Chapter Text
Sansa was already exhausted by the time they reached Margery's townhouse. Everybody was upset with her. Well, it wasn't her fault that she wasn't a good liar.
When the professor asked about their weekend, she ended up admitting that they had spent the whole night watching a runway show. Well, they were fashion students. Of course they had spent the night arguing over silhouettes, fabrics, and collections instead of finishing their project. what did he expect? But again, that didn't excuse them from not completing the project.
They had already fabricated a story about getting food poisoning and spending the weekend in the hospital, and she couldn't help thinking what a stupid excuse it was. Unbelievable. They treated lies like accessories—something you could throw on at the last minute and hope completed the look. Unfortunately, she had never known how to wear one convincingly.
Loras and his friends (which includes only Renly and Brienne) were already there when they arrived. Obviously, everybody ended up repeating the story about how she couldn't even lie and how she needed some kind of punishment so she wouldn't do it again.
Brienne gave her a sympathetic look, and they all decided on a pizza party.
Being born as a Stark, money was never a problem for Sansa. She was Daddy's princess, after all.
It reminded her that she needed to call her brother. Her dad was going to visit next week, and she wasn't sure whether to introduce her boyfriend, Harry. Somehow, she knew her dad wasn't going to approve of him. Still, for her sake, he probably wouldn't reject him outright.
Sansa opened the door before he could ring the bell a second time.
"Dad."
A warm smile spread across her face, but it faded almost immediately. He looked exhausted. He looks like one of her favourite coats after years of careful use—still standing, still elegant, but showing tiny signs of wear only someone who loved it would notice. The dark circles beneath his eyes were impossible to miss, and for the first time, he seemed older than she remembered.
He smiled anyway.
"Are you going to let me in, or are we having this conversation in the hallway?"
She stepped aside. "Sorry."
He walked in slowly, setting his overnight bag near the couch.
"You look tired," she said, taking his coat.
"I'm fine."
She stared at him for a moment.
"You always say that."
"And I'm usually right."
She wasn't convinced, but she knew better than to push him when he answered in that calm, familiar tone.
"I'll make some coffee."
While the kettle heated, he looked around the apartment. It was neat, almost too neat. His eyes lingered on the men’s jacket hung over the back of one of the dining chairs, for only a second before moving on, A flicker of curiosity crossed his face. Then it was gone. As if he'd chosen to leave one loose thread untouched.
Sansa returned with two cups and placed one in front of him.
"So," he said, wrapping his hands around the warm cup, "how's college?"
"The professors are trying to kill us."
"They've been trying that since my university days."
She smiled.
"For a second, I thought you'd sympathize."
"Never."
The conversation wandered through familiar topics—classes, assignments, her brother's latest adventure, and a few stories from home. It almost felt normal.
Almost.
Then he set his cup down.
"How's the business?"
The smile on her face disappeared.
"It's... fine."
"Fine?"
He watched her quietly.
"Have they been asking you to sign documents?"
Her fingers tightened around her cup.
"Sometimes."
"Do you read them?"
She hesitated.
"Not every one."
His expression didn't change, but she could see the disappointment in his eyes.
"Sansa."
"I trust Mom."
"I'm not asking whether you trust your mother."
She looked away.
"I'm asking whether you understand what you're signing."
Silence settled between them, stitched together by everything neither of them wanted to say aloud.
After a long moment, he sighed.
"I want you to be careful around Mr. Baelish."
She frowned.
"You still think he's hiding something."
"I don't think." His voice remained calm. "I suspect."
"Dad..."
"I've handled enough businesses to know when numbers stop making sense."
She leaned back in her chair.
"Maybe you're overthinking it."
"I hope I am."
He held her gaze.
"But if I'm not..."
He let the sentence fade away.
She looked down at her untouched coffee.
"I don't want you caught in something you don't understand."
"I don't even make the decisions."
"Exactly."
His answer came so quickly that it caught her off guard.
"If they won't let you question decisions, they shouldn't expect your signature."
She didn't know what to say.
"I think you should step away from the company."
A small laugh escaped her.
"You know Mom would never agree."
"You're not asking for permission."
She smiled without humour.
"You make it sound easy."
"I know it isn't."
His voice softened.
"But peace of mind isn't worth much if it costs your integrity."
She swallowed hard.
He reached across the table and gently squeezed her hand.
"I can't tell you what to do. But promise me one thing."
She looked up.
"If something feels wrong..."
He paused.
"Walk away before it's too late."
She nodded.
"I promise."
He smiled, though it didn't quite hide the worry in his eyes.
The conversation drifted to lighter subjects after that, but neither of them truly returned to them.
When he finally stood to leave, she walked him to the door.
"Take care of yourself."
"You too."
The apartment suddenly felt too quiet. Sansa leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. Her father had looked tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep could fix. The kind that came from carrying worries too long.
Her father's words refused to leave her mind.
Read before you sign.
If only it had ever been that simple.
The first time she'd asked to read a contract, her mother had sighed impatiently.
"Sansa, we've already gone through this in the meeting."
"I just wanted to understand—"
"Understanding comes with experience. Right now, I need your signature, not another discussion."
She had looked helplessly toward Mr. Baelish.
He had smiled, as he always did. That creeped her.
"Of course. Take your time." His voice had been warm, almost reassuring. "It's only a routine approval. Your mother has already reviewed every page."
Routine.
That was his favourite word.
Every document was routine.
Every signature was routine.
Every question somehow became unnecessary.
The second time she tried to object, her mom lost her temper.
"Do you think we're trying to cheat you?"
The question had hit harder than any accusation.
"No..."
"Then sign it."
She remembered the silence that followed.
Mr. Baelish hadn't defended her.
He hadn't pressured her either.
He had simply slid the folder a little closer and placed the pen beside it.
"Whenever you're comfortable," he had said with the same gentle smile.
She hadn't been comfortable.
Not even a little.
But the room had suddenly felt too small, the silence too heavy. Her mom's impatient stare, Mr. Baelish's quiet smile, the thick stack of papers waiting for her signature...
She had signed.
The next time was easier.
Then the time after that.
Eventually, signing became a habit, like fastening the last button on a coat before leaving the house. She stopped asking questions because every question ended in the same place—with guilt, disappointment, or an argument she never had the strength to finish.
She had always believed she was choosing peace.
Fashion had taught her that almost anything could be altered. A dress could be resized. A seam could be repaired. A torn sleeve could disappear beneath careful stitching.
Life wasn't nearly as forgiving. Some mistakes couldn't be tailored into something beautiful. Some foundations simply cracked.
And for the first time, she wondered whether she'd mistaken silence for strength.