve heard that people who experience terrible situations young often struggle with nightmares. The mind, apparently, has difficulty letting go of such things.”

“Who told you?”

“No one told me anything directly,” you said truthfully, “but I’m not blind, Phainon. I’ve noticed you’re often awake at odd hours, and that you sometimes look exhausted even after a full night in bed. I’ve noticed that there are moments where you seem… elsewhere.”

He moved away from you, then, his arms crossed over his chest. “I didn’t want you to know.”

“I know.”

“It makes me look weak.”

“I don’t believe it does, truly,” you said. “Phainon, you don’t have to tell me anything you’re not ready to tell me, but I want you to know—whatever keeps you awake at night, I’m here.”

“You can’t promise me that,” he said roughly. “People leave. People die.”

“People get sick, and their mothers nurse them, and sometimes those mothers catch the illness too,” you said quietly. “And sometimes cruel men blame children for things that aren’t their fault.”

Phainon turned to stare at you, his face silver in the moonlight. “How did you—”

“I told you. I pay attention. And I understand why you wanted separate chambers at first.”

“I dream about it,” he said suddenly, the words spilling out. “About my mother dying, and my father telling me it was my fault. Sometimes I’m ten years old again, burning with fever, calling for her. Other times I’m watching her get sick, and I can’t—I can’t make her stay away from me, and then I wake up, and for a moment, I’m convinced I’m still that ten-year-old boy who killed his mother.”

“You didn’t kill her,” you said firmly. “How long have you been having difficulty sleeping?”

“Since she died. Seventeen years.”

“Is that why you’ve been avoiding the bed? Since the fight? Not because you wanted space, but because you didn’t want to see me?”

He nodded, unable to meet your eyes. “I’ve gotten good at waking myself up quietly, but I cannot always manage it. I thought—if you saw me like that, if you knew—”

“I’d realise I made a mistake in staying?”

“Yes.”

You closed the distance between you and took his hands in yours. They were cold, trembling. “Do you love me?”

The question seemed to catch him off guard. “What?”

“Do you love me?” you repeated, looking up at him. “It’s a simple question, Phainon. Yes or no.”

He stared at you, and you thought he might deflect, might hide behind walls again. But he didn’t.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes. I love you. From the—from the moment I saw you on that trellis, covered in garden dirt, looking at me like I was the worst thing that had ever happened to you. I loved you then, and I’ve loved you every day since.

“I love you when you’re walking beside me in the gardens, asking questions about flowers you don’t actually care about just because you know it makes me happy to talk about them. I love you when you’re asleep, when you make that little sound right before you wake up, when you reach for me without opening your eyes. I love—I love you so much it feels like I cannot breathe sometimes, if you are not near.”

You kissed him, then, pressing your mouth to his with an urgency that bordered on desperation. You wanted him to consume you, to make you his wholly and completely, for just as he was yours, so too were you his, and how nice this life would be! How nice, to stay in the comfort provided by darkness and the stars, and hide from the heavens forever.

The serial killer case had been one that stumped even the brightest of detectives. There had been bodies found in canals, drained of blood. The Palais Mermonia had been in a frenzy. The Maison Gardiennage had thrown every resource at the case. In a twist that had captivated the entire nation, they’d arrested Childe—a young, wealthy, Snezhnayan expat with a taste for luxury items and underground boxing matches.

Lady Furina herself had presided over the trial, and the galleries had been packed with journalists and gawkers hoping for blood. The evidence had been circumstantial at best: he’d been seen near one of the dump sites, he had no alibi for two of the murders, and someone had reported seeing a man about as tall as him fleeing the scene. But the prosecution had been confident, the public had been baying for justice, and Childe had stood in the defendant’s box looking bored and vaguely amused, which had done him absolutely no favours.

The real killer had struck again while Childe was in custody, with the same MO. The charges had been dropped with a swiftness that suggested embarrassment on behalf of the Maison, and Childe had walked free to a chorus of flashbulbs and shouted questions.

He’d never given an interview. Not one. Not to the major papers, not to the tabloids. He’d simply returned to his life as if nothing had happened, which had only made him more fascinating to the media vultures circling overhead.

Including you.

The bed dips as Childe finally moves from where he’s been leaning against the doorframe. He’s watching you with an expression you can’t quite parse. Amused, maybe. Curious, definitely. His shirt is unbuttoned at the corner, sleeves rolled to the elbows; the sight makes your mouth go dry.

“Comfortable?” he lilts.

“Very,” you say, running your hand over the duvet. It’s some kind of Egyptian cotton, probably, the kind that costs more than your monthly rent. “Though I have to say, I expected more from the bedroom of Fontaine’s most infamous acquitted murder suspect.”

Childe’s laugh is sharp and bright. “What were you expecting? Shackles? Bloodstains? A wall of newspaper clippings?”

“This looks like a hotel room,” you counter, gesturing around you. “A very expensive hotel room, granted, but still.”

“I like things simple.” He crosses to the bed, settling on the edge near your feet. Close, but not presumptuous. “Easy to clean, easy to maintain. No clutter.”

“No evidence, you mean.”

The words slip out before you can stop them. You’ve overplayed your hand, you think. You’re supposed to be flirty, interested, not immediately bringing up the trial like some hack journalist fishing for a scoop.

“Are you always this charming on first dates,” Childe drawls, “or am I special?”

“You’re special,” you assure him, recovering quickly. You shift onto your side, propping your head on your hand. “I’m sorry. Occupational hazard. I’m a journalist—I ask inappropriate questions.”

“So you said at dinner. Lifestyle section at The Steambird, right? Writing hard-hitting pieces about the best cafés in the Court of Fontaine and which shoes are in this season.”

The condescension should irritate you, but it only serves to make you more determined instead. “Someone has to tell the people where to get their morning coffee.”

“And is that what you want to be doing? Coffee reviews?”

“No,” you admit; honesty might serve you here. “I want to be doing real journalism. Investigations, exposés, the kind of work people actually read.”

“Why aren’t you?”

“Because the people who run newspapers are cowards who think women should stick to writing about fashion and food.” You sit up properly, tucking your legs beneath you. “I don’t have the right connections or the right last name or the right—”

This is too much truth, too much vulnerability. You’re supposed to be mysterious, alluring, not complaining about your career trajectory.

Childe looks at you expectantly. “The right what?”

“Nothing. Forget it.” You shake your head, trying to recalibrate. This is going all wrong. You’re supposed to be seducing him, not trauma-dumping about your professional frustrations. “Tell me about Snezhnaya. You grew up there, right?”

“Changing the subject,” he observes.

“Deflecting,” you correct. “There’s a difference.”

He laughs again. “Yes, I grew up there, in a small town called Morepesok. Cold as hell, nothing to do but fight and fish.”

“And you chose Fontaine because…?”

“Better weather. Better food. Plus, I like the water. Grew up on it. Fontaine’s canals remind me of home.”

“The canals where the bodies were found.”

“Jesus, you really don’t know when to stop, do you?”

You wince. “Sorry, I—”

“No, I like it.” He shifts closer, and suddenly the space between you has narrowed considerably. “Everyone else wants to pretend it didn’t happen. Walk on eggshells, avoid the subject, act like I’m made of glass. It’s exhausting.”

“You don’t seem like the kind of person who takes such things to heart.”

“I’m not.” Childe’s hand comes to rest on your ankle absent-mindedly. His thumb brushes the bone there. “But people are strange about trauma. They either want to consume it—tell me all the gory details, how did it feel, were you scared—or they want to bury it and pretend it never happened. No one knows how to just… exist with it.”

You look down at his hand on your ankle. His fingers are long, scarred across the knuckles. Fighter’s hands. “And which category do I fall into?”

“Neither, I think,” Childe says, looking up at you through his lashes. “You’re curious, but not voyeuristic. The questions you ask aren’t cruel.”

This is good, you tell yourself. It’s exactly what you need. He’s opening up, starting to trust you. In ten days, you’ll have enough material for the article of your career: an inside look at Tartaglia, as he calls himself, the man who was almost convicted of serial murder, told through the lens of an ill-fated romance. Your editor Euphrasie will eat it up. The readers will eat it up. You’ll finally get out of the lifestyle section and into real journalism.

All you have to do is make him fall in love with you, and then break his heart.

The guilt that twists in your stomach is inconvenient and unwelcome, so you shove it down and lean forward, closing the distance between you. “Can I kiss you?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Childe says.

The kiss is soft, slow; you’d anticipated urgency, heat, the kind of aggressive passion you’d read about in the trial transcripts when they’d detailed his history of bar fights and boxing matches. But Childe kisses like he has all the time in the world, his hand coming up to cup the back of your neck while his thumb traces the line of your jaw. He tastes like the wine from dinner and something else, something that might just be him.

You’re supposed to be the one doing the seducing, you think vaguely, but he gently bites your lower lip and you hear yourself make a sound that’s frankly embarrassing, and most thoughts vanish from your head as fast as they appeared.

He pulls back just enough to murmur against your mouth, “Still doing research for that coffee article?”

“Shut up,” you breathe, and pull him back in.

His hands slide under the silk of your blouse, fingers splaying across your ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts through your bra. You work at the buttons of his shirt with increasingly clumsy fingers—why are there so many buttons, why is your coordination suddenly that of a drunk toddler—until he huffs a laugh against your mouth and pulls back to shrug it off himself—and oh. Oh.

You’d known he was fit; you could tell that much through his clothes, the way fabric pulled across his shoulders, the lean lines visible even through tailoring. He’s all lean muscle and pale skin. There are scars scattered across his torso; a thin white line across his collarbone; something that looks like a burn on his left shoulder. There’s a particularly nasty one across his ribs that looks like it required stitches, puckered and still slightly pink, and your fingers find it almost unconsciously.

“Boxing,” he says, catching your hand and pressing a kiss to your palm, then your wrist, then the inside of your elbow. “I’m better now. Usually.”

“Usually?”

“I still lose my temper sometimes, but I’m working on it.”

You should probably be concerned about that, but your brain has officially gone offline, all blood redirected south. When he leans in to kiss you again, you forget why any of that—the admission of violence, the scars—should matter.

His hands are warm on your skin. They slide up your back, finding the clasp of your bra, and then that’s gone too, tossed somewhere in the general direction of your blouse. He pulls back to look at you, pupils blown wide and dark.

“You’re beautiful,” he says.

You’re not used to being looked at like this. Most of your previous encounters have been fumbling, rushed things with men who were more interested in the destination than the journey. 

“Stop looking at me like that,” you mutter.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m—I don’t know. Special or something.”

Childe smiles. “Maybe you are.”

Before you can formulate a response to that, he’s kissing his way down your body: your collarbone, where he pauses to suck a mark; the swell of your breast, his tongue circling your nipple before taking it into his mouth. You arch into him, hands fisting in his hair.

He takes his time with your breasts, lavishing attention on each one until you’re squirming beneath him, aching and empty. When he finally continues his descent—kissing down your ribs, your stomach, pausing to trace his tongue along the waistband of your skirt—you’re squirming and moaning for more.

“Childe,” you gasp.

“Patience,” he murmurs against your hip bone.

He works your skirt down your legs, taking your underwear with it, before you’re completely bare before him. The air feels cool on your heated skin. You resist the urge to cover yourself, to hide, because he’s looking at you like you’re a feast and he’s been starving.

“Beautiful,” he says again, running his hands up your thighs, pushing them wider. “Can I taste you?”

“Yes,” you gasp. “God, yes.”

He settles between your legs, broad shoulders forcing your thighs even wider, and for a moment, he simply looks, studies, as though he’s memorising this too, adding it to whatever internal catalogue he’s building—then his mouth is on you and coherent thought becomes impossible.

Childe’s tongue traces through your folds slowly, exploratory, like he’s learning what makes you gasp, what makes your hips jerk, what makes your hands tighten in his hair. When he finds your clit—circling it with the tip of his tongue, then flattening against it—you actually see stars.

“Fuck,” you breathe, and feel him smile against you.

He’s good at this, alternating between broad strokes and precise flicks that have you trembling. When he slides one finger inside you—just one, slow and careful—you keen.

“More,” you demand, rolling your hips against his face.

He hums in acknowledgement, and adds a second finger. The stretch is delicious, his fingers thick and skilled, and when he crooks them just right, hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision white out, you have to bite down on your own hand to keep from crying out.

“Don’t,” he says, pulling back just enough to speak, his breath hot against your wet skin. “I want to hear you.”

“Your neighbours—”

“Can deal with it.” He punctuates this by sucking your clit into his mouth, hard, and the hand you’d been using to muffle yourself flies to grip the sheets instead. When he adds a third finger, his tongue still working your clit in circles, you feel heat spread from the base of your spine.

“Childe,” you gasp. “I’m going to—”

“Let go,” he murmurs. “I want to feel you come on my tongue.”

The words alone nearly sound you over, but it’s the addition of his fingers pressing just right, his tongue flicking over your clit, that finally makes you orgasm. Your back arches off the bed, thighs trembling around his head. He works you through it, gentler now, until the aftershocks fade and you’re left panting and boneless, staring at the ceiling.

“Fuck,” you manage, eloquent as ever.

He grins up at you from between your thighs, chin glistening, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Good?”

“Smug bastard,” you say, which just makes him grin wider.

“Is that a yes?”

Instead of answering, you hook your leg around his waist and use the leverage to flip him onto his back. It catches him off guard—his eyes widen, then darken with renewed interest as you straddle his hips.

“My turn,” you announce, working at his belt with fingers that are still slightly unsteady.

“You don’t have to—” he starts, but you cut him off by pressing your lips to his.

“I want to,” you say against his mouth.

You can feel his cock hard beneath you, straining against the fabric of his pants, and the knowledge that you did that to him sends a fresh wave of heat through your body. You make quick work of his belt, then his zipper, and he helps you, lifting his hips so you can pull his pants and boxers down and off.

His cock is big, flushed and hard and leaking at the tip. Your mouth waters. When you wrap your hand around him, he hisses through his teeth, hips jerking involuntarily.

“Sensitive?” you tease, stroking him slowly from base to tip.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he grits out.

You stroke him a few more times, watching the way his abs contract with each movement, the way his hands fist in the sheets. Leaning down, you lick a stripe up his length, base to tip, and the sound he makes is absolutely filthy.

“Fuck, malyshka,” he breathes, one hand flying to your hair.

You take his cock into your mouth slowly, watching Childe’s face as you do. His eyes are half-lidded, lips parted, a flush spreading across his cheeks and down his neck. He’s gorgeous like this, all that control fraying at the edges, coming apart under your touch. You take him deeper, relaxing your throat, using your hand on what you can’t fit, and establish a rhythm, bobbing your head, hollowing your cheeks, using your tongue along the underside.

“Christ,” he gasps, fingers tightening in your hair. “Your mouth is—fuck, that’s—”

You hum around him and his hips jerk, pushing deeper. You let him, opening your throat, and the moan he lets out is worth the tears that prick at the corners of your eyes. For several minutes, there’s no sound but the obscene wet sounds of your mouth on him, his increasingly ragged breathing, the occasional curse or gasp when you do something he particularly likes. You feel powerful like this, in control in a way you haven’t felt in a long time. 

This man who was accused of murder, who fights for fun, who moves through the world with such confidence—you’re reducing him to trembling need with just your mouth.

“Wait,” he gasps suddenly, tugging gently at your hair. “Wait, stop, I’m going to—”

You pull off him with a pop, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “Don’t you want to come?”

“Not yet. I want—” Childe reaches for the nightstand, fumbling the drawer open. “Condom. I want to be inside you when I come.”

The words send heat pooling low in your belly. You watch as he pulls out a box—thank God he has them, you hadn’t even thought to bring any—and extracts a foil packet.

“Let me,” you say, taking it from him.

You tear it open carefully, then roll it onto him slowly, enjoying the way his breath catches, the way his hips twitch with each touch. When you’re done, you stay straddling him, positioning yourself over his length.

“Can I?” you ask.

“God, yes.”

You sink down slowly, inch by inch, and the stretch feels good. He’s big and you’re still sensitive from your orgasm, and you have to pause halfway, breathing through the burn.

“Okay?” His hands are on your hips, steadying but not pushing. When you look down at him his face is tight with the effort of holding still.

“Yeah,” you manage. “Just—give me a second.”

“Take your time.” Childe sits up, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you close so your chests are pressed together. He presses kisses to your shoulder, your neck, your jaw, sweet and soft. “You feel incredible. So tight and perfect.”

The praise makes you clench around him and he groans into your neck. You take a breath, then sink down the rest of the way, taking his cock fully. You feel impossibly full, stretched in the best way, and when he shifts slightly, the angle has him hitting something inside you that makes your vision blur.

“Move,” he says roughly against your neck. “Please, move.”

You do, rolling your hips experimentally. You find a rhythm—slow at first, learning what angles work, what movements make him groan and dig his fingers into your hips. Then faster, chasing the pleasure building in your core.

Childe’s hands roam your body like he can’t decide where he wants to touch most. Your hips, guiding your movements. Your waist, fingers spanning your ribs. Your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples and making you gasp. His mouth finds your neck again, sucking marks into your skin.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Ride me.”

You do, picking up the pace, using his shoulders for leverage. The pleasure builds with each roll of your hips, each time he hits that perfect spot inside you. You’re chasing it now, desperate for it, and when his hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit and rubbing it, you nearly sob.

“Childe,” you gasp. “I’m close, I’m—”

“I know. I can feel you. So tight around me, malyshka. Come on, let me feel it. Let me feel you come on my cock.”

The words are your undoing. Your second orgasm makes you clench around him. You hear yourself cry out, some nonsensical combination of his name and profanity, and distantly you feel him shift, gripping your hips and moving you faster, harder, chasing his own release.

“Where?” he gasps. “Where can I—”

“Inside,” you manage, still trembling through aftershocks. “I want to feel you come inside me.”

He buries his face in your neck with a groan, hips stuttering. His arms wrap around you tight, holding you close, and you cling to him just as desperately. Your heart is hammering so hard you can feel it in your throat, and you’re pretty sure his is doing the same because you can feel it against your chest.

“Christ,” he mutters into your shoulder.

You huff a laugh, still catching your breath. “Yeah.”

Slowly, carefully, you extract yourself from him. He winces slightly as he slips out, and you do too, suddenly feeling very empty. He deals with the condom while you collapse onto the bed beside him, boneless and satisfied.

The sheets are a disaster—rumpled and half off the bed, definitely in need of washing. You feel a petty sort of satisfaction at having thoroughly ruined his pristine bedroom.

Childe collapses beside you, reaching for you immediately, pulling you into his side. You go willingly, resting your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow from its frantic pace. His fingers trace idle patterns on your shoulder, up and down your arm, soothing and mindless. Sex is just biology. This—the gentleness—feels like more.

You should leave. This is getting too comfortable.

But you’re warm and sated and his bed is incredibly comfortable, and when you try to sit up, his arm tightens around you.

“Stay,” Childe mumbles, voice heavy with approaching sleep.

“I have work in the morning,” you say.

“So do I.”

You should say no. This is supposed to be about the story, the article and the promotion. You’re not supposed to actually like him. You’re definitely not supposed to fall asleep in his arms after the best sex of your life.

But his breathing is already evening out, and you’re so comfortable, and just this once won’t hurt, right?

“Okay,” you whisper. Within minutes, Childe’s breathing has deepened into sleep, but you lie awake for a long time, staring into the darkness, trying very hard not to think about what you’re doing; eventually, exhaustion wins, and you drift off in his arms.

You wake to pale morning light filtering through the windows, disoriented for a moment before the events of last night come rushing back. Childe is still asleep beside you, one arm thrown over his eyes, the other draped across your waist. His hair is a disaster, copper strands sticking up at odd angles where you’d run your fingers through it. He looks younger like this, peaceful, the sharp edges softened by sleep.

Logically, you should feel triumphant. Phase one complete: sleep with the target, establish intimacy, begin the emotional manipulation. Everything is going according to plan.

Instead, you feel vaguely nauseous.

You carefully extricate yourself from his grip, moving slowly so as not to wake him. He makes a small sound of protest in his sleep but doesn’t wake; he simply rolls over and buries his face in the pillow. The pillow you slept on, you realise. The one that probably smells like your perfume now.

Your clothes are scattered across the floor—blouse, skirt, bra, underwear, all evidence of last night’s activities. You gather them quietly, getting dressed in the pre-dawn dimness. One of the buttons on your blouse is missing, you notice. Childe had torn it off in his haste. The memory sends an unwelcome flutter through your stomach.

You’re halfway to the door when you remember the plan, the tactics you’d researched, all those articles about “how to make him chase you” and the “psychology of desire.” Rule number one: always leave them wanting more. Never be too available. Create mystery, create distance, make them wonder.

Leaving without goodbye is textbook. It’s supposed to make you seem aloof, independent, not too eager. It’s supposed to make him anxious, worried that maybe you didn’t feel the same connection he did. It is, also, manipulative as hell, and you hate yourself for even thinking it.

But this is work. It’s everything you’ve been working towards.

You glance back at him one more time. He’s still sleeping, one hand now stretched out across the space where you’d been lying, as if searching for you even in sleep. Then, you notice your purse on the chair by the door. Your phone is inside it, along with your keys, your wallet, your ID. The idea comes to you fully formed: leave the purse. Give yourself a reason to come back.

More importantly, give him a reason to reach out and prove he’s thinking about you. Men are hunters, one article had said. They need to chase. If you make it too easy, they lose interest.

Your hand hovers over the purse for a long moment, and quickly, you decide to take only your phone and wallet with you, leaving the purse on the chair and slipping out the door.

The elevator ride down feels interminable. The morning doorman gives you a knowing look that makes your cheeks burn—walk of shame, clearly—but you lift your chin and stride past him into the cool Fontaine morning.

“Flowers for the Lifestyle editor?”

The bellboy at The Steambird stands awkwardly by your cubicle, holding an enormous bouquet of white roses and pale blue hydrangeas that probably costs more than your weekly salary. You stare at them.

“There must be some mistake,” you say.

“Are you the Lifestyle editor?” The bellboy checks the card. “It just says ‘Lifestyle section, The Steambird.’”

You’re not the editor—that would be old Monsieur Bellerose, who’s been at the paper since before you were born and who wouldn’t know a hydrangea from a turnip. But you’re the only one currently in the lifestyle section this early in the morning, so you reach for the flowers with growing dread.

“Thanks,” you mutter, and the bellboy looks relieved to be rid of them.

You sneeze. 

“Bless you?” the bellboy offers uncertainly.

You sneeze again, and again. Your eyes are already starting to water.

“Oh, no,” you say, holding the bouquet at arm’s length. “Oh, no, no, no—”

You’re allergic to flowers—every flower that isn’t a cactus or possibly a succulent. It’s why you’ve never understood the appeal of botanical gardens, why you avoid the flower district like the plague, and why your last boyfriend had learned very quickly that giving you flowers was the equivalent of biological warfare.

The irony of being a lifestyle journalist who can’t be within ten feet of a floral arrangement without turning into a sneezing, watery-eyed mess is not lost on you.

“Are you okay?” the bellboy asks.

“Fine,” you wheeze, even as your nose starts to run and your eyes begin to itch. “Just—thanks for delivering them.”

Trying to decide what to do with the bouquet brings you to an impasse. You can’t just throw them away—they’re clearly expensive, and there’s a card, and you should at least read the card before disposing of it. You grab a tissue from your desk drawer with your free hand, pressing it to your streaming nose, and use your pinky to extract the small cream envelope from among the blooms. This, naturally, requires you to bring the flowers closer to your face, which triggers another round of sneezing so intense that Monsieur Bellerose looks up from his desk to see if you’re dying.

The card reads: You left something behind. Including this.

Inside is your lipstick, and beneath it, in elegant script: Dinner tonight, 7pm. I’ll text you the address. — C.

Under normal circumstances, this would be romantic, the kind of gesture that would make any reasonable woman smile and perhaps swoon a little. You are not, currently, any reasonable woman.

“Holy shit, what is that?”

You turn to find Navia standing behind you, coffee in one hand.

“Flowers,” you manage between sniffles. “From Childe.”

“Are you—are you crying?” Navia’s eyes widen in horror. “Did he send you breakup flowers? On day two? That has to be some kind of record—”

“I’m not crying, I’m allergic,” you say. “I’m allergic to flowers. All flowers.”

Navia stares at you before laughing.

“This is not funny,” you say, which is undermined somewhat by the violent sneeze that punctuates the sentence.

“Your rich murder suspect sent you the most romantic, expensive bouquet I’ve ever seen, and you’re allergic to it,” Navia says. “The universe has a sense of humour, I’ll give it that.”

“Help me,” you plead, sneezing again. Your eyes are fully streaming now, mascara probably running down your face. “What do I do with them?”

“Give them to someone else?” Navia suggests, still giggling. “Bellerose’s wife would probably love them.”

“I can’t give away flowers that were specifically sent to me! That’s rude.”

“Ruder than showing up to your date tonight looking like you’ve been crying for six hours straight?”

She has a point, and as soon as you acknowledge this, your phone rings. The caller ID reads Childe.

“Don’t answer it,” Navia whispers, suddenly serious. “You sound like you’re actively dying.”

“I have to answer it,” you whisper back, voice congested. “It’d be weird if I didn’t.”

“You’re going to sound like you’ve been crying!”

“I’ll just—” Sneeze. “—explain—”

You make an executive decision, set the flowers down on the farthest corner of your desk, grab another tissue, and answer the phone. “Hello?” you manage, and immediately wince. You sound like you’ve been gargling gravel and crying into a pillow for the last hour.

“Are you… okay?”

“I’m fine!” you say brightly. 

“You don’t sound fine,” Childe says. “You sound like you’re crying.”

“I’m not crying!” This is technically true. You’re not crying from emotions; you’re crying because your body has decided that flowers are the enemy and must be destroyed via excess mucus production.

“Are you sure? Because if the flowers upset you—”

“The flowers didn’t upset me!” You sneeze.

“That’s the third time you’ve sneezed since you answered,” Childe says slowly. “And you sound extremely congested. Are you sick?”

“No, I’m—” You pause. Either you admit that you’re allergic to his thoughtful, expensive, romantic gesture, or you lie and pretend you’re mysteriously coming down with something. The first option makes you seem ungrateful. The second option is dishonest, but it’s also easier, and you’ve already lied to him about basically everything else, so what’s one more lie—

“I’m allergic to flowers,” you admit miserably. “All flowers—though the ones you sent me are very beautiful, by the way, and very thoughtful, and I really appreciate the gesture.”

Childe, too, starts laughing. Full, genuine, from-the-belly laughter that goes on for so long you start to feel offended.

“It’s not that funny,” you mutter, grabbing another tissue.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps, still laughing. “I’m so sorry, it’s just—I spent twenty minutes at the florist this morning. Twenty minutes. The woman kept suggesting different arrangements and I kept saying no, it has to be perfect, it has to be romantic, and I settled on roses and hydrangeas because they looked classic and elegant, and—” He dissolves into laughter again. “And you’re allergic to them.”

“Very allergic,” you confirm, sniffling pathetically. “I look like I’ve been crying for hours. My coworker thought you’d broken up with me.”

“On day two?” He sounds delighted by this. “What kind of monster do people think I am?”

“You were accused of serial murder, so the bar is pretty low.”

“Okay. Okay, new plan. Where are you right now?”

“At work. At my desk. The bouquet’s three feet away from me.”

“Can you move it?”

“I tried. I had to get the card out. It triggered another sneezing fit.”

“Right. Okay. Don’t touch them. I’m sending someone to pick them up.”

“You don’t have to—I can just give them to my boss—”

“I’m sending someone to send them to your boss’s home, then,” he says firmly, “and I’m sending you something else. Something you’re not allergic to. Do you have any other allergies I should know about? Chocolate? Wine? Sunlight?”

“I’m not a vampire.”

“Good to know. How do you feel about food?”

“I’m pro-food, generally.”

“Excellent. Give me two hours.” You can hear the smile in his voice. “And in the meantime, go wash your face. You probably look terrible.”

“Wow. Romance.”

“You said you look like you’ve been crying for hours,” Childe says. “Go fix that before your editor sees you and thinks I’m some kind of insane boyfriend who sends his girlfriend flowers that make her cry.”

“You’re not my boyfriend,” you point out, even as something warm unfurls in your chest at the word.

“Not yet,” he replies easily. “But I’m working on it. Now, go. I’ll text you when it arrives.”

He hangs up, and you lower the phone, only to find Navia staring at you. “What?” you ask.

“You’re smiling,” she observes. “Like, really smiling.”

“I’m not—” You catch sight of your reflection in your dark phone screen and realise she’s right. Despite your watery eyes and general mucus situation, you’re grinning like an idiot. “Shut up.”

“This is bad,” Navia says, shaking her head. “You’re falling for him.”

“I’m not falling for him! He just—he was nice about the flower situation.”

“He made you laugh while you were actively having an allergic reaction. That’s not just nice, that’s—” She waves her hand vaguely.

“I don’t have feelings. I have a job to do,” you lie, and grab the flowers—at arm’s length, holding your breath—and march over to Monsieur Bellerose’s desk.

“For your wife,” you announce, setting them down and immediately backing away. “With my compliments.”

Bellerose looks up from his crossword, eyebrows raised. “Are you sure? These look expensive.”

“I’m allergic,” you explain, already feeling your sinuses start to clear, “and your wife will appreciate them more than I can.”

“Well, that’s very thoughtful. She’ll be delighted.” He inhales deeply, his large, walrus-like moustache quivering. “Beautiful blooms. Someone must think very highly of you.”

“Sure,” you say, and retreat to the bathroom. Navia was right—you look terrible. Your eyes are red and swollen, mascara smudged down your cheeks. You spend ten minutes with cold water and paper towels trying to repair the damage, and by the time you’re done, you look almost human again.

When you return to your desk, the flowers are blessedly gone, and Monsieur Bellerose gives you a cheerful wave. “My wife says thank you!” he calls. “She’s already showed them off to our neighbours. They’re absolutely divine!”

You try to focus on work—there’s an article about seasonal pastries that needs finishing—but you keep checking your phone. What is Childe sending? And why does it matter so much? You shouldn’t care. This is all manipulation, part of the game. He’s trying to win you over with thoughtful gestures; you’re supposed to be documenting it all for your article, not getting flustered over it.

Your phone buzzes. You grab it so fast you nearly knock over your own coffee.

Childe: Delivery incoming. Hope you like it.

Five minutes later, the bellboy from earlier appears. He’s carrying a large paper bag that smells absolutely incredible.

“For you,” he says, setting it on your desk. “And the sender said to tell you that he’s checked, and there are no allergens.”

You open the bag. Inside is a feast from Café Lutece—the same place you’re supposed to be having dinner tonight. There’s a container of their famous seafood soup, fresh bread still warm from the oven, a small salad with vinaigrette on the side, and a slice of chocolate tart. There’s also a note written on the café’s stationery in what you recognise as Childe’s handwriting.

I figured if I can’t give you flowers without causing a biological incident, I should at least feed you. Consider this a preview of tonight. I’m sorry for laughing. Actually, I’m not sorry. It was objectively hilarious. But I am sorry you’re allergic, malyshka. — C.

Your phone buzzes again.

Childe: Did it arrive?

You: Yes. Thank you. It’s too much.

Childe: Nothing is too much for someone who suffered through anaphylactic shock for my romantic gesture.

You: It wasn’t anaphylactic shock. Just mild respiratory distress.

Childe: That’s basically the same thing.

You: It’s medically very different.

Childe: Are you eating the food or are you arguing with me via text?

You: Can’t I do both?

Childe surprises you the next day with front row tickets to the opera. Despite having lived in Fontaine for a majority of your life, you haven’t actually attended one of the many shows that take place at the Opera Epiclese; that sort of thing usually falls under the purview of Galanopoulo and Houallet, who cover the Arts & Culture section of the newspaper. 

The tickets arrive via courier at noon, tucked into a cream envelope with your name written in that now-familiar handwriting. Inside: two tickets to tonight’s performance at the Opera Epiclese, along with a note.

I know it’s short notice, but I had a feeling you might like this. Pick you up at 6? We can get dinner after. — C.

This is good, you tell yourself. This is perfect, actually. Opera attendance is exactly the kind of thing that would make for good article material. Subject demonstrates excessive romantic gesturing in attempt to impress target. Opera tickets, expensive dinner, etc.

It’s also, according to the three different articles you’d read last night, the perfect opportunity to start implementing phase two of the plan: acting weird.

The theory, as explained by various relationship experts, is that men are initially attracted to mystery and normalcy. To drive them away, you need to shatter that illusion. Be too available. Too interested. Too much. Talk about marriage on the third date. Introduce them to your parents. Pretend to name your future children.

You’d read the articles with growing horror, but Euphrasie had been clear: Make him fall, then make him run. The readers want to see the progression. They want to understand the psychology.

So. Opera. Weird behaviour. Get information for the article. Break his heart. Simple.

You spend the rest of the afternoon oscillating between working on your pastry article (which is mind-numbingly boring) and researching Childe (which is significantly more interesting but also makes you feel like a stalker).

There’s not much available beyond the trial coverage. His social media presence is essentially nonexistent. There’s a LinkedIn that lists him as “Independent Consultant” which tells you absolutely nothing. The most you can find is a brief mention in a business journal about a real estate acquisition, and a photo from some charity boxing match where he’s shaking hands with the Commissioner of the Maison Gardiennage, which is either ironic or ballsy or both.

“Stalking your boyfriend?” Navia appears behind your desk. Apparently, she has nothing better to do than monitor your descent into moral bankruptcy.

“He’s not my boyfriend. And I’m not stalking. I’m researching.”

“For the article where you manipulate him and break his heart?”

“Yes.”

“Just checking.” She peers at your screen. “Find anything good?”

“No,” you say. “There’s nothing about him anywhere except the trial.”

“Maybe he’s boring.”

“He’s not boring.” The words come out more defensive than intended. “He’s just… private.”

“Private or hiding something?” Navia raises an eyebrow. “You know there’s a difference, right?”

“He was acquitted, Navia. He’s innocent.”

“So you keep saying. You know what’s interesting? Three days ago, you didn’t care if he was innocent or guilty. You just cared that he’d make a good copy. Now you’re defending him like he’s actually your boyfriend.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.” Navia sets down her coffee. “Look, I’m trying to be a bitch here. I’m trying to be your friend. And as your friend, I’m telling you that you’re getting in too deep.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You’re going to the opera with him tonight, and I’m willing to bet you’re already planning what to wear, and you’re probably going to end up sleeping with him again, and then you’re going to feel even worse about the whole thing.”

She’s not wrong, which is infuriating. “I have a plan,” you say.

“Oh, this should be good.”

“I’m going to start acting weird. Clingy. All the things that are supposed to drive men away.” You pull up one of the articles on your phone, showing her. “See? I’m going to implement these tactics, and he’s going to start pulling away, and then the breakup will be easier.”

Navia skims through the article, her expression growing increasingly incredulous. “You’re going to introduce him to your parents?”

“My parents live in Mondstadt, so that’s logistically challenging, but theoretically yes.”

“You’re going to talk about baby names.”

“If necessary.”

“You’re an idiot,” she says. “You think you’re going to manipulate him into breaking up with you so you don’t have to feel guilty about it. But that’s not how this works. You’re still lying to him and using him. The only difference is that now you’re being annoying while you do it.”

“It’s for the article—”

“It’s because you like him, but you don’t want to hurt him, so you’re going to make him hurt you first. That way you can tell yourself it’s not your fault.”

“I have to do this,” you say quietly. “The promotion—”

“Is it worth it?” Navia asks. “Really? Is it worth whatever this is doing to you?”

You don’t have an answer to that.

Childe picks you up at six o’clock exactly, and you hate that your heart does a stupid little flip when you see him. He’s wearing a suit, dark blue with a crisp white shirt, and his hair is styled back from his face, and he looks unfairly attractive.

“Wow,” he says when you open the door. His eyes go wide. “You look… wow.”

You’d agonised over what to wear before settling on a black cocktail dress that Navia had insisted you buy last year for a work event. It’s elegant without being too formal, and it makes you look like you know what you’re doing, which is good because you definitely don’t.

“You clean up nice yourself,” you manage.

“I try.” He offers his arm with a small, almost shy smile. “Ready?”

No. Absolutely not. You’re about to spend the evening with a man you’re actively planning to manipulate and destroy, while also trying to get information for an article about said manipulation and destruction, while also possibly developing actual feelings for him, which is the worst possible outcome.

“Ready,” you lie.

The Opera Epiclese is stunning at night. The whole building seems to glow from within, and there are well-dressed people streaming up the steps, chattering excitedly about the evening’s performance. You’ve walked past this building a thousand times, but you’ve never been inside, and stepping through the doors feels like entering a different world. The lobby is all marble and gold leaf, with soaring ceilings and crystal chandeliers. There are ushers in formal wear directing people to their seats, and a bar where people are gathering for pre-show drinks.

“Want a drink?” Childe asks, his hand settling at the small of your back.

“Sure.”

He guides you to the bar and orders two glasses of champagne without asking what you want; it should be presumptuous, but isn’t because he’s already learned that you prefer white wine to red, and champagne is close enough.

“Have you ever been to the opera before?” he says, handing you a glass.

“No. I’ve lived here my whole life and I’ve never actually been inside this building.”

“Really?” He looks surprised. “Why not?”

“Tickets are expensive. And I’ve been busy with work.” You take a sip of champagne. “Plus, I always figured opera was for rich people and tourists.”

“I’m a rich person,” he points out.

“You’re also kind of a tourist,” you say. “You’ve only lived here for what, three years?”

“Four. And I’m hurt that you think I’m a tourist.” He’s smiling though, clearly not actually hurt. “I’ll have you know I’m very integrated into Fontainian society. I know all the best restaurants, I can navigate the canals without getting lost, and I only occasionally get my Fontaine history wrong.”

“That’s exactly what a tourist would say.”

“Rude,” Childe says. He leans closer, voice dropping. “For that, I’m not going to tell you the plot of the opera beforehand. You’ll have to figure it out yourself.”

“I’m sure I can manage.”

“It’s in Old Fontainian,” he says, grinning now.

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not kidding.”

“Childe—”

“Ajax,” he corrects. “And I’m absolutely not kidding. This is a traditional performance.”

You stare at him. “I don’t speak Old Fontainian.”

“Nobody speaks Old Fontainian, malyshka. It’s a dead language. That’s what makes it art. Don’t worry, I’ll whisper translations in your ear.”

“You speak Old Fontainian?”

“Enough to get by. I had to learn it for a business deal a few years ago.” Childe—Ajax—shrugs. “It’s actually not that different from modern Fontainian once you get the hang of the grammar.”

Right. Of course he speaks a dead language. Why wouldn’t he?

The lights flicker, signalling that the show is about to start, and Childe offers his arm again. “Shall we?”

Your seats are, as promised, front row centre. You can practically reach out and touch the stage. The orchestra pit is directly in front of you, and you can see the musicians tuning their instruments, the conductor reviewing his score.

“This is insane,” you mumble as you sit down. “These seats must have cost a fortune.”

“Worth it,” Childe says simply, settling beside you. His knee brushes yours, and he doesn’t move it away.

The house lights dim. The conductor raises his baton. The music begins.

You remember, with sudden clarity, that you’re supposed to be acting weird.

The first act passes in a blur of music and incomprehensible Old Fontainian. True to his word, Childe leans over periodically to whisper translations, his breath warm against your ear. “She’s telling her father she’s in love with the poor merchant. Now the father is angry. Now he’s threatening to disown her. Now she’s singing about how love transcends social class, which is very progressive for a 200-year-old opera.”

His translations are helpful. They’re also distracting because he’s very close and smells good.

During the first intermission, you make your move.

“So,” you say brightly, as Childe returns with more champagne. “How many kids do you want?”

He nearly drops both glasses. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Kids. Children. Offspring.” You take a sip of champagne. This is what the article said to do: bring up serious relationship topics way too early. Make him uncomfortable and drive him away. “I’m thinking three. Maybe four? I’ve always wanted a big family.”

Childe stares at you. “We’ve known each other for three days.”

“I know! Isn’t it crazy how comfortable I feel with you?” You reach over and pat his knee. “I feel like I can really talk to you about anything. Like we’re already so close.”

“Right,” he says slowly. “That’s… good?”

“It is good!” You squeeze his knee. “I was actually thinking, maybe this weekend you could meet my parents. They’re in Mondstadt, but we could take the aquabus. Make a weekend of it. My mom would love you.”

“Your mom. You want me to meet your mom… this weekend?”

“Why not? When you know, you know, right?” you say, beaming at him. “My mom always says that she knew my dad was the one after their second date. We’re on our third date, so we’re technically behind schedule.”

“Behind schedule,” he repeats faintly.

“For meeting the parents, I mean. Not for getting married. I think we should wait at least six months before getting engaged. Maybe a year. What do you think?”

“I think—” He stops and takes a long drink of champagne. “I think you’re right, actually. We can meet your parents over the weekend. They sound wonderful.”

Oh. Oh, no. 

This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. 

You scramble, trying to rapidly think of something even more off-putting to say, but the lights flicker once more. People begin moving back to their seats. Childe stands and offers his hand. “Come on,” he says. “The second act is starting. This is where it gets really tragic.”

“More tragic than a father disowning his daughter for falling in love with a poor merchant?” you manage.

“Way more tragic. Everyone dies at the end. It’s an opera.”

You take his hand and let him lead you back to your seats, and you try very hard not to think about Navia’s words from earlier.

The second act is indeed tragic. The poor merchant turns out to be a prince in disguise, which should make everything better, but instead there’s a complicated plot involving mistaken identities and a duel and someone drinking poison meant for someone else. By the end, there are bodies strewn all over the stage and the soprano is belting out a final aria about the cruel nature of fate. 

It’s beautiful and devastating, and you maybe cry a little bit, which is mortifying.

“Here,” Childe murmurs, handing you his pocket square.

“I’m not crying.”

“Of course not. You just have something in your eyes.”

You take the pocket square and dab at your eyes, trying to salvage what’s left of your mascara. “It’s just very sad.”

“It is,” he agrees. “That final aria always gets me too.”

“You’ve seen this before?”

“Three times. It’s my favourite opera.”

“Your favourite opera is about everyone dying because of miscommunication and fate?”

“I’m a simple man with simple tastes.” He’s smiling though. “Come on. I promised you dinner.”

The next day, Childe takes you to the aquarium. You compare his face to an ugly sea urchin stuck to the bottom of the petting pool. He laughs good-naturedly and, pointing to a dull sea cucumber, says he sees the resemblance between you and it.

The day after that, you watch a movie together, and you accidentally spill caramel popcorn and Diet Coke all over his new trousers. Childe waves it off, and moves out of his chair to get you a new cup, despite the movie’s climax being shown. You feel sort of guilty after that, because he’d really been looking forward to watching it.

The day after that, he takes you to a laser tag arena, and you accidentally kick him in the balls, say, “Oops!” and shoot at him with your gun. He wins anyway, but not without doubling over in pain for a good ten minutes.

All things considered, it seems as though everything’s going smoothly. You and Childe get along better than you thought you would.

“Why exactly are we doing couples’ therapy again?” Childe asks.

“Because,” you say, clutching a clipboard with an intake form that asks extremely personal questions about your relationship satisfaction, “it’s important to work on communication early. Preventative care for the relationship.”

“We’ve been dating for six days.”

“Exactly. That’s why we should start now, before bad habits form. Don’t you want us to have a strong foundation?”

Childe stares at you. “I want a lot of things. Therapy for a relationship that’s less than a week old was not on that list.”

“It should have been on the list.”

“Most people’s week-one list consists of things like ‘learn their last name’ and ‘find out if they’re a serial killer.’”

“I know your last name.”

“Do you?”

You don’t, actually. You’ve been calling him Childe, or Ajax when he insists, but you’ve never heard a surname. “It’s going to come up in therapy anyway,” you say, deflecting.

“It’s Tartaglia,” he says. “Professionally, at least.”

“What does it mean?”

“It means ‘stutterer.’ Someone called me that once when I was learning Fontainian as a kid and kept messing up my words. It stuck.” He leans back in his chair, arms crossed, but he’s smiling slightly. “Are you going to write that down on your little form, malyshka? ‘Boyfriend uses fake Fontainian name from childhood trauma’?”

“It’s not a fake Fontainian—” You stop. “Wait. Did you just call yourself my boyfriend?”

“Did I?” His smile widens. “Must have slipped out. Y’know, because of all the couples’ therapy we’re about to do.”

Before you can respond, the door opens and a woman in her fifties with kind eyes emerges. “Ajax and…?” She checks her notes. “I’m sorry, I only have one name here.”

“That’s me,” you say quickly, standing. “Sorry. I forgot to fill in my name on the form.”

“No worries, dear. I’m Dr. Rousseau. Please, come in.”

Dr. Rousseau’s office is beige, with a small fountain in the corner that makes peaceful trickling sounds, bookshelves crammed with therapy texts, and a comfortable-looking red couch. You and Childe sit down together. He’s close enough that his thigh presses against yours, and you’re acutely aware that this is insane. This is beyond insane. You’re sitting in couples’ therapy with a man you’re actively planning to manipulate and destroy, and he’s going along with it because—

Why is he going along with it?

“So,” Dr. Rousseau says, settling into her chair with a notebook. “Tell me a little about your relationship. How did you two meet?”

“At a gallery opening,” Childe says easily. “She spilled wine on my shoes.”

“It was an accident,” you say.

“A very thorough accident. Completely soaked.”

Dr. Rousseau smiles. “And how long have you been together?”

“Six days,” you say.

Her smile freezes slightly. “…I’m sorry?”

“Six days. Well, technically seven if you count today, but we started dating six days ago.”

Dr. Rousseau sets down her pen. “And you’re seeking couples’ therapy.”

“Preventative care,” you say brightly. “We want to build healthy communication patterns early.”

“I see. And what prompted this decision?”

“She did,” Childe says, gesturing at you. “She suggested it yesterday, ‘cause she thought it would be good for us.”

“And you agreed?”

“I did.” He leans back, draping his arm across the back of the couch behind you. “I figured if she’s willing to sit in therapy after six days, she’s either very committed or very crazy, and I’m curious which one it is.”

“I’m not crazy,” you say.

“I didn’t say you were. I said I was curious.”

Dr. Rousseau scribbles something down. “I see. And tell me—what are some areas where you feel your relationship could improve?”

This is where you’re supposed to unleash a litany of complaints designed to make Childe realise you’re too much work. “Communication. I feel like we don’t communicate enough.”

“We text constantly,” Childe says, turning to look at you.

“Texting isn’t real communication.”

“We talk on the phone.”

“Phone calls aren’t the same as face-to-face.”

“We’ve been face-to-face for the past six days. You kicked me in the balls at laser tag—”

“That was an accident!”

“You didn’t even apologise before shooting me.”

“I’m sensing some unresolved conflict around the laser tag incident,” Dr. Rousseau says.

“There’s no conflict,” Childe says. “I won anyway.”

“Because I let you win. You were in pain.”

“I was fine.”

“You were doubled over for ten minutes!”

“Eight minutes. And I still won.” He turns to Dr. Rousseau. “She’s a terrible shot, by the way. Very aggressive tactics, but no accuracy.”

“I have excellent accuracy,” you say. “You’re just fast.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

Dr. Rousseau clears her throat. “I’m noticing some competitive dynamics here. Tell me, do you often turn interactions into competitions?”

“No,” you say at the same time Childe says, “Maybe.”

You turn to him. “We don’t compete.”

“We do. You made that thing at the aquarium into a competition.”

“I did not make comparing our faces to sea creatures into a competition—”

“You said I looked like a sea urchin.”

“You said I looked like a sea cucumber!”

“Because you said I looked like a sea urchin first!”

“And how did that make you feel, Ajax?” Dr. Rousseau says, leaning forward in her seat. “When she compared you to a sea urchin?”

Childe considers this. “Honestly? I thought it was funny. The urchin was pretty ugly, and I was like, ‘fair enough, she’s got me there.’”

“It was a very ugly sea urchin,” you confirm.

“One of the ugliest I’ve ever seen. So when she pointed out the resemblance, I felt I had to respond in kind. The sea cucumber was right there.”

You’re trying very hard not to laugh. This is supposed to be serious. It’s supposed to be driving him away—but he’s sitting here in couples’ therapy, calmly explaining his revenge tactics, and you can feel your resolve crumbling.

“I’m sensing,” Dr. Rousseau says carefully, “that you two have very different communication styles. What attracted you to each other initially?”

This is dangerous territory. You’re supposed to say something shallow, something that suggests you’re only in it for superficial reasons. But Childe is already answering.

“She asks questions nobody else asks,” he says, and his voice is quieter now. “Everyone else wants to talk about the trial—what happened, how I felt, whether I was scared. But she just asks about normal things. About me. Not about what happened to me.” He pauses, then adds, “And she laughs at my jokes. Even the bad ones.”

Your chest feels tight.

Dr. Rousseau turns to you. “And you? What attracted you to Ajax?”

You should say something generic, meaningless. But you’re looking at him, at the way he’s watching you with those too-blue eyes, and the truth spills out before you can stop it.

“He’s kind,” you hear yourself say. “I didn’t expect that. I expected—I don’t know. Someone harder. Someone bitter, maybe, after everything. But he’s just… kind. He sends food instead of flowers because I’m allergic, and explains opera plots in dead languages. He lets me almost win at laser tag even though I kicked him in the balls.”

“I didn’t let you—”

“You did. You slowed down on purpose in the last round.”

“…Maybe a little.”

Dr. Rousseau is smiling now, a real smile. “It sounds like you two actually like each other quite a bit.”

“We do,” Childe says simply, a statement of fact.

Dr. Rousseau makes another note. “Ajax, I’d like to return to something you mentioned earlier. The trial. You said people always talk about it. Can you tell me more about that experience?”

You feel him tense slightly beside you, though his expression doesn’t change. “What do you want to know?”

“How it affected you. Not the facts—I can read those in any newspaper. But how it felt. How it changed you.”

You’re holding your breath without meaning to—this is the information you need for the article. The emotional impact of being wrongfully accused, straight from the source.

“It was…” Childe stops, seeming to search for words. “D’you know what the worst part was? Not the jail cell, or the accusations, or even standing in that box while people decided whether I was a monster. It was watching people who’d known me for years start to believe it. Friends. Colleagues. People I’d had dinner with, shared drinks with. I could see it in their eyes—this little seed of doubt. Like maybe they’d never known me at all.

“The evidence was circumstantial. I knew I was innocent, and so did my lawyer. But when you’re sitting in that defendant’s box and the prosecutor is listing all these coincidences, all these little pieces that don’t quite fit but could maybe add up to something… you start to wonder if maybe you should doubt yourself too.”

“Did you?” you ask quietly. “Doubt yourself?”

“No. I knew I hadn’t done it, but I started to doubt whether that would matter. Whether being innocent was enough, or if the narrative was too good. The rich foreign kid with a violent streak. Perfect scapegoat. When the killer struck again while I was in custody, the relief was… complicated. Because yes, I was free, but someone else had to die for that to happen. Part of me felt guilty for being relieved about that.

“After I got out, I didn’t want to talk about it. Didn’t want to relive it, didn’t want to see that doubt in people’s eyes anymore. So I just… went back to normal. Pretended nothing happened. Most people were happy to pretend along with me, because it was easier than acknowledging how close they’d come to condemning an innocent person.”

“Is that why you never gave interviews?” you ask. “Everyone wanted to hear your side, but you never spoke to the press.”

“What was I supposed to say?” Childe says. “‘I didn’t do it, please believe me’? I’d been saying that for months. Nobody listened. Why would they listen after?” He shakes his head. “And honestly? I didn’t want to be that person. The wrongfully accused guy. I just wanted to be Ajax again. Guy who likes boxing and opera and occasionally makes terrible jokes.”

“Your jokes aren’t terrible,” you say automatically.

“Liar,” he quips. “The point is… I didn’t want to be defined by the worst thing that ever happened to me. I wanted to be defined by what I chose to do after.”

The guilt sitting in your stomach has transformed into something sharper, more painful. Childe is sitting here, being vulnerable, being honest, talking about not wanting to be defined by trauma—and you’re planning to make him the subject of an article about emotional manipulation.

You’re going to be the person who proves he was right to be afraid.

“What made you trust her?” Dr. Rousseau asks, nodding towards you. “After all that?”

He’s quiet for a moment, looking at you, eyes roving over your face and studying you in a way that makes you want to squirm.

“She spilled wine on my shoes and looked genuinely horrified,” he says finally, “like it was the worst thing that had ever happened. I remember thinking—this person feels bad about ruining a stranger’s shoes. This person feels bad about minor accidents. After months of people thinking I was capable of murder, someone who felt guilty about wine-stained leather seemed like a breath of fresh air.”

Oh, God.

Oh, God, you’re a terrible person. You’re possibly the worst person in Fontaine.

“Malyshka, I know you’re drunk, but you need to get off my living room floor.”

You don’t want to get off Ajax’s living room floor. You’re perfectly content there, lying spreadeagled like a starfish, cheek pressed against the cold marble. It’s been a week since you met Childe and have seen him every day since; you figure he can handle you drunk.

“The floor is nice,” you mumble. “It’s cool.”

“I’m starting to worry about your standards.” Ajax crouches beside you, and even upside down and blurry, he looks unfairly attractive. “Come on. Let’s get you to the couch at least.”

“Can’t. Boneless. I have no bones.”

“You have bones. I can see your skeleton from here.”

“That’s weird,” you say. “Stop looking at my skeleton.”

He laughs, warm and genuine. It makes your chest hurt in ways that have nothing to do with the three (four? five?) glasses of wine you’ve had. “Okay, boneless woman. I’m going to pick you up now.”

“No,” you protest, but it’s half-hearted because he’s already sliding his arms under you, lifting you with ease. When he carries you to the couch, you mumble, “You’re strong.”

“Boxing,” Ajax says, setting you down gently. “I told you.”

“Right. The violence hobby.”

“It’s not a violence hobby, it’s a sport.”

“A sport where you punch people.”

“A sport where you punch people with rules.” He disappears into the kitchen and returns with a glass of water and pain medication. “Drink this. All of it.”

You take the glass but don’t drink. Instead, you stare at him, this man who’s been nothing but kind to you for a week straight, who you’ve been systematically lying to, this man whose trust you’re planning to violate in the worst possible way.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” you ask.

“Because you’re drunk on my couch?”

“No, I mean—” You gesture vaguely, sloshing water slightly. “In general. Why are you so nice? You should be mean and awful. You were accused of murder, you could easily be an asshole about it, but instead you’re—you’re bringing me water and letting me compare you to sea urchins and agreeing to meet my parents who don’t even know you exist.”

Ajax sits down beside you, close enough that your knees touch. “Should I be mean? Would that make you feel better?”

“Yes! No. I don’t know.” You take a large gulp of water to avoid answering further. “You’re confusing.”

“I’m confusing? You’re the one who showed up at my door an hour ago, already three sheets to the wind, demanding to hang out and then immediately collapsed on my floor.”

“I didn’t collapse,” you say.

“You tripped over your own shoes and went down like a sack of potatoes.”

“Lies and slander.”

He’s smiling though, soft and fond, and it makes everything worse. You finish the water in three long gulps and set the glass down with more force than necessary.

“Why did you drink so much?” Ajax asks gently. “Bad day?”

The worst. You’d spent the entire afternoon with Euphrasie, going over your notes, planning the article structure. She’d been thrilled with your progress. This is exactly what we need, she’d said, the emotional vulnerability, the trust, the intimacy. When you pull the rug out, it’s going to be Pulitzer-worthy.

You’d gone straight to a bar after that meeting, and then to another bar, and then you’d found yourself outside Ajax’s building. Evidently, when you’re drowning in guilt and self-loathing, your first instinct is to seek out the source of said guilt.

“Just work stuff,” you say instead. “My editor is being demanding.”

“The lifestyle section is that intense?”

“You have no idea,” you say solemnly.

He laughs again. You wish he would stop doing that. Stop being charming and funny and easy to talk to. Stop making this harder than it already is.

“Can I ask you something?” you say.

“Of course.”

“Do you believe in karma?”

He blinks. “That’s… random.”

“I’m drunk.”

“Fair enough.” Ajax considers it. “I don’t know. Maybe? I’d like to think good things happen to good people and bad things happen to bad people, but my personal experience suggests that’s bullshit.”

“What if you’re doing something bad but for good reasons?” you say. “Like, objectively bad, but the outcome could be good?”

“Are we talking about murder? Because I feel I should clarify that my stance on murder hasn’t changed since the trial.”

“Not murder. Just… lying. Manipulating someone. Hurting them, but for a good cause.”

Ajax is quiet, studying your face. “I think that people are really good at convincing themselves that their reasons justify their actions. Sometimes they’re right, but usually, if you’re asking that question, you already know the answer.”

Your throat feels tight. “What if you can’t stop?”

“Then you come clean. You tell the truth and deal with the consequences.” He reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “This is a very philosophical conversation for someone who can’t stand up without falling over.”

“I contain multitudes.”

“You contain about a bottle of wine, maybe more.”

“Two bottles,” you admit. “And some whiskey.”

“Gods above,” Ajax says, standing up. “Okay. You’re staying here tonight. I’m not letting you go home like this.”

“I can’t stay here.”

“Why not? You’ve stayed over before.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

“I snore,” you say.

“Liar,” Ajax says. “I’ve slept next to you. You don’t snore.”

“I might start. Tonight could be the night.”

“I’ll risk it,” he says, heading towards the bedroom. “C’mon, I’ll get you something to sleep in.”

You follow him on unsteady legs, using the wall for support. His bedroom is exactly as you remember: pristine, minimalist, those hospital corners on the sheets that you’d thoroughly ruined last time you were here.

“Do you ever just… leave things messy?” you ask, gesturing at the perfectly made bed.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I spent three months in a cell where I had no control over anything. Now I like things orderly,” he says, rummaging through his dresser. “Is that psychologically concerning?”

“Probably,” you muse. “But you’re in therapy now, so it’s fine.”

“We went to one couples’ therapy session that you made us go to.”

“And? What did we learn?”

Ajax pulls out a t-shirt and sweatpants. “That you’re competitive, I’m defensive, and we both need to work on our communication skills. Here.” He tosses you the clothes. “These should fit.”

You catch them clumsily. The shirt is soft, worn-in, and smells like him—that cedar and something aquatic scent that you’re starting to associate with him. “Turn around.”

“I’ve seen you naked.”

“That was different. I was sober and in control of my faculties.”

“Your faculties were pretty compromised, as I recall. You couldn’t work buttons.”

“That’s ‘cause you have too many buttons! Who has that many buttons on one shirt?”

“Normal people. People who wear normal shirts.” Ajax turns around anyway. “Let me know when you’re decent.”

You struggle out of your clothes; it’s harder than it should be because the room keeps tilting at odd angles. The sweatpants are enormous, hanging low on your hips even when you tie the drawstring. The shirt falls to mid-thigh. You look ridiculous.

“Okay,” you say. “I’m clothed.”

He turns back around. “You look…”

“Like I’m drowning in your clothes?”

“I was gonna say cute, but sure.”

Your face heats. “Shut up.”

“Can’t. It’s objectively true.” He gestures to the bed. “You take the bed, I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you say. “It’s your bed.”

“You’re drunk, so you get the bed.”

“We can share! We’ve shared before.”

“You were sober before.”

“So? I’m not going to do anything weird. I’m just going to sleep.” You climb into the bed without waiting for his response, burrowing under the covers. The sheets smell like fabric softener and him, unfairly comfortable. “See? Already sleeping.”

Ajax sighs, but you can hear the smile in it. “Fine.”

He disappears into the bathroom. You hear water running, the sound of teeth being brushed. When he emerges, he’s in pyjama pants and a t-shirt, hair slightly damp like he splashed his face. The bed dips as he slides in beside you.

“You can come closer,” you say. “I don’t bite.”

“You might. You’re drunk and unpredictable.”

“I’m not unpredictable. I’m very predictable. Predictably guilty.”

“…What?”

Shit. “Nothing. Ignore me, I’m drunk.”

“Guilty about what?” Ajax asks.

“Everything. Nothing. Life,” you say, rolling over to face him, which is a mistake because he’s very close and very attractive and you’re very drunk and very emotional. “D’you ever feel like you’re a bad person?”

“Frequently,” he says. “I spent three months accused of serial murder, so the bad person thoughts are kind of a given.”

“But you’re not a bad person,” you say. “You’re good.”

He laughs softly. “I don’t think good people get accused of murder.”

“Innocent people do. You’re innocent.”

“Legally, yes. Socially?” He frowns, just a little, the middle of his forehead creasing. “There are people who think I got away with it. That the second killer was a coincidence or a copycat or whatever lets them sleep at night.”

“That’s bullshit,” you say.

“Maybe. But you can’t control what people believe.” His hand finds yours under the covers, fingers threading through yours. “Why do you feel guilty?”

“Because I’m not as good as you think I am,” you say quietly.

“Nobody’s as good as anyone thinks they are. We’re all just disasters pretending to have our shit together.”

“You have your shit together. Your bed has hospital corners.”

“My bed has hospital corners because if I don’t control something, I’ll lose my mind. That’s not having my shit together.”

You’re quiet for a moment, studying his face in the dim light from the window. “Can I tell you something?”

“Anything.”

“I think you’re the best person I’ve ever met, and I think I’m going to ruin it.”

Ajax’s expression softens. “You’re not going to ruin me, malyshka. I’m pretty hard to ruin. I’ve been through worse than whatever you think you’re capable of.”

The confidence in his voice makes you want to cry. He has no idea. No idea what’s coming, what you’re planning, how thoroughly you’re going to betray him. “What if I’m worse than you think?”

“Then I’ll deal with it,” Ajax says, squeezing your hand. “But I don’t think you are.”

You close your eyes, feeling tears prick at the corners. You’re definitely going to Hell. There’s no way around it. You’re going to Hell, and you’re going to deserve it.

“Ajax?”

“Mm?”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

For everything. For lying, and using you, and being exactly the kind of person you should’ve stayed away from. “For being drunk on your floor.”

“I’ve seen worse,” he says. His thumb traces circles on the back of your hand. “Get some sleep. You’re going to feel terrible in the morning.”

“Promise you won’t leave?”

“Where would I go? It’s my apartment.”

“Promise,” you insist, feeling like a petulant child, though you don’t relent.

“I promise.” Ajax pulls you closer, and you let him, pressing your face into his shoulder. “Sleep, malyshka. Everything will be okay.”

The next morning, Ajax tells you a business associate of his—Arlecchino, the owner of the House of the Hearth, a luxury goods business—is hosting a party to celebrate the launch of their newest diamond collection. He says he’s been given two tickets, and can bring a date, and would you please do me the honour?

You say yes.

The morning after that, he sends you food from Café Lutece to your workplace once more, piping hot coffee and croissants smeared with cream, and along with it, a diamond necklace that he says Arlecchino gifted him.

For the diamond in my heart, his note reads.

The evening of the tenth day finds you standing in front of the mirror, awkwardly fiddling with the straps of your dress.

It’s a simple black number: elegant, sophisticated, the kind of thing you’d normally never be able to afford but Navia had insisted you borrow from her mother’s closet. The diamond necklace Ajax sent you sits heavy around your throat, catching the light every time you move. It’s beautiful. Probably worth more than your entire year’s salary.

“Stop fidgeting,” Navia says from where she’s perched on your bed. “You look great.”

“I look like I’m going to throw up.”

“That, too.”

You turn to face her, and the words spill out before you can stop them. “I can’t do this.”

“Do what? Go to a fancy party with your handsome boyfriend?”

“He’s not my boyfriend. And I can’t—” You gesture helplessly at yourself, at the dress, the necklace. “I can’t keep lying to him. Today’s day ten. I’m supposed to dump him tonight and turn in the article tomorrow morning.”

Navia’s expression shifts from teasing to serious. “So don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t dump him, and don’t write the article. Tell Euphrasie you can’t do it.”

“And lose the promotion? Lose everything I’ve been working towards?”

“Is it worth it?” Navia asks quietly. “Really? You’ve been miserable all week. I’ve watched you fall for this guy, and now you’re supposed to destroy him for a story? That’s cruel.”

“I know,” you say. “I know, okay? But I don’t know what else to do. If I don’t turn in the article, Euphrasie will—”

“Fire you? So what? You’ll find another job. You’re a good writer. But Ajax?” She shakes her head. “You won’t find another him.”

She’s right—but the thought of throwing away two years of work, going back to square one and proving everyone who said you weren’t cut out for real journalism right—

Your phone buzzes.

Ajax: I’m downstairs. Take your time.

“I have to go,” you say.

“You don’t have to do anything,” Navia says. “You could call him right now and tell him you’re sick. You could tell him the truth. You could do literally anything except continue this charade.”

“I know.”

“You’re going anyway.”

“I have to.” You grab your clutch, checking that you have your phone, your lipstick, and your keys. “I just—I need to figure this out. Maybe I can—I don’t know. Fix it somehow.”

“There’s no fixing this,” Navia says. “There’s only telling the truth or continuing the lie. Those are your options.”

You don’t have a response to that, so you just leave.

Ajax is waiting by his car when you emerge from the building, and the smile that spreads across his face when he sees you makes your heart clench.

“Wow,” he says, and it’s the same wow from the opera, from every date, like he’s seeing you for the first time. “You look incredible.”

“It’s Navia’s dress.”

“It’s not the dress,” he says, opening the car door for you, “though the dress is nice too.”

The drive to the House of the Hearth is quiet. Ajax seems content to just hold your hand across the centre console, occasionally glancing over at you. You stare out the window and try to figure out what you’re going to do.

Option one: Go through with it. Dump him tonight, write the article, get the promotion. Become exactly the kind of person you’ve always hated.

Option two: Don’t go through with it. Lose the promotion, probably lose your job, but keep… what? A relationship built on lies? He’ll find out eventually, and he’ll hate you anyway.

Option three: Tell him the truth right now. Come clean, face the consequences, and at least maintain some shred of dignity.

Your phone buzzes. You pull it out.

Euphrasie: We need to do something about the article by tomorrow morning if possible. The editorial calendar is tight.

You stare at the message, feeling sick.

“Everything okay?” Ajax asks.

“Yeah,” you lie. “Just work stuff.”

The House of the Hearth is stunning—a converted mansion in the wealthiest part of Fontaine, with marble walls and crystal lamps and other obscene displays of wealth. There are people in formal wear everywhere, champagne flowing freely, and you spot more diamonds in the first thirty seconds than you’ve seen in your entire life.

“This is insane,” you mutter as Ajax helps you out of the car.

“Arlecchino likes to make an impression.” He offers his arm. “If she asks you invasive questions, that’s just her way of showing interest.”

“Great. Can’t wait.”

The party is already in full swing when you enter. There’s a string quartet in one corner, ice sculptures in another, and waiters circulating with trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres. Ajax is immediately pulled into conversation with various people—business associates, all very wealthy and very interested in talking to him. You smile and nod and try not to feel like you don’t belong here.

“You must be the girlfriend.”

You turn to find a woman who can only be Arlecchino. She’s tall, striking, with an air of authority that makes you want to stand up straighter.

“I’m—yes. Hi.” You extend your hand. “Thank you for inviting me.”

“Ajax’s choice, not mine,” she says. Her handshake is firm. “But I approve. You’re different from his usual type.”

“I have a type?” Ajax asks, reappearing with two glasses of champagne.

“You did.” Arlecchino’s smile is sharp. “I like her the most, though.”

“I’m right here,” you point out.

“I know. I’m complimenting you.” She plucks a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “Walk with me. I want to show you the new collection.”

Before you can protest, she steers you away from Ajax, through the crowd towards a private viewing room. The diamond collection is displayed under special lighting, each piece more extravagant than the last.

“Beautiful, aren’t they?” Arlecchino says. “Each one has a story. A history.”

“They’re stunning,” you agree.

“Ajax told me you’re a journalist.”

Your stomach drops. “Lifestyle section. Nothing too exciting.”

“Hmm. And yet you’re dating someone who was the centre of the most sensational trial in Fontaine’s recent history. Curious coincidence.”

“I met him at a gallery opening,” you say carefully. “The trial wasn’t—I didn’t know who he was when we met.”

“You strike me as someone who does her research, though,” Arlecchino says. When you tense, she shakes her head. “Relax. I’m not judging. Ambition isn’t a flaw.”

Before you can respond, you hear raised voices from the main room.

“—can’t believe you actually pulled it off! Ten days!”

You and Arlecchino exchange a look, then head back towards the commotion. You find Ajax surrounded by a group of men in expensive suits. One of them—a tall man with slicked-back hair—has his arm around Ajax’s shoulders, laughing boisterously.

“When you made that bet, Tartaglia, I thought you were out of your mind,” the man is saying, loud enough that people are starting to turn and look. “Make some girl fall in love with you in ten days? I said it was impossible!”

“Dima, keep your voice down—” Ajax is trying to extract himself, looking uncomfortable.

“Why? You won! Fair and square!” Dima raises his glass. “To Childe, who proved that any woman can be manipulated with the right—”

“That’s enough.” Ajax finally pulls away from Dima. “You’re drunk. Go home.”

“I’m celebrating! You won the bet!” Dima turns to the crowd that’s gathering, oblivious to Ajax’s discomfort. “This guy, right here, said he could make any woman fall for him in ten days, and I said—”

“I said I could not screw up a relationship for ten days,” Ajax interrupts, his voice rising. “There’s a difference—”

You’re not listening anymore. The rushing in your ears is too loud. You push through the crowd, trying to get away, trying to breathe—

“Malyshka, wait—”

Ajax catches your arm, and you spin around to face him. The entire party seems to have gone quiet, or maybe that’s just in your head.

“Is it true?” Your voice sounds strange, distant. “Did you make a bet about me?”

“It’s not what it sounds like—”

“Did you or did you not make a bet that you could make me fall for you in ten days?”

He hesitates. It is answer enough.

“Oh, my God.” You pull your arm free. “Oh, my God, you—this whole time—”

“No, listen to me—” He’s reaching for you again, but you step back. “Dima said I couldn’t maintain a relationship for more than a week, that I always get bored and bail. I was trying to prove that I could commit to something for once—”

“By using me as your science experiment?”

“It wasn’t like that! I liked you—”

“You liked me?” You laugh derisively. “How generous. You liked me while you were running your little social experiment.”

“You’re twisting this—”

You’re vaguely aware that people are watching, phones are probably out; this is going to be everywhere by morning, but you can’t stop. “Tell me, Ajax—was any of it real?”

“Of course it was real!” he says. “I fell for you—”

“When? When did you fall for me? Before or after you decided to use me to prove a point to your drunk friend?”

He opens his mouth, closes it. Doesn’t have an answer.

“That’s what I thought.”

“You’re not being fair—”

“I’m not being fair?” you snap. “You made a bet about my feelings!”

“And what about you?” Ajax’s voice turns cold. “You think I don’t know what you’ve been doing?”

You suck in a breath. “What?”

“I’m not an idiot, malyshka. The lifestyle journalist who just happens to approach the guy from the infamous murder trial? Who asks all these probing questions about trauma and feelings?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

“The way you’d pull out your phone after our dates and type for ten minutes, and the fact that you work for a newspaper and I’m a story that sells.” Ajax takes a step closer, and you instinctively step back. “So, tell me—and be honest for once in your life—are you writing an article about me?”

You could lie. You could deny it, act offended, turn this back on him—but you’re so, so tired of lying.

“How to lose a guy in ten days,” Euphrasie’s voice cuts through the crowd. Your stomach plummets as your editor materialises beside you; you hadn’t known she’d been invited, too. “That was the assignment. Make a man fall for you in ten days, then dump him and document the whole thing. I always wondered who this mystery man you spoke so much about was—”

“Euphrasie, don’t—”

Ajax stares at you like he’s never seen you before. “You were going to dump me. Tonight. That was the plan.”

“It was,” you admit, because what’s the point in lying now? “But I couldn’t do it. I wasn’t going to—”

“Oh, well, that’s wonderful. How noble of you.” His voice is dripping with sarcasm. “You were only going to emotionally manipulate me for ten days and write an exposé about it. What a fucking saint.”

“You did the same thing!” you cry. “You made a bet! How is that any different?”

“You wanted to lose a guy in ten days, right?” Ajax rakes a hand through his hair, fingers trembling and eyes blank now. He looks at you like he doesn’t know you anymore, as though you’ve simply ceased to exist in his world. “Congratulations. You’ve just lost him.”

You feel cold, and hot, and cold again, like your blood has turned to ice.

“No, I didn’t, Childe,” you spit. “You know why? Because you can’t lose something you never had.”

Drafts:

HOW TO ROYALLY FUCK THINGS UP IN TEN DAYS

HOW TO LOSE

HOW TO FALL IN LOVE

HOW TO LOSE A GUY IN TEN DAYS Published by The Steambird.

They say that to be a good journalist, you need to be willing to do whatever it takes to get the story. You need to be ruthless, calculating, willing to cross lines that other people won’t cross. You need to separate yourself from your subject and remember that at the end of the day, it’s just a job.

This was supposed to be an article about manipulation. About the psychology of attraction, the tactics women use to drive men away, the point at which romantic interest curdles into annoyance. It was supposed to be funny, insightful, a clever article on modern dating wrapped in a personal experiment. It was supposed to get me a promotion.

Ten days ago, I met a man at a gallery opening. I spilled wine on his shoes accidentally, and he laughed. Most men would’ve been annoyed, but he laughed, and he asked if I wanted to get dinner sometime, and I said yes.

I said yes because I had been assigned to write an article called “How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days.” The premise was simple: make a man fall for you using every manipulation trick in the book, then systematically drive him away and document the whole process. My editor wanted to understand the psychology of romantic sabotage. The readers would eat it up. I would finally escape the lifestyle section.

I needed a subject. He was perfect: high-profile, and media-shy. A man who had been wrongly accused of murder and acquitted, who had never spoken to the press and moved through the world with his guard up. If I could get him to open up to me and make him trust me, the article would be dynamite.

They say you can’t unring a bell. You can’t unknow something once you know it. The man now knows that I approached him for an article. That our first date, our first kiss, and our first night together—all of it happened because I was trying to manipulate him.

It doesn’t matter that I fell for him, or that I quit the assignment. It doesn’t matter that I would give anything to go back and meet him differently, honestly, as just myself.

It only matters what I did.

This is not a how-to guide, or a divulgence on manipulation tactics or dating psychology. This is a warning.

You will meet someone who makes you laugh when you’re having an allergic reaction. Someone who sends you food instead of flowers, who whispers translations at the opera, and who agrees to couples’ therapy after six days because you asked. Someone who has been hurt before and chooses to trust you anyway.

You will have a choice.

You can treat them like a person, or you can treat them like a story. You can be honest, or you can be clever. You can build something real, or you can build something that looks real enough to write about.

Choose wisely.

EDITOR’S NOTE: This article is being published in place of the originally assigned piece. The author has resigned from her position at The Steambird effective immediately. We wish her the best in her future endeavours.

There’s a box at your doorstep, and a cream-coloured envelope on top of it, with your name written in a script you’d recognise anywhere. The note inside reads:

You left something behind. 

Okay, no, I’m kidding. You didn’t leave something behind, you left someone behind. Namely, me.

I read your article. The whole city did. It was good. Better than good, actually.

Here’s what I know: we both fucked up. You lied to me about why you approached me, and I lied to you about the bet. We were both using each other for something; we both caught feelings we weren’t supposed to catch.

Here’s what else I know: I miss you, malyshka.

I’m at Café Lutece every morning at 7 A.M. I’ll be there tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that. Come find me. I’ll buy you coffee.

— Ajax

P.S. The box has your purse in it. The one you left on purpose on day one. I kept it because I’m sentimental and pathetic, but you can have it back now.

P.P.S. Or you could leave it at my place again.

He executed a small bow. “Guilty. And you must be the sister of the Earl of Kremnos. My bride-to-be. Or perhaps my bride-who-was, depending on whether that trellis holds.”

This could not be happening.

“Well,” you said, because there truly seemed to be nothing else to say, “I suppose you’ve caught me, then. Congratulations, Your Highness. You can go inform Lady Caenis that the bride is making a run for it. I’m sure she’ll have some very stern words for me before she locks me in my chambers until the ceremony.”

“I could do that,” the King agreed. He moved closer to the trellis, one hand reaching up to grip the wood—testing it, you realised, checking its stability. “Or I could help you down from there before you fall and further ruin what appears to be a very expensive dress.”

“…Help me?”

“Unless you’d prefer to hang there until the ceremony begins. Though I should warn you, the chapel bells will ring in approximately forty-five minutes, and I imagine Lady Caenis will come looking for you well before then.”

He was right, of course. And the trellis was creaking more ominously by the second, and your arms were beginning to ache from holding your weight, and your fingers were getting scraped by the rough wood and thorns.

“Why would you help me?” you asked suspiciously. “I’m trying to escape from marrying you. Shouldn’t you be trying to stop me?”

“Perhaps,” he said. “But I’m curious to see how far you’ll get.”

Before you could respond to that utterly baffling statement, he had begun to climb. The trellis groaned in protest—it had barely been holding your weight, and now it had to support his as well—but somehow it held. Within moments, he had reached your position.

Up close, he was even more striking than you had thought from below. His silver-white hair fell across his forehead in a way that seemed almost careless. His eyes, the colour of ice over deep water, studied you with an intensity that made you want to look away.

But you didn’t. You held his gaze and tried not to think about how improper this was, the two of you clinging to a trellis together on the morning of your wedding, close enough that you could smell him.

“Now then,” he asked, quieter now. “Where exactly were you planning to go, dressed like that?”

“Away,” you said. “Anywhere. Somewhere you couldn’t find me.”

“Ah. And you thought climbing over the garden wall was the best route?”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Most people who attempt to flee an arranged marriage at least have the good sense to change out of their wedding attire first.”

“I did not have the time,” you said. “Arielle only left for five minutes, and I had to seize the opportunity.”

“Arielle is your maid?” he asked.

“Yes. The poor thing is probably having hysterics right about now, wondering where I’ve gone.”

The King—your husband-to-be, though you could hardly believe it—tilted his head slightly. “You know,” he said, “when Lady Caenis told me you had arrived yesterday, I thought about coming to greet you. I got as far as the corridor outside your chambers.”

You stared at him. “What?”

“I stood there for ten minutes, trying to decide what to say. How to explain…” He trailed off, looking away for the first time since he’d climbed up to meet you. “It does not matter. I didn’t come in. I left. And then at dinner, I… I know how it sounds, but you must believe me. I was truly indisposed. I know what you must think of me.”

“Why?” you asked. “Am I truly so horrific to look at?”

His eyes snapped back to yours. “On the contrary. We should get down from here before this entire structure collapses and we both end up in the rose bushes.”

Having said this, the King began to climb down, and you followed, more carefully now, acutely aware of how close he was, how his body moved gracefully despite the precarious footing. When you reached the bottom, he held out a hand to help you down the last few feet. Your feet touched the grass, and you stood in the garden, cheeks aflame, your ridiculous wedding gown covered in dirt and torn lace and your hair coming loose from its pins.

“So,” the King said, “what will it be, my lady? Will you run, or will you stay?”

“You will not force me?” you asked.

“I may be a king, my lady, but I am no brute,” he said. “If you do not wish to marry me, we shall cancel the wedding immediately.”