Chapter Text
Ragunna City, Montelli Estate.
Sigrika hates galas.
Not in the dramatic, revolutionary sense some nobles pretended to. She wasn’t going to stand on a table, and denounce aristocracy before fleeing into the night.
She simply hated the exhausting performance of it all. The smiling, the introductions, and the endless stream of people who spoke to her like she was less of a person and more a very promising future investment.
Tonight’s event at the Montelli estate in Ragunna City was especially unbearable.
The estate overlooked the ocean cliffs like a palace carved directly into moonlight itself, all marble terraces and gold-lit balconies. Everything here felt expensive enough to start wars over. Every chandelier burned gold overhead, warm light cascading across polished marble floors and silk gowns while a quartet played somewhere near the grand staircase.
Which somehow made things worse because Sigrika is very aware she’s nowhere near home.
Back in Septimont, she at least understood the rhythm of politics. Septimont carried structure differently than Ragunna: discipline, ceremony, rituals and hierarchy. Her mother, Augusta ruled as the Ephor with the same terrifying precision that she applied to every aspect of her life, and her other mom, Iuno, who is a priestess, balanced that sharpness with warmth people naturally gravitated toward.
Ragunna City felt very different. Sure, it’s elegant but in a deceptive way.
Beautiful things in noble society were usually dangerous.
Sigrika is currently hiding behind a decorative marble pillar near the edge of the ballroom, clutching a champagne flute she hadn’t touched in nearly twenty minutes. What had started as a tactical retreat after an unbearable conversation had somehow evolved into full strategic concealment.
Unfortunately, she had made the mistake of correcting one of the noble heirs earlier in the evening after he confidently misquoted Septimont trade policy. Now she is avoiding the consequences of her own behavior.
The ballroom stretched endlessly around her, and the nobles gathered beneath towering archways in elegant clusters, laughing softly into crystal glasses while servants moved silently between them. Everything about it looked beautiful in the kind of way only obscenely wealthy families could achieve.
Sigrika leaned slightly farther behind the pillar, peeking around it just enough to make sure none of the remaining “eligible candidates” were approaching her. The heir she’s been avoiding still stood near the center of the ballroom speaking animatedly to another guest.
Good. Maybe he found someone else to incorrectly explain maritime tariffs to.
“You do realize I can still see you.”
Sigrika nearly spilled the champagne. She jerked upright so abruptly the liquid sloshed dangerously close to the rim of her glass before she turned slowly toward the voice behind her.
Augusta stood several feet away with her arms folded neatly across her chest, elegant and impossibly composed beneath the ballroom lights. Even surrounded by Ragunna’s wealthiest nobles, the Ephor of Septimont somehow carried herself like she belonged above all of them. Beside her stood Iuno, with a softer expression in comparison, though the amusement tugging at the corners of her mouth suggested her patience was beginning to wear thin too.
She realized her parents had already figured out exactly what she was doing.
“Hi Mother…” Sigrika greeted weakly before glancing toward Iuno. “Mom…”
“You vanished during the introductions again.” Augusta said, but not loudly. She never needed to be loud with Sigrika.
Sigrika straightened instinctively beneath that devastating stare. “I didn’t vanish.” She argued quickly. “I… strategically relocated.”
Augusta stared at her without blinking. Sigrika gestured vaguely toward the pillar beside her. “And did you know this column is actually structurally fascinating? The marble veining suggests-”
“You abandoned one of the noble heirs mid-conversation.”
Sigrika frowned immediately, deeply offended on principle. “In my defense, he started explaining Septimont trade policy to me incorrectly.”
“And you corrected him for fifteen minutes.” Augusta replied flatly.
“Because he was wrong.”
“That is not the point, Sigrika.”
“That is the point, Mother.”
Beside Augusta, Iuno covered her mouth briefly, very clearly failing to hide a laugh.
Augusta, meanwhile, looked upward for one long second like she was silently asking the universe for patience.
Sigrika considered that gesture unfair. “He cited outdated Septimont trade policy. To me, the daughter of the Ephor.” Sigrika continued, because apparently nobody else in this room appreciated intellectual integrity. “And then he tried to explain maritime tariffs while standing inside a Montelli estate. Which feels objectively reckless.”
“Sigrika…”
“I’m just saying if someone is going to flirt with me, they should at least understand basic regional economics.”
That statement finally made Iuno laugh properly. “She’s got a point there, my love.”
Augusta pinched the bridge of her nose.
“Sweetheart.” Iuno said gently as she stepped closer, resting a hand lightly against Sigrika’s arm, “you do understand we’re only asking you to consider these events seriously.”
Sigrika stared at her in disbelief. “How could I? The host invited seven noble families to one event.”
“Five.” Augusta corrected immediately.
“And one of them brought their son and a portfolio!”
“A portfolio?” Iuno echoed, visibly horrified.
“Yes.” Sigrika pointed accusingly into the crowd as though the man might reappear through sheer force of irritation alone. “He handed me documents. Actual documents. There were financial projections.”
Iuno’s eyes widened in genuine horror. “He did not!”
“He did.” Sigrika said miserably, dragging a hand down her face. “And then he started discussing long-term political compatibility like we were negotiating a trade alliance instead of having a conversation. I think he was trying to assess my suitability for marriage through fiscal policy.”
The appalled look on Iuno’s face softened almost immediately into sympathy. “Oh, sweetheart.”
Before Sigrika could react, Iuno stepped forward and pulled her into a hug, and Sigrika let out a dramatic sound of suffering as she folded against her mother instinctively, burying her face briefly against Iuno’s shoulder.
“It felt like a job interview.” She complained into the fabric of her mom’s dress. “I’m almost certain he was evaluating me for business purposes.”
“That does sound terrible." Iuno murmured sympathetically, one hand smoothing gently through Sigrika’s hair. “My poor daughter.”
“Thank you, mom.” Sigrika said weakly, clinging to her for another few seconds longer than necessary.
Nearby, Augusta sighed with the exhausted resignation of someone who had long accepted that both her wife and daughter were catastrophically dramatic together. “You are twenty-six years old, Sigrika.” She said, “You are not getting any younger, and the last thing I want is for my daughter to be an old maiden.”
“Mother!” “Augusta!” Sigrika and Iuno gasped in unison.
“That is a horrific thing to say to your own daughter publicly!” Iuno exclaimed as she smacked Augusta’s arm.
“Well, if we’re going by Sigrika’s logic, since we are standing behind a pillar... No one should notice right?” Augusta shrugged.
“Still! People can hear the damage you just inflicted on me verbally.”
Augusta remained entirely unmoved. “I only said that because you are entirely unwilling to think about your future.”
“I think about my future constantly.” Sigrika shot back immediately. “That's why I’m stressed.”
The humor faded from her expression first, and then from Iuno’s.
The pressure had been building for months now. Invitations, carefully arranged introductions, and subtle conversations disguised as concern. Sigrika knew her parents loved her to death, and both of them would never truly force her into an unhappy marriage.
But expectations, politics and obligations still existed; and these things had a way of tightening slowly around a person’s throat until breathing itself became exhausting.
“Yet… you’re avoiding every potential suitor for the last few hours.” Augusta observed quietly.
“Correct.”
“Would you at least tell us why?”
Sigrika opened her mouth then stopped because she couldn’t explain why every conversation tonight had felt hollow. Why every carefully curated noble heir bored her within minutes. Why every attempt at flirtation felt rehearsed and artificial, like everyone here was playing a role they’d inherited generations ago.
And worst of all? She couldn’t explain that no matter how hard she tried, her mind kept comparing them to someone else, and that in fact, was the real problem.
As if summoned by the thought itself, movement near the ballroom entrance caught Sigrika’s attention.She looked up instinctively, and forgot the rest of the conversation entirely.
Denia had arrived.
There was no dramatic announcement, no flood of attention demanding the room acknowledge her presence. Denia entered with the exact kind of restraint that suggested she would’ve preferred nobody notice her at all.
Which, unfortunately for her, had never once stopped people from noticing.
The shift happened subtly at first. Conversations faltered for half a second, and eyes turned. Nobles standing near the entrance straightened unconsciously as Denia passed them. Not because she demanded attention, but because attention simply followed her anyway.
The heir of the Fisalia-Montelli family carried a presence that’s impossible to ignore.
Sigrika hated that she noticed immediately, and hated even more that her chest tightened every single time she did.
Denia moved through the crowd with effortless composure, one hand tucked loosely into the pocket of her dark tailored suit. Unlike the elaborate formalwear surrounding her, she wore something sharp and restrained: charcoal black with silver detailing along the cuffs and collar, the chandelier light catching faintly against polished metal accents whenever she moved.
Carlotta’s influence was obvious in the way Denia carried herself. The poised elegance, the straight posture, and the effortless navigation of noble society without ever seeming consumed by it.
Carlotta Montelli had always been the kind of woman who could silence a room simply by entering it not through force, but through precision and control. By knowing exactly who she was in every situation.
Denia had inherited that same composure as naturally as breathing.
Not by blood, but by love.
Carlotta had married Cantarella when Denia was four, long enough ago that most people no longer bothered distinguishing between stepmother and mother when it came to Denia.
Least of all Denia herself. Sigrika still remembered hearing it for the first time years ago.
“My Mother said—”
And Sigrika, confused, asking. “Which one?”
Only for Denia to stare at her blankly before replying, “Do you need a chart or?”
The memory nearly made Sigrika laugh now because Denia belonged so fully to both women who raised her that separating their influence felt impossible. She carried all of it at once.
Sigrika knew that Denia cared far too much underneath it all. She just hid it beneath dry remarks, quiet expressions, and the persistent act of pretending nothing affected her.
A masterclass performance, honestly.
Ragunna City adored her for it. Septimont’s nobles found her intimidating.
Sigrika found her impossible because she noticed the things other people missed.
The way Denia accepted greetings politely despite clearly wanting to be anywhere else, and the way her attention constantly moved through the room, quietly assessing everyone but settling nowhere for long.
A passing server offered her a drink. Denia accepted it with the resigned expression of someone tolerating society purely out of obligation. Then, as if sensing it, her gaze lifted. Straight across the ballroom, toward Sigrika.
Their eyes met, and Denia narrowed hers slightly almost immediately. Just carrying the exact expression of someone who already knew Sigrika was about to become a problem.
Which, frankly? Fair.
Beside her, Augusta noticed the direction of Sigrika’s attention and sighed quietly.
“Don’t…” she warned.
Sigrika was already moving before Augusta finished her sentence.
By the time she escaped the ballroom, Denia had relocated to one of the estate’s outer balconies overlooking the cliffs below Ragunna City.
The night air curled cool against Sigrika’s skin as she stepped outside. Wind moved through the marble arches overlooking the ocean, carrying the scent of saltwater and distant rain while muffled music drifted faintly from inside the ballroom behind them.
Below the cliffs, dark waves crashed rhythmically against black stone.
Denia stood near the balcony railing with one hand resting lightly against the marble edge, staring out toward the ocean.
She looked significantly more comfortable out here, but not relaxed. Sigrika wasn’t entirely convinced Denia understood the concept of relaxation.
Moonlight caught faintly against the silver accents of her suit as the wind pushed several strands of dark hair across her face.
“You disappeared.” Sigrika finally said.
Denia didn’t look at her. “Congratulations on your investigative skills, Siggy.”
Sigrika grimaced. “Don’t call me that. We’re not kids anymore.”
That remark finally earned her a glance. Dry amusement flickered briefly across Denia’s face before disappearing again. “Well…” Denia replied smoothly, turning her attention back toward the ocean, “you interrupted my peace. I’d say it's fair compensation.”
Sigrika moved beside her against the railing. “You came to a gala voluntarily. That sounds like a personal mistake from where I'm standing...”
A quiet snort escaped Denia before she could stop it. “Well, my parents threatened me with consequences if I skipped another event this season.” Denia deadpanned.
The words were delivered so flatly that Sigrika laughed immediately before she could stop herself. The sound escaped her too quickly against the backdrop of the wuthering waves and distant ballroom music.
And for the briefest moment, Denia’s expression softened. It was subtle, and most people probably wouldn’t have noticed it at all; but Sigrika did, and she always did.
The corner of Denia’s mouth twitched upward before she looked back out toward the ocean again, as if allowing herself even that much visible amusement had already been too generous.
“They physically dragged me into the car, you know?” Denia continued after a moment, voice carrying that same dry, unimpressed cadence. “Apparently being the heir of the Fisalia-Montelli family means I cannot continuously vanish from public appearances.”
The wind shifted through the balcony, stirring loose strands of dark hair across her face. Denia didn’t bother moving them away.
Sigrika smiled helplessly. “That does sound like them.” Honestly, she could picture it perfectly.
Cantarella standing elegantly near the doorway issuing quiet emotional ultimatums while pretending she wasn’t emotionally blackmailing her own daughter.
Carlotta, significantly less patient, already halfway prepared to physically remove Denia from the building herself if necessary.
Denia finally glanced sideways at her. Like the world exhausted her in advance, and she had simply accepted that suffering was now part of daily life. Most people believed it completely, and assumed Denia was a cold person. Difficult to approach, and uninterested in everyone around her.
Sigrika didn’t because she had known Denia since they were kids.
Long enough that Septimont and Ragunna City stopped feeling like separate worlds whenever they were together. Long enough to recognize every tiny fracture in Denia’s carefully constructed indifference.
There had been countless moments over the years where Sigrika would insist she was fine only for Denia to silently appear beside her ten minutes later holding coffee, tea, snacks, a jacket, headache medication; whatever problem Denia had quietly solved without acknowledgement.
There were times where Denia would linger near exits whenever Sigrika looked overwhelmed in crowded rooms.
Yet every single time, she acted like it meant nothing.
The terrifying part was how convincing she could be to everyone else because unless they paid attention, they’d miss it completely.
She cared constantly. She just hid it beneath sarcasm, exhaustion, and carefully curated emotional distance.
And maybe that was what made Sigrika’s chest ache whenever she looked at her.
Denia cared for her. In all the ways that mattered most. Which made moments like this strangely precious because Denia did not stay around people unless she genuinely wanted to.
She tolerated social gatherings with the same exhausted patience most people reserved for terrible weather. Denia attended noble functions because she had to, but willingly lingering beside someone after obligation had ended?
That was rare, and yet she stayed.
Out here on the balcony overlooking Ragunna’s cliffs, with moonlight pouring silver across marble stone and the ocean roaring softly below them, Denia stayed.
Not checking her terminal nor making excuses to leave. She simply stood beside Sigrika in comfortable silence, one hand resting lazily against the railing while distant music drifted through the open balcony doors behind them.
That alone felt dangerous.
“Your parents are hunting you tonight.” Denia observed after a while. Her tone remained calm, detached in the way it always was, but Sigrika caught the faint thread of amusement hidden beneath it. Denia kept her eyes fixed on the ocean as she spoke, slowly swirling the untouched drink in her hand like this conversation required only minimal participation from her.
Sigrika groaned softly and leaned harder against the railing. “They’re trying to arrange my marriage.”
Denia took a slow sip of her drink. “I know.”
Sigrika blinked immediately, turning toward her in disbelief. “You know?”
That earned her another sideways glance from Denia. “You’ve been visibly spiraling for weeks.”
“I have not been spiraling.”
Denia looked profoundly unconvinced. “You explained inheritance law to a bartender because someone mentioned courtship.”
Sigrika straightened instantly in self-defense. “That happened one time.”
“It lasted twenty-seven minutes.”
“The tax structure was relevant…” Sigrika muttered.
“It was a wine bar, Siggy.”
“But the bartender asked follow-up questions?”
“No.” Denia corrected smoothly, “the bartender was just being polite, and he was hoping you would drop the conversation on his behalf.”
Sigrika looked away with all the dignity of someone who knew she’d already lost the argument. “The point still stands.”
A quiet sound escaped Denia then. Suspiciously close to a laugh.
Sigrika’s eyes widened immediately. “Was that a laugh?”
“No.”
“That was absolutely a laugh!”
“You imagined it.”
“Nia…”
“You continue to imagine it.”
Liar. Sigrika thought.
Warmth spread embarrassingly quickly through Sigrika’s chest anyway. She smiled despite herself and shifted closer beside Denia against the railing, their shoulders nearly brushing.
A cool wind swept across the balcony, carrying saltwater through the night air. Several loose strands of dark hair slipped free across Denia’s face, catching briefly in the moonlight. And before Sigrika could stop herself… she reached out.
The motion happened entirely on instinct. Her fingers brushed lightly against Denia’s temple as she tucked the strands back behind her ear, soft hair sliding across her skin for the briefest second before reality crashed back into place.
Oh no. Sigrika froze instantly.
Too late. Her hand lingered half a heartbeat longer than it should have, and Denia went still beneath the touch.
She isn’t tense nor uncomfortable; just completely focused. All of her attention narrowed onto Sigrika at once with enough intensity to make the air feel thinner.
That was the problem with Denia.
Most of the time she wrapped herself so carefully in restraint and dry indifference that moments like this became overwhelming by comparison. The second Denia truly looked at someone, it felt like standing too close to something sharp enough to cut straight through her.
Sigrika swallowed hard then panicked. “Humor me.” she blurted abruptly.
Denia’s eyes narrowed immediately. “No.”
“You don’t even know what I’m asking.” Sigrika pouted.
“And I'm not entertaining it.”
“That’s rude.”
“That’s from experience. Last time you said, “humor me”, you fell out of the sky.”
“That was one time!” Sigrika exhaled sharply through her nose before forcing herself to continue before courage abandoned her completely. “I’m gonna ask anyway… Since you know,” she began carefully, “we’re both heirs…”
Denia’s expression shifted immediately with intense suspicion.
“I think…” Sigrika continued weakly, “we should act like we’re together.”
Catastrophic silence answered her.
The ocean crashed against the cliffs below them while distant ballroom music drifted faintly through the night air, and Denia stared at her like she had briefly grown two more heads. “Absolutely not!”
“Please, Denia?”
“No!”
“You’re literally perfect for this.”
“That is not persuasive.”
“It should be.”
Denia looked genuinely offended now. “Why…” she asked slowly, “would I voluntarily involve myself in noble political theater?”
“Because you already terrify most noble families.”
“Honestly, good.”
For one terrible second, Sigrika thought she might actually lose this argument then Denia sighed. Sigrika was beginning to suspect sighing was Denia’s primary method of communication.
“Why me?” Denia asked finally.
And there it was. The real question beneath the sarcasm.
The honest answer rose immediately in Sigrika’s chest and terrified her on contact because she trusted Denia, and Denia had never once made her feel stupid for being awkward or overly analytical or emotionally invested in obscure things nobody else cared about.
Denia actually listened to her, and being around her felt easy, safe…
So naturally, Sigrika panicked. “You’re convincing?” she offered weakly.
Denia stared at her blankly, entirely unimpressed. “That,” Denia said slowly, “was your answer?”
Sigrika immediately covered part of her face with one hand. “I panicked.”
“You panicked?”
Another pause settled between them after that. Denia looked away again, thoughtful now instead of dismissive.
“How long?” Denia asked.
Sigrika straightened so fast she nearly dropped her drink.
“Wait, seriously?”
“I’m evaluating how stupid this idea is.”
“Six weeks?” Sigrika suggested.
“One month.”
“Five weeks.”
Denia turned slowly toward her. “Your negotiating skills are horrible.”
“So I’ve been told.” Sigrika grinned, not taking any offense.
Another sigh escaped Denia. “One month. That’s it.” She muttered at last. Sigrika nodded and smiled so brightly that Denia immediately looked away toward the ocean again like direct eye contact had suddenly become physically hazardous.
What the hell did I just get myself into? Both Sigrika and Denia thought.