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Damian Desmond stood frozen.
The grand ballroom of the Desmond estate was a breathtaking, towering monument to absolute financial dominance. Million-dollar chandeliers hung from the impossibly tall ceilings, blinding him as he looked up for just a second.
Physically, he was at his 16th birthday gala, back straight as a rod as he stood near the base of the grand staircase, his towering 6'2 frame immaculate in a custom-tailored, dark green tuxedo and a crisp silk bowtie. Currently, he was conversing dully with a wealthy Ostanian businessman about god-knows-what and nursing a flute of champagne he internally thought was far too bitter.
It was definitely an extravagantly over-the-top event — he was sure his mother had overdone it with the birthday planning, as his entire sophomore class had been invited, alongside many of his brother's, mother's, and father's colleagues, as well as the top of the top of Ostanian's elite that Damian Desmond really didn't want to see today. The gift table was piled high with lavish gifts of monetary value that a normal person, perhaps a commoner, could not even begin to wrap their mind around: from his ultra-rich peers, keys to sleek, high-end vehicles in the Desmond family colors, antique cavalry sabers, luxury chronograph watches, and imported leather saddles were gifted to him, meant to flex their own family statuses, and from the high-society businessmen and politicians, deeds to small vineyards, a rare lunar meteorite fragment, and first-edition political manifestos piled high on the table.
Mentally, however, Damian was far away. Far, far away. His mind was racing.
Honestly, he was excited for this party. He really was. Damian had never been big on birthdays before — he always saw them as a looming reminder of a heavy future, and he'd maintained calculated political performances rather than celebrations every year. And sixteen was big, anyway. He never got to let loose, so he was glad that finally, there was a celebration centered around him in his most fluent language: money and luxury. He understood the rhythm of wealth, the heavy weight of legacy, and the effortless power of luxury fluently, and tonight, he was the absolute prince of it all. Outwardly, Damian carried himself with the effortless elegance of a boy who owned the room, completely fluent in the high-stakes world of the elite.
He tapped his expensive leather-shoe-clad foot on the ground, the anxious tapping doing nothing to shake the fog in his mind. His world up till now had closed in on one specific question: Where was she?
"Bossman! Happy birthday!" A heavy, overly enthusiastic hand clapped on his shoulder. Damian's eyes widened, his bitter champagne threatening dangerously to spill all over his pristine tuxedo as he whirled around to the two idiots, who had somehow materialized between him. Emile's palm was resting on his shoulder as he and Ewen grinned wildly, clearly already tipsy.
"Mr. Desmond, sir," the wealthy businessman gave a tight, respectful nod to Damian, sensing the conversation was over. "I shall leave you to your peers. A splendid evening to you."
Damian barely had time to nod and say a quick "Likewise" back.
The second the man was out of earshot, Damian dropped his shoulders by a fraction of an inch, glaring at his two best friends. "Watch it, Emile. Do you have any idea how much this silk cost?"
"A million-billion-trillion dalcs, probably," Ewen snickered, popping a gourmet truffle into his mouth. "Man, this place is insane, Lord Damian! Have you seen the gift table? Someone literally left the keys to an armored sports car over there. I think it has bulletproof windows." Emile grinned at his comment.
"Of course it does," Damian muttered, his eyes already drifting past Emile's head, scanning the massive, gilded entrance doors at the back of the ballroom. "It’s totally a corporate bribe masquerading as a birthday gala. My father’s associates are nothing if not predictable."
"Well, I have something way better for you." Ewen smiled, a boyish excitement that hadn't arisen in years returning to his face. "A custom brass telescope. Real 19th-century Ostanian naval style. I had it imported from the capital."
"As do I! I got you something astronomy-related too. A framed, 18th-century antique celestial map, hand-painted with genuine gold leaf and lapis lazuli pigments, to be exact." Emile grinned.
A rare, genuine warmth (for his friends, at least) flickered in his chest. Amidst the sea of cold, brooding, and transactional wealth, he tended to forget he had real anchors who knew and cared for Damian for Damian — both the young men had remembered Damian had been meaning to get into astronomy as of late. "Thank you, guys. That is really cool, truly. I-I'll check them out after the toasts," Damian's voice came out just a slight bit lower than he'd intended it to.
"Speaking of checking things out..." Ewen began teasingly, some teenage mischief giving way in his tone. "You've been eyeing the front doors this whole time. I thought everyone actually prominent in high society was already present." Emile grinned devilishly, catching on immediately.
Damian sputtered on his sip of champagne, and he dragged a hand down his face, his face involuntarily heating to a concerning shade of crimson as he cast a murderous glare at Ewen. "Lower your damn voice. Someone might hear you," he huffed.
Yes, Damian and Anya had been dating for a year and a half now, and they'd tentatively told Emile, Ewen, and Becky four months ago. Their relationship was still a secret to protect Damian and Anya from the vicious scrutiny of the Ostanian elite. Not that Anya cared, but if his father ever discovered his son was compromised by a commoner, or if the Ostanian media caught wind of the romance, the ruthless backlash would destroy them both.
As if on cue, the front doors swung open, revealing Becky and Anya as they walked through the heavy, brass-trimmed front doors, followed shortly by Becky's parents and Anya's parents. "Speak of the devil. Or devils," Emile snickered, earning a glower from Damian as he watched the smaller female figures approach the three of them.
As always, Becky screamed old-money confidence. Her pin-straight brown hair landed neatly just slightly past her shoulders, pinned back by a small, elegant hair clip. She was adorned in minimalist gold jewelry and wore a custom-tailored, deep wine-red satin ballgown with a structured, boned corset bodice and a dramatic, floor-sweeping asymmetrical slit, complete with stiletto pointed-toe pumps crafted from matching wine-red Italian velvet. She blended perfectly into high society, exactly where she belonged.
After he scrutinized Becky for a total of four seconds, Damian's heart conducted an agonizing plummet into the bottom of his stomach as he looked at Anya.
Anya. His love. His secret girlfriend. His secret girlfriend. His secret girlfriend. Even after a year and a half, the thought still felt so surreal.
Anya, of course, looked effortlessly gorgeous. Her hair was in twin braided chignons that rested around her signature hair cones; she was wearing an elegant, ivory silk satin dress that featured an off-the-shoulder sweetheart neckline that fit her slim, athletic frame absolutely perfectly, complete with a pair of ivory kitten heels that matched her dress color to a T. She looked entirely mature and polished.
The two young women stopped just a pace short of Damian. Becky grinned up at her cousin. “Happy birthday!!!” she squealed, throwing her arms around his neck. He patted her back with awkward, sibling-esque affection. “Get off me,” he hissed. “P-people are staring, Becky.” He scanned the room, noticing (to his dismay) the older people in the dense crowd looking at the rare, genuine display of affection with warmth that Damian was oddly terrified of.
Becky stepped back, grinning mischievously, holding out a gold designer bag. He raised a brow teasingly as he took it, opening it at her discretion.
Inside lay a leather-bound, oversized folio containing the original, hand-drawn tactical maps used during the unification of Ostania. Damian knew only three copies were left in existence, with the other two sitting in national museums. “Wow,” Damian murmured, flipping through with a light, careful touch. He was about to thank her when he noticed something else.
It was a card. People of their wealth, of their status... didn’t do cards. He eyed her suspiciously, opening it. Her impeccable handwriting wrote:
Damian,
Happy 16th Birthday! I know this house can feel like a fortress sometimes, and the expectations can be completely suffocating. But remember, you aren't carrying the Desmond weight completely alone. You have me, and you have people who see you for exactly who you are, not just as the Desmond heir. So keep going! I'm always here for you, little cousin. I hope you have an amazing day, because God knows you deserve it. Here's to surviving another year. :) I know you’re going to go amazing places!
— Becky
He rolled his eyes at the “little cousin” jab — he despised that he was four months younger than Becky — but reading her unexpectedly sweet (otherwise) words, Damian’s chest tightened violently. A sudden, unexpected wave of emotion hit him, and he aggressively blinked his eyes, trying desperately not to get choked up in front of the surrounding diplomats. This was the first card he had received all night, and it made him realize that she was the only family member who actually looked out for him. He often forgot it, but he truly did have a deep, protective affection for Becky too; beneath their constant childhood bickering, she was a vital piece of his sanity.
Damian cleared his throat, forcing his almost-cracking voice into a steady, dignified tone. "An elegant piece, Becky. Truly historic. And... thank you for the card. It means more than the map, honestly. Thank you."
“Yeah yeah… whatever, cuz,” she laughed, nudging Anya with her elbow lightly. “Now get ready. Someone else has been saving up for a whole year to give you hers.”
A whole year? What is she on about-? Damian’s internal monologue began, but he didn’t have time to ponder it before his beautiful, beautiful woman stepped forward. Her usually entirely stable green eyes flashed with a momentary profound, raw vulnerability.
“I love you,” Anya began, so softly, holding her large, high-quality bag out towards him. “I really hope you like it,” she whispered shyly, tucking a stray strand of hair from her front pieces behind her ear.
What kind of hope is that? Of course I’ll like it. I’d like anything she’d give me, his internal monologue grumbled, and despite herself, Anya couldn’t hold back a blush.
Damian’s fingers trembled slightly as he reached into the bag. He pulled out the first part of her gift. His eyes widened a fraction.
It was a beautiful, multitiered card, accordion folded so it spanned multiple sheets of cardstock. Damian read it carefully. It was easily at least five paragraphs long as Anya detailed her devotion and love for him.
“I see the kindness you hide beneath your glares, and I see the fierce loyalty you have for the people in your life.”
“I know how hard you work, and I see it and appreciate it every single day.”
“You are strong, you are kind, and you are my safe haven. Happy sixteenth birthday, my Damian.”
Damian’s eyes immediately glassed over as he flipped to the back of the card, and a heavy lump formed instantly in his throat. On the other side, she had lined the edges with small hand-drawn designs and illustrations, and within them, a massive collage of photos of his favorite memories from his time at Eden was there. He stared in absolute awe because the photos weren’t just of Anya and him. No, the photos included everyone and everything he held close to his heart, capturing the entire spectrum of his life through a beautiful collage.
Damian analyzed the photos for a long moment. She had somehow managed to add so many emotionally charged snippets of his life: him, Ewen, and Emile sprawled on the ground, frantically studying for a history midterm at thirteen, him and Becky sitting on a low stone wall, bonding over a now-forgotten, old family memory last summer, a sun-drenched shot of Damian playing with Max in the playground for once as a twelve-year-old, him standing on a balcony with Demetrius at fifteen as they stood on the veranda during a brief holiday; though they weren't touching, there was a faint, mutual softening in their expressions, a tiny bridge of sibling understanding that Anya had somehow managed to capture from afar, a selfie Anya had taken with her tongue out as her, Becky, Emile, Ewen, and Damian sat on the floor, experimenting with a new train set just two weeks prior.
Gods, he hadn’t even known she’d taken most of these. How long had she been planning this gift?
His absolute favorite piece of the collage, however, was a faint mirror selfie tucked away near the center. It was a relic from their very first date: a secret afternoon in a quiet cafe almost a year and a half ago, right in the dead of winter. In the reflection, Damian looked away, aggressively unbothered, crossing his arms and wearing his signature scowl to hide his absolute panic. But Anya was pressed close to his side, her face twisted into a cute, silly, utterly ridiculous pout that completely ruined his attempt at looking dignified. Looking at it now, his chest tightened all over again with the exact same sweet, agonizing warmth he’d felt back then. His eyes glazed over all over again.
He was speechless as he meticulously folded the card back to how it was to reach into the bag again. Underneath where the card had been lay a meticulously knitted scarf. Damian froze, staring down at the crimson wool, immediately able to tell it was handmade. It looked borderline luxurious, the stitching so incredibly neat and even that it clearly must have taken months of painstaking labor, especially for Anya, whom he knew was notoriously clumsy and messy. Gods, she’d taken the time to make it perfect. For him. She had spent her nights perfect-crafting this just for him, destroying her fingers to make it look flawless. He peeked at her fingers, which confirmed his suspicions — Anya had tiny, faint calluses that had to have been from the months of knitting.
He shook his head in utter disbelief as he looked back in the bag to put the scarf back gently, when he noticed two more gifts.
A small, velvet jewelry box lay inside the bag. Before opening it, through his peripheral vision, he noticed Anya rocking nervously. He opened the box carefully, which contained a tiny pair of star-shaped stud earrings.
How did she know he had ear piercings? And how did she know exactly the kind of earrings he liked? Not that there were many options anyway, but he rarely wore earrings, and when he did, they were small studs to fancy galas that she usually wasn’t invited to.
“I didn't buy them at a boutique, Damian,” she breathed. “I hand-made the earrings. I-I mean, I hand-soldered them and everything. Also, they’re real gold. I bought the gold from a pawn shop, then I went to a workshop to melt them down. A-and hand-cast them.”
He froze. Real gold? his internal monologue screamed, deafening. Of course, real gold was the baseline for him. But for her to get her hands on some, for him? He knew that wouldn’t be easy for her. And she’d made them, too? What?
"Anya..." Damian choked out, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly monotone that practically cracked with emotion. He stared down at the handmade pieces, a massive wave of absolute, suffocating adoration crashing over his chest. "You... you made all of this? The stitching... the pictures of... of everyone..." he stumbled over his words, unable to get a coherent sentence out, his eyes dangerously close to watering.
“I tried my best,” she whispered. “I wanted to live up to your expensive standards, but also show how much I — and so many others — love and care for you,” the young woman said with clear, soft passion in her voice.
He couldn’t help but smile so softly. "It's perfect," Damian whispered fiercely, his jaw tightening until it clicked as he fought back the sudden, forbidden sting in his eyes. "It's entirely perfect."
Then, he reached deeper into the bag to pull out her final gift. The moment his hands wrapped around the sleek, lavish, heavy leather presentation box, his digital, analytical mind shattered into complete and utter paralysis. His dark eyes widened into the size of saucers; wide pools of absolute, staggering shock.
It was a legendary, vintage mechanical watch from an extinct Swiss manufacturer, a piece highly sought after by elite collectors worldwide. Damian stared at it, completely frozen in a state of total, bewildered shock.
As a Desmond, he knew the exact market value of this piece. It was so incredibly expensive for her — a normal person's absolute fortune — that it would even make a tiny, visible dent in his own pocket change. He was profoundly surprised, thrown into a state of total shock.
He knew her background. He knew her family. She couldn't afford this on a whim. Knowing her, this gift should have been completely, mathematically impossible.
"Where did you get the money for this?” Damian demanded frustratedly, his voice dropping to a harsh, panicked whisper as he looked from the luxury watch back to her bare face, his ego surging slightly, but quickly overridden with his panic. At sixteen, he’d proven not to be a shallow idiot anymore. "Anya, this is insane. This costs more than- how did you save enough for this? How- where did you even find this in the first place, anyway?” His voice rose. “You shouldn't have spent this much on me. Why-?” He desperately tried to hold back, but his voice cracked on the last syllable, eliciting a small smile out of her.
“I have my ways,” she shrugged in reply, a tiny, somewhat rare spark of her old whimsy returning to her face as she looked up at his towering frame. “And besides, Becky told you — I’ve been saving up for a whole year. I wanted to give you something that could sit on that expensive table and not look like trash next to your billionaire society. I know how much you love luxury, Damian," she said, looking up at his face that was currently swirling with a million emotions.
Unworthiness.
Gratitude.
Stupefaction.
Panic.
Arrogance.
Humility.
But above all?
Love. True, unfiltered, genuine, raw love.
Gods, he loved this stupid, stupid, stupid girl so much.
All he wanted to do was hug her. But he couldn’t even do that, seeing as they were in public. He turned away momentarily, wiping his tears both in adoration of her and frustration with their public situation.
“Anya. Listen. I love you so, so much,” he murmured somewhat frantically, not knowing what to do with his occupied hands as he placed the box back in the bag.
In that moment, Anya stared up at him like he was the only person in that room. Her eyes glistened like he was some kind of god.
Becky had been watching the exchange intently, but now, she took the opportunity to grab the bag from Damian and place it on the gift table, proceeding to head over to the bar and leave the two alone.
With his hands now free and the two alone, he clasped his hands in hers, smiling a genuine smile down at her with such enamoration, and closed the distance between him and Anya.
“What are you doing? The paparazzi might see, you psycho!” Anya whisper-yelled.
He didn’t care. Not one bit.
Money-wise, compared to the sports cars and the manifestos on the main table, Anya's gift wasn't technically up to their billionaire status baseline. To the shallow snobs circulating the ballroom, it was just a nice effort from a lower-class student.
But emotionally... it was the wealthiest Damian had ever felt in his entire life.
It was an absolute landslide that left his lifelong arrogance entirely secondary to his newfound devotion. Of course, he was deeply appreciative of Becky's magnificent, historical token and her sweet card, but Anya's combination of meticulous, painful handiwork, the deeply empathetic collection of photos, and a financially impossible sacrifice completely, entirely broke him. The language of extravagance he knew so well had just been translated into pure, unadulterated love.
He subtly slipped the earrings on, looking down at her. She noticed how they caught the light. “Thank you. Truly. I'm never taking these off, I swear to you, Anya. They’re the best thing in this entire house." Damian repeated his thanks.
Anya smiled, a real, bright, and beautiful expression that immediately sent him into overdrive.
The two were helplessly in love, and they would be. Forever.
Forever.