(don't you) pin your heart on my sleeve

(originally published in june 2026 via ao3)

Dorothea Arnault knows trouble when she sees it—or hears it, which is often the more likely scenario. Problems come wrapped in all kinds of innocuous little phrases: the infamous ‘we need to talk,’ the deceptively blithe ‘I’m fine’ that she’s partial to herself, and the dread-inducing ‘what are we?’ to name a few. There are a million ways to drop a proverbial bomb—and Sylvain Gautier, she’s come to learn, has the uncanny ability to wreak havoc every time he opens his pretty mouth.

“This is gonna sound crazy,” he starts—an unnecessary preamble, because she never expects sanity from him, “but I need to ask you a huge favor.”

She lingers on the threshold between the bathroom and master bedroom, leaning against the doorjamb and fiddling with one of the buttons on her shirt. Sylvain’s shirt, in truth—but he’s been without it for the past hour, and she doesn’t make a habit of waltzing naked around his apartment any more than she has to. Much to his disappointment.

“I should’ve known,” she rumbles. “You were far too accommodating today.” She shivers thinking about said accommodation, a faint echo of what she experienced not five minutes ago. His lips pressed to her inner thigh, her fingers rooted in his hair as she arched her back against the bed—where Sylvain is sprawled out now, glowing like he always does after one of their sessions. From where she stands she can admire every frustratingly flawless inch of him: long muscled limbs, freckled skin, mussed red hair.

“Slander!” he says, all melodrama. “Do I not always put your pleasure first, Thea? Am I not the perfect gentleman when it comes to… well, making sure you co—”

“Just get to the point,” she cuts in, more nerves underpinning her voice than should be reasonable. Probably because Sylvain so rarely asks anything of her outside the bedroom.

He rolls to a seat, picking his phone up from the bedside table and scrolling through it like a man on a mission. Dorothea steps closer, perching herself on the edge of the bed, smoothing a hand over the still-warm sheets. “Right,” he says, sounding distracted. “So there’s this thing my parents keep nagging me about…”

His parents—the elusive and obscenely wealthy Gautiers, whom Sylvain avoids talking about at all costs. More reason for Dorothea to be wary—especially since Sylvain is oddly calm, like he’s made himself rehearse this pitch until he could recite it in the most blithe way possible. “Here.” He slips the phone into her hands, and Dorothea sees that it’s opened to an email. A very nice-looking email, featuring a looping script font and a gorgeous photo of a seaside cafe that she recognizes from travel magazines.

“This is a wedding invitation,” she notes, though he’s clearly already aware of that. “A wedding in—”

“Derdriu, yeah.”

She looks up at him, already deducing what he’s going to ask. Already trying to figure out a way to refuse, because this is so out of the blue. “Who’s the lucky couple?” she asks, trying not to let the shock show on her face. “I don’t recognize the names.”

“No one notable. Etienne Brennius is the son of one of my father’s longtime business partners. I’ve spoken to him twice, maybe.”

She smirks. “Not the most interesting guy, I take it?”

Sylvain shrugs. “He could be. I just try to avoid anyone who has too strong a connection to my family, as you know.”

She does. He’s never been particularly subtle about it. It’s almost amusing how much contempt Sylvain has for Faerghan high society. Dorothea would find it more endearing if he didn’t still benefit from being the heir to one of the most powerful companies north of the Oghma Mountains—a fact she’s had no qualms pointing out to him on a regular basis. She hands the phone back to him, folding her arms across her chest. “Yet you’re going to this wedding, I presume?”

Sylvain scrunches his nose, clearly not pleased with the situation. “I tried to wriggle my way out of it, believe me. But my dad is insisting—something about how it’s well past time his notoriously cavalier son starts behaving. Making better connections, as it were.”

Connections. She can see where this is going. “Mm, right…” She scoots closer, meeting his half-lidded eyes. The late morning sunlight is streaming in at a perfect angle, making his vibrant curls shine even brighter. “And what’s any of this got to do with me?” She reaches out to tease his fringe, fingers drawing a line down his cheek. “Last I checked, I’m not the best person at getting you to behave.”

He grins, leaning in. “I mean, you are, in a sense.” His gaze flicks away, lashes fluttering before he straightens up. “It won’t do for me to go alone—people will talk. I need a plus-one. Someone who can sell the illusion that Sylvain Gautier is capable of doing what his family expects of him and settle down.”

Dorothea laughs, if only to hide the fact that his proposition scares her more than it should. “That sounds like a job for a professional.”

He raises his eyebrows, not needing to say anything more. The smug bastard already looks so certain that this is an offer she can’t refuse. And she’s leaning towards accepting, if for nothing else but morbid curiosity—a dangerous thing to indulge in around Sylvain. Part of why their arrangement works so well is because she never tries to dive too deep into the mess that is his personal life. He’s a train wreck best observed at a distance; a drug meant to be taken in small, discreet doses.

“What happens if I say no?” she asks.

His easy expression flickers. “I don’t have a backup, if that’s what you’re wondering. And like I said, people will talk.”

“People always talk,” she fires back. “You’ve never cared before. What are you really trying to avoid?”

He groans, and she celebrates the small victory. “You’re relentless, Thea.” He takes a deep breath. “My father’s judgment aside, my mother will take my singlehood as permission to introduce me to every eligible woman at this stupid event.”

An amused smile stretches across Dorothea’s face. “But you love meeting women, Sylvain.”

He scoffs, struggling to keep his composure. Good. “Not these women. All they care about is—”

“Prestige and money, I know,” she finishes for him. “You’ve only brought it up a thousand times.” And it gets on her nerves, frankly, how easily he dismisses any woman who shows remote interest in him. How it’s a crime for him to be reduced to little more than his name and his status, but when he does the same to someone else it’s a justified rebellion. “I suppose you’re the only person in the world who could possibly be disillusioned by it all.”

And there it is, staring her in the face: the reason why she doesn’t go out of her way to immerse herself in the finer nuances of Sylvain’s life. The furrow in his brow, the hard set of his jaw; the signs of a storm swirling just beneath the surface, far too risky to disturb. Far too alluring.

“You can think of it as sparing them the trouble of getting to know me, if that’s easier,” he finally says.

Dorothea sighs, flopping down onto her back and staring up at the ceiling. “Good enough, I suppose.” She stretches her arms overhead in the same careless way she’s watched him do the same. “And what’s in it for me?”

A chuckle bubbles to his lips as he lowers down to join her. “You’ve always wanted to go to Derdriu, haven’t you? Think of it as a free vacation.” He turns onto his side, fluttering his fingers over her arm. “And imagine all the single rich guys you could meet.”

“The guys who’ll all be under the impression that I’m attached to you?”

“Which will only make them want you more,” he lilts. “Or at least want to know what’s so extraordinary about the woman who could get me of all people to commit.”

She rolls over, smirking at him. “Well, when you put it like that…”

She’s all but decided—if she’s being honest, she made up her mind the moment she saw the invitation. How can she resist the thrill of it, the opportunity to do what she does best and play pretend? All that’s left to contend with is the tiny voice in the back of her head, the remnants of her common sense that she’s gotten very good at muffling whenever Sylvain is around. This is far from their usual fare of casual hookups and chance encounters—who knows what could happen?

As good of an actress as she is, she doesn’t trust herself not to fall for her own trick. Or maybe that risk is exactly what pushes her over the edge.

“When do we leave?”

❂

Sylvain can’t remember the last time he was in Derdriu; now that he’s back in the city, he’s pondering the possibility of never leaving. The southern stretch of the Whitehorn Sea is as brilliantly blue as ever, the midsummer weather is a balm compared to Enbarr’s oppressive humid heat, and the fresh fish is to die for. It’s a shame his date doesn’t appreciate the latter, but two out of three isn’t terrible.

“You sure you don’t want to try this?” he asks Dorothea, nudging his plate of mostly-eaten whitefish sauté in her direction. “It’s their signature dish.”

“But does it pair well with the wine?” she teases, swirling the final few sips of her rich red port before bringing it to her upturned lips. The Leicester sun looks good on her, a gentle breeze tousling her hair. She’s swapped out her usual crimson wardrobe for a softer palette of white and true blue, opting for linen over silk. The wide brim of her hat makes for a striking silhouette.

“Here, let’s snap a picture,” he says, rising from the table and taking her by the hand, leading her towards the railing that overlooks Derdriu’s famous bay. Dorothea cozies up next to him like it’s second nature, flashing an effortless smile as Sylvain positions them in the frame.

Anyone watching would assume they’re a pair of lovers. Not that they need to fool anyone at this bistro—but he likes the idea of it, the thrill of the game. And he’s smart enough not to squander a luxurious weekend spent with Dorothea Arnault, an opportunity plenty of men would kill for.

It’s a short walk back to their hotel; Sylvain’s heart skips a beat when he spots their intended audience speaking with one of the receptionists.

“Parents at two o'clock,” he says.

Dorothea follows his gaze at the same time she reaches for his hand, entwining their fingers. “Showtime?”

He tilts his head down, inhaling her perfume. She makes this so easy. “Just like we practiced,” he purrs. They kiss—a casual affair with the slightest hint of masked passion, like he does this every day. Like he wants to do this every day for the rest of his life, like he’s in a perpetual state of aching for more. He fits all this sentiment into a chaste press of their mouths and the tiniest nip of his teeth at her bottom lip, a tease before they part.

Maybe it’s unnecessary meticulousness—his parents have never been the romantic types, so he doubts they’ll be paying much attention to the display. All that matters is that they see him looking invested. He exchanges one last smile with Dorothea before turning to the approaching couple, greeting them with a cheerful wave.

“Mom, Dad. Glad you both made it.”

His father is as stoic as ever, though there’s an inquisitive glint in his eyes. His mother wears a polite but detached smile. “We should be saying that to you, Sylvain,” she says. “I seem to recall it took some convincing to get you here.” She holds her arms out, and he realizes he’s meant to hug her. That’s rare, but he indulges her.

“Well, life’s been busy,” Sylvain replies, not missing the pointed look his father is directing at Dorothea. “I had to shift some things around to make the timing work. But I figured it would be an excellent opportunity to introduce you to my girlfriend.” He loops an arm around said girlfriend’s waist, pulling her an inch closer. “This is Dorothea Arnault.”

“Pleased to meet you both,” she says without missing a beat, bowing her head. 

“Matthias Gautier,” his father offers, shaking her hand.

His mother opts for a half-hearted wave. “Amelie. The pleasure is all mine.” Nothing about her expression suggests she’s pleased. “Quite the surprise, though.”

Sylvain cracks a smile. “You know me. Always full of surprises.”

She gives him a critical look, the same one she’d wear when he was a boy and he was trying to convince her that he’d finished all his schoolwork. His father is more difficult to read. “How long have the two of you been…” He hesitates, clearing his throat, buying himself time to find the proper words. “Seeing each other?” he settles on.

Their confusion is a testament to just how uncommon an occurrence this is. It’s far too amusing, a small taste of power—maybe Sylvain should’ve done this sooner. He turns to Dorothea with an apologetic expression. “Three months, I believe…?” Not quite the number they agreed on, but no one expects him to be on top of things. Better to play into that.

“Four, as of last week,” Dorothea corrects with a smirk. 

“That’s a new record, I think,” his mother comments, letting out a clipped laugh. “Only joking, of course.”

She isn’t, and both he and Dorothea know it.

“What do you do for work?” his father asks. “And how did the two of you meet?”

Sylvain heaves a sigh. “And the interrogation begins.”

“I’m only curious.”

Skeptical, more like it. Sylvain is well aware of his parents’ criteria for acceptable partners—and as brilliant as Dorothea is, she falls short by several of their metrics. Taunting them is part of the fun, though he’d refrained from telling Dorothea that. He didn’t think she’d derive quite the same joy he did from his malicious compliance, especially when it could bring more judgement down on her.

“Maybe Sylvain has a point for once, dear,” his mother chimes in. “There will be plenty of time to get the full story at dinner—which we ought to start getting ready for, as it happens.”

Matthias Gautier checks his watch with a frown. “So soon?”

Amelie rolls her eyes. “Looking our best takes time, you know that.” Her gaze flicks toward Dorothea with a sweet hum. “Miss Arnault understands what I mean, surely.”

A delightful giggle bubbles to Dorothea’s lips. “Oh, very much. I have to do half of Sylvain’s work for him, after all.”

That one stings, but it seems to win his mother over. “Hey, give me some credit,” he protests.

Dorothea pouts, coy as ever. “I said half, didn’t I?”

He meets her gaze, nerves surging with more ferocity than he’d prepared for. Dorothea’s steady stare grounds him, the knowing smile on her lips a reminder that this is their game, their rules. He wouldn’t want anyone else sharing this ruse with him. She’s in her element, both as an actress and as a woman who’s had to entertain her fair share of aristocratic patrons at Mittelfrank fundraisers—the very place they met, in the fabricated version of their relationship.

He’ll want to go over the full plan with her one more time before they see his parents again, just to be safe. His father’s line of questioning will be predictable enough—basic facts, all surface-level. His mother is the wild card, but Dorothea reassured him that she could handle whatever curveballs they might throw at her. He can only hope she’s right.

“Saints, look at them,” his mother says, as though on cue. “Off in their own world. Isn’t young love sweet?”

Sylvain snaps back to the conversation, eyes darting between his parents. “Sorry. Long travel day. Still a bit out of it from the flight.”

“So long as you’ve gotten it out of your system by the evening,” his father says. “I’ll need you on—”

“Best behavior, of course,” Sylvain finishes for him. “I wouldn’t have bothered coming if I thought I’d be an embarrassment to the Gautier name, would I?” He knows it’s too much the moment he says it. Not that he expected to start this trip off on anything but thin ice.

His father takes a deep breath, lending an ominous pause to an already foreboding conversation. “I trust you’re mature enough now to know what’s appropriate.”

Even his mother looks uneasy at that. “Well. On that cheerful note, we should really be off. Lovely meeting you, Dorothea. Looking forward to chatting later.”

“Likewise!” Dorothea says with a smile, bidding them goodbye.

They head for the east elevators, Sylvain’s hand staying on the small of her back until the doors slide open with a bright chime. Even then he lets his touch linger on her shoulder, a nagging instinct telling him not to break character.

“Not bad for a first encounter, I think,” Dorothea says, looking to him for confirmation. Her eyes are less confident than her tone.

“You did great,” he says. 

“I barely did anything. And we still have plenty to get through.”

Sylvain chews his bottom lip, replaying their encounter in his head. “Just… be yourself,” he tells her, more to fill the silence than anything. Another chime announces their floor. “That’ll be more than enough. It’s my head on the chopping block either way.”

“Bit of a morbid metaphor, don’t you think?”

He fishes the room key out of his pocket. What’s he supposed to say to that? Dorothea knows he isn’t particularly close to his parents, but he doesn’t see a reason to dig into the issue any further. He promised her a fun weekend; unpacking his rocky childhood is the opposite of fun.

“Sylvain?”

He blinks and finds himself lingering in the suite foyer, Dorothea suddenly ahead of him. Concern is written all over her face.

He tries to relax, unclenching his jaw. “What’s up?”

She takes a step closer. “Are you alright?”

Not at all. “Totally,” he says, slipping past her and into the living room. “Never better.” He hasn’t the energy to sound convincing; she’s already skeptical, anyway.

“You can be honest with me, you know,” she tries, her voice not far behind. “I’d rather you get it out of your system than let it simmer and ruin your night.”

Sylvain lets out a clipped laugh that resembles his mother’s far more than he’d like it to. “And I’d rather not dump all my problems on you, Thea.” He slumps down onto the couch, reaching for the remote. “Only a real girlfriend should have to deal with that.”

She slides into his lap, straddling his hips, fingers curling around his wrist before he can hit the power button.

“There are other ways to loosen you up,” she murmurs, guiding his hand to her waist, resting her forearms on his shoulders so she can lean in. Sylvain’s breath hitches as she drops further into a whisper that tickles the shell of his ear, sending a wave of goosebumps over his skin. “Dealer’s choice.”

And just like that his mind is a blank slate, every distracting thought leaving him in blissful silence. He draws Dorothea into a kiss—no need to hide the passion now—his tongue parting her lips as he rolls her hips forward. Muscle memory kicks in, their bodies following the opening steps of a familiar dance. Any reservations he’d harbored in the past ten minutes are thrown out the window, all doubts about their plan rendered irrelevant.

This will make it all worth it.

❂

As far as acting gigs go, playing Sylvain’s girlfriend is one of the easier roles Dorothea’s taken on. Even so, she can’t help wondering if he would've been better off attending alone. Derdriu is a dream, and she’ll never scoff at an open bar—but considering the point of their ruse, she isn’t sure her presence is helping Sylvain’s case as much as he’d hoped it would. 

Their conversation with Sylvain’s parents could have gone better. Matthias and Amelie Gautier were civil enough, but they’d clearly researched Dorothea’s name and come to the rehearsal dinner prepared to grill both her and Sylvain, with the latter bearing the brunt of their scrutiny. Being in a relationship wasn’t enough, apparently; the longer they spoke, the clearer it became that Dorothea didn’t live up to the strict expectations the Gautiers had for their son.

She felt like she was being interviewed for a job she had zero qualifications for and didn’t even want. Each question was less about getting to know Dorothea as a person and more a measurement of her accomplishments. They were impressed by her success in the opera, though neither seemed particularly interested in the art itself. Amelie made a comment about how exhausting fame sounded, not so much out of concern but as a potential inconvenience (“Your security bill must be hefty.”) Matthias was a man of few words when he wasn’t asking about her career prospects, but his intense expression didn’t inspire confidence. Things got particularly awkward when Dorothea’s family—or the lack thereof, rather—came up.

“Would it be too hasty to stage our breakup during the reception?” she jokes once the ordeal is over, wistfully eyeing her drained wine glass.

“Why waste good theater on people who won’t appreciate it?” Sylvain quips back, though the tension hasn’t quite dissipated from his voice.

“I suppose we could wait a couple weeks before cutting this doomed love story short,” she says, placing a hand on his arm and smiling when the muscle relaxes beneath her fingers. Their relationship may be fake, but her ability to calm him down with a touch is real and satisfying.

He heaves a sigh. “Go mingle. You deserve it.”

She does, and she wants to, yet something makes her hesitate. Sylvain is acting in ways she’s never seen—an understandable change, considering the context. He’s notoriously tight-lipped about his past, which makes it all the more surprising that he’s thrown her into the thick of it, regardless of motive. It makes her wonder if he’s going to push her away the minute they get back, whether this trip is going to dissolve whatever nebulous bond they’ve formed over the past year. A small loss, practically speaking, but the possibility saddens her regardless.

“Unless you need something else?” he asks when she fails to respond, giving her a pointed look.

She shakes her head. “Just another drink.”

Sylvain smiles, the first real display of relief she’s seen since this event started. It warms her heart more than it should; maybe it’s the alcohol. “Good.” He curls an arm around her waist and tugs her closer, planting a quick kiss to her temple before releasing her. “Don’t have too much fun without me, alright?”

“I would never,” she replies with a melodramatic gasp. She makes for the bar and orders a glass of wine, settling onto a stool and observing the crowd. The resort they’re staying at is one of the oldest venues in Derdriu, dating back centuries. Chandeliers hang from the ballroom’s domed ceiling; if she closes her eyes, she can picture the generations of aristocrats dancing circles around the floor, a legacy of decadence. A grand history of exclusion and wealth-hoarding. Yet here she is, enjoying it all. Eat the rich, as they say.

People-watching at parties like these has become a hobby of sorts for Dorothea, the natural consequence of working in a field that has her entertaining patrons off-stage almost as much as on it. She admires—or scrutinizes—their fashion choices from afar, cooking up life stories that are probably ten times more interesting than the truth.

Or, as is the case right now, she can watch as Amelie Gautier marches up to Sylvain with a pretty young woman—blonde, petite, dolled up in a modest but flattering periwinkle number—in tow, making introductions.

Saints, that didn’t take long. Was this not the very situation he’d wanted to avoid? 

“Is this seat taken?”

Dorothea looks up to find a man with jet-black hair and an equally dark suit standing at the bar—relatively young-looking, maybe around Sylvain’s age. He’s attractive in a subdued way, good bone structure with no standout features. Long lashes, though—a weakness of hers.

“By you, it sounds like,” she replies with a smile.

The stranger lets out an amused chuckle. “Thank you.” He slides onto the stool beside her, setting a fresh old-fashioned down on the counter. Good taste in liquor, too. “How’s the evening treating you?”

She rests her cheek in her hand, tilting her head in a way she knows makes her look innocent, playful. “Well enough. I don’t really know anyone at this wedding, but I’m always happy to meet new people.”

“Me too. Whose plus-one are you?”

Everyone here puts great value on who knows who, it seems. “Sylvain Gautier was kind enough to invite me.”

The man raises his eyebrows. “Shit, is he engaged?”

“Just dating,” she says, raising a hand to show her ringless finger. “Do you know him?”

“Loosely. Our fathers are acquainted. But I do know…”

“That it’s rare for him to stick around in a relationship long enough to bring anyone to an event like this?” she finishes for him.

“More or less,” he says. Then, raising his hands up: “Not that I’m trying to insinuate anything untowards.”

She’s pretty sure he is, but she can hardly blame him. Sylvain was right—presenting herself to the world as his girlfriend has made her all the more intriguing. Hardly the deterrent she’d worried it might be.

“I suppose I should introduce myself,” the man continues, holding out a hand. “I’m Connor Pryderi.”

His name rings a bell, but she doesn’t know much else about the family. “Dorothea Arnault. Nice to meet you.”

There’s a spark of recognition in Connor’s eyes. “Wait. Dorothea Arnault? As in the singer?”

She responds with a facetious groan. “Ugh, no, it’s just a coincidence. I really should get around to changing my name…”

He gives her a discerning look. “You’re fucking with me,” he says, bashful. “I recognize you from the pictures, now that I think about it.”

Dorothea entertains second thoughts for a brief moment; being identified doesn’t always go well for her. But she can feel it out. It’ll be easy enough to bail if the guy turns out to be a little too interested in her celebrity status. “Are you a fan?” she hazards.

“A casual kind,” he says, as though reading her mind. “I caught a show of yours when I was in Enbarr a couple years ago.”

“Ah, when I was starring in Tosca. That was such a fun production.”

“And your performance was brilliant, of course.” He fidgets in his seat, gaze drifting to his glass. A bit starstruck, maybe. “Sylvain would be dating a celebrity,” he mutters, furrowing his brow. “What do his parents think of that?”

Her mouth twists. She’s in no rush to rehash the awkward encounter she just had, but maybe she can use it to her advantage. “Well… The jury’s still out.”

Connor still hasn’t looked back at her, instead fixating on something in the crowd. Reigning in her annoyance, Dorothea follows the trajectory of his gaze to find Sylvain still talking to the girl she’d seen him with before this conversation started. His mother is facilitating what she’s sure is an awkward first meeting.

“Ouch,” Connor breathes, air hissing through his teeth. “Looks like Mama Gautier is being her usual overbearing self.”

Dorothea takes a sip of her wine. She can feign upset well enough, but right now hers is frustratingly close to authentic. She knows how selective these families can be, how important wealth and prestige are to them—and she shouldn’t care, shouldn’t let Sylvain’s problems become her own when she already has plenty to worry about. But empathy seizes her with all the stubbornness of a lingering cold, refusing to be brushed aside. There’s also her pride to contend with, her contempt for entitlement burning as brightly as ever.

She has a terrible habit: being told she can’t have something only makes her want it more. This apparently applies to things she’s never wanted before and has never intended to crave. Dammit.

“Sorry,” Connor says, picking up on her sour mood. “It’s her loss, I’m sure.”

“I’ll deal with it later,” Dorothea shoots back, waving her hand through the air. “This is a party. We should have fun.” She glances up at Connor, fluttering her lashes. “Please, tell me more about you.”

A sly smile stretches across his face, a small but welcome victory. “Gladly.”

❂

Sylvain is two drinks deep. The first got him through a painful conversation with his parents; the second, he hopes, will get him through his mother’s retaliation.

He remembers the girl’s name, at least; he owes her that much, considering she’s little more than a pawn in someone else’s game. He has a knack for feigning interest and maintaining small-talk no matter how disinterested he is, though he’s certain his mother can see past his false smile.

“Very subtle, Mom,” he says once the conversation comes to a gratifying end and the girl is mercifully out of earshot.

“I simply want my son to know he has options,” his mother says, showing no signs of remorse.

“And what was wrong with the option I already picked?”

She narrows her eyes. “Picked? Was there a ring on her finger I missed?”

As if that matters. He knows this would be an issue regardless. “We’ve only been dating for three months.”

“Four.”

Sylvain rolls his eyes. “Could you just answer my question? I thought you and Dad would be happy for me.” It’s only a half-lie—more a hope that he might be able to make a decision for himself without being criticized to high heaven. A test to see the true extent of his parents’ control, pushing until he knows the exact bounds of his cage—which are disappointingly small, apparently.

“I’m happy that you’re showing some growth,” his mother finally says.

“You just want to guide the direction I’m growing in, I take it,” he grumbles. “Like I’m one of those ridiculous topiaries in your garden.” Which makes Dorothea a weed, in her eyes—determined but unwanted, in need of uprooting before she takes over everything. “Am I wrong?”

His mother wrinkles her nose. “I don’t want to have this argument with you right now.”

In public, she means. Because image is all his family cares about. “How about we don’t have it at all?” he says, barely keeping his temper in check. “Dorothea is my girlfriend, and I won’t be considering anyone else for the foreseeable future. End of story.” His heart is racing, far more erratic than it ought to be. He scans the crowd for nothing in particular, certain only that he needs an escape. He takes a sip of his drink to calm down, even though he knows that more alcohol will only make this problem worse.

“She’s at the bar.”

His mother’s voice sounds far away, even though she hasn’t moved an inch, still hovering right by his shoulder. Inescapable. He battles confusion for a brief moment before turning to the bar in question. Dorothea is sitting by the counter, nursing another glass of wine while a vaguely familiar man chats her up. Mingling, just like he’d suggested. Having fun, laughing—seeing her enjoying herself puts him at ease, at least.

“That’s Connor Pryderi,” his mother offers. “You were classmates in prep school, remember?”

“Sure,” Sylvain murmurs. His memory is spotty, but he doesn’t recall anything unsavory about the guy. That could’ve changed in the years since—but Dorothea seems charmed. Sylvain wants to know everything about Pryderi now, to make sure she isn’t getting herself into a bad situation.

“They seem to be hitting it off,” his mother says with an infuriatingly suggestive lilt. It’s not hard to figure out what she’s insinuating, even if she doesn’t have the full story.

“She’s a sociable gal, as I’m sure you noticed,” Sylvain replies.

“Yes, her type always is.”

“Saints—” He bites back a sharper curse. “I get it, you don’t like her. I’m sure Dad feels the same way. But I draw the line at baseless accusations.”

His mother lets out a beleaguered sigh. “They’re hardly baseless.” She turns Sylvain around to face her, her expression grave. There’s a chance, however slim, that she’s actually worried about him. “I want you to be careful, Sylvain,” she continues. “Dorothea Arnault is an orphan. She grew up with nothing; she has no guarantee that her fame will last. And now she just happens to be dating the heir to Gautier Industries? How lucky for her.”

Sylvain chews his lip. Of course this has occurred to him; he wishes he could make it stop occurring to him. But Dorothea isn’t actually his girlfriend, so it’s a moot point. Why does it still hurt to see her flirting with another guy, to think about her as yet another woman hellbent on marrying into money? As paradoxical as it is, he brought her here so she could find someone capable of giving her what she wants, who’s ideally not an asshole either. He’s letting her use him—just like he’s using her to get his parents off his back, which ironically isn’t working one bit.

Is that why he’s casually hoping Connor Pryderi turns out to be yet another disappointing date? So he and Dorothea can both miss out on what they want for the umpteenth time? So he can swoop in and alleviate her misery the only way he knows how, and feel like he’s at least good for something?

“Is it such a far-fetched concept that two people could like each other for who they are, instead of what they bring to the table?” he asks, surprised by his own words.

His mother looks amused, of all things. “I didn’t know you were such a romantic, Sylvain.” Her voice is dripping with condescension, a dash of disbelief that Sylvain still hasn’t accepted the fundamental tragedy of his life. What else do you have to offer aside from your name and your status? Even his own mother thinks he’s unloveable. Same as usual.

“I didn’t either,” he says, making for the exit without a second thought. His mother doesn’t stop him—which probably means she’s going to be setting up more introductions tomorrow, completely unaffected by his reluctance.

It’s a short journey back to his room, where he proceeds to kick off his shoes and strip down to his dress shirt and boxers. He plops down on the couch and starts scrolling through reels on his phone, needing a distraction.

It’s either been ten minutes or an hour when the door to the suite opens and Dorothea’s slurred voice stirs him from his social media trance.

“Syl…?”

He hops up and skips back to the foyer, watching as she wobbles inside. “Hey,” he greets, taking her hands in his to make sure she doesn’t trip. “You alright?”

“You left me,” she says with a teasing pout.

That gets a small chuckle out of him, the smallest lift in his mood. “I didn’t want to interrupt your conversation with Connor Pryderi. Or did you need rescuing?”

Her cheeks redden. She slips out of her heels, though it doesn’t really improve her stability. “No. He was a gentleman.”

Sylvain’s chest tightens. “Yet you’re here.”

“This is where my boyfriend is,” she says, matter-of-fact. “I can’t leave my actual date high and dry, can I? Especially after your plan failed so utterly.”

He clicks his tongue, his own face warming. “I mean…”

Dorothea meets his eyes and speaks more clearly, not as drunk as she’d seemed when she first came in. “I saw your mother trying to offer alternatives after I left. Kinda difficult to miss.”

Of course she did. “Yeah,” he breathes, running a hand through his hair. “Sorry about that.”

“No need to apologize to me,” she says as she walks towards the bedroom, urging him to follow with a lazy wave. “I’m sure it was more of an inconvenience to you.”

She strides past the bed and opens a set of double doors that lead out onto a small balcony. Refreshing night air floods into the room, ruffling her wispy dark curls. She’s wearing a little red halter dress that hugs her irresistible figure in all the right places. Beyond her, Derdriu’s skyline is lit up in a myriad of colors—by the buildings scattered across the hills curling around the bay, by the boats floating leisurely on the water. They halo Dorothea as she turns around, expectant. Smiling.

Sylvain’s heart skips a beat. How can she be so effortlessly beautiful? He joins her, resting his elbows on the balcony railing. His momentary amazement dissipates, the thread of their conversation finding its way back into his distractible mind. “Does it not still hurt?” he asks. Dorothea has had to swallow her dignity far too many times, he knows that. And here he is, throwing her into yet another situation where she’s being judged and assessed by entitled, controlling people.

“Why would it hurt?” she murmurs, eyes on the city.

“Because pretend or no, the end result is someone wrongly believing you’re not good enough. And you don’t deserve that.”

She lets out a mirthless laugh. “‘Wrongly.’ You’re sweet.”

“Hey—”

“Let’s not dwell on it, alright? I understood what might happen when I agreed to be your date.” She sweeps her arm out in front of her, her earlier smile now strained. “Look at how gorgeous this view is.”

It’s a marvel, true, but Sylvain’s attention lingers on Dorothea. Moments like these make him acutely aware of how similar the two of them are, against all odds: the way she deflects, the way she sets her own feelings aside. Guilt hits him again; for putting her in this position, for breaking one of their core rules and wondering—not for the first time, if he’s being honest—what it might be like to actually date her, to make this real. It would be such a small step from where they are, wouldn’t it? Or is he just stuck on the thought because it’s the opposite of what his parents want?

“Wait,” Dorothea starts, her tone shifting into something veering on excitement. “Is that…?” She points to one of the piers, a bustling boardwalk lined with shops and culminating in a ferris wheel at the edge of the water. “That’s where they filmed the final scene of The Riegan Proposal, isn’t it?”

“Oh. Yeah, it is.” It’s been a while since he watched it, but it’s stuck with him—and a lot of other people—as a particularly iconic movie kiss. He’s sure there are plenty of couples down there now, itching to recreate their own cinematic moment.

“Maybe I can swing by and get a picture before we leave,” she muses. Sylvain lets out a contemplative hum—which turns into a surprised chirp when Dorothea pivots around and claps her hands on either side of his face. “You’re in a mood.”

And she’s gone through several in the past few minutes. He’s starting to lose track. “Gee, I wonder why.”

She watches him closely, hands sliding down to the sides of his neck, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet. There’s a charge in the air, making his skin hyper-sensitive to the light press of her fingertips; he can’t stop looking at her mouth, the dark crimson lipstick that’s faded into a softer shade over the course of the evening. He should shut this down—his mind’s all over the place, too many dangerous ideas swirling around in his head. Instead he tempts fate by reaching forward to cradle her jaw, running the pad of his thumb along her lower lip.

“I feel like I’m meeting someone new tonight,” she says, her arms dropping to hang at her sides.

“Yeah? Is it really that bad?”

Dorothea shakes her head. “Not bad. Just different.” She strolls back inside, letting her silence simmer, and starts to unclasp her dress. Sylvain perches himself on the edge of the bed, turned away to give her privacy—despite the fact that she didn’t ask, and he’s seen her naked countless times, this afternoon included.

But he’s thinking about what she said, about meeting someone new. Somehow the Dorothea undressing behind him isn’t the same one he had lunch with, isn’t the woman he’s been fooling around with for ages. He’s let her past some invisible wall by bringing her on this trip, and the result isn’t what he expected.

“Are you gonna sleep sitting up like that?” she asks, drifting into his field of vision, her face washed free of makeup and her curves lost beneath the voluminous folds of an oversized tee. “Color me impressed.”

“Wait,” he says, narrowing his eyes. “That’s my shirt you’re wearing. I’ve been wondering where it went.”

She blinks in surprise, glancing down at herself. “Have you? Don’t you have five others just like it?”

“Not in that color.”

“Sorry,” she says. “You left it at my place ages ago. I’m pretty sure I texted you about it, but you never responded.” Her lips curl into a smile, eyes lighting up with mischief; she reaches for the shirt hem and teases the fabric up no more than an inch, brows raised. “Should I give it back now?”

Sylvain snorts, starting to unbutton the shirt he’s currently wearing. “Maybe just toss it in my suitcase before we leave.”

She shrugs and crawls onto the bed, peeling the covers back and getting comfortable. As she’s whacking her pillow into the exact right configuration of fluffiness, she says, “I really am sorry your plan backfired, Sylvain.”

“There are worse things.” He leans back, staring up at the ceiling. “I’m not a kid anymore. At the end of the day, who I marry—if I even get married—is my choice. My parents can’t make it for me, no matter how much they seem to think so.”

“Yeah, but… It would be nice if they were supportive.” She curls up into a satisfied ball, another pillow squeezed between her arms. “Have they always been like that?”

“Overbearing and elitist? Pretty much.” He rolls onto his side, facing Dorothea. There’s a spark of curiosity in her eyes, a shared understanding that he isn’t the type to tell stories like this. Usually something stops him, an involuntary reflex halting the words in his throat. It kicked in earlier today, right after he’d introduced her to his parents. Now, though—maybe because she’s seen the source of his misery for herself, and he can’t erase the events of today from her memory—the instinct is gone. “But they raised me, made sure I always had a roof over my head…” He pauses, remembering who he’s talking to. “I mean—not that I’m trying to rub it in or—”

“I’m not a kid anymore either, Sylvain,” she cuts in. “You don’t need to walk on eggshells with me because of circumstances I left behind ages ago.”

Circumstances that could easily become her reality again if the world is cruel enough. She’s an orphan. She has no guarantees her fame will last.

“As much as I worry about the future, or about getting older,” she continues, as uncharacteristically candid as he’s being tonight, “I think I’ll be okay. I have options. Skills. A good network.”

He scoffs. “Tell that to my mother.”

“She does seem to act like she’s living in a different century, doesn’t she?” Dorothea asks, her tone sardonic. “Impeccable taste in jewelry, though.”

“Careful,” he says with an exaggerated shudder. “You’ll make her stronger.”

Dorothea giggles, the bubbly sound muffled against her pillow. “Anyway. I was thinking about it tonight, and it’s been on my mind more and more lately—that at the end of the day, married or no, I want to be happy. A relationship isn’t required for that.”

“Hm. Having a partner who could make you happy and happens to be loaded would still be a good bonus though, right?”

“Well, obviously.”

It’s nice to hear that the former is more important to her, though. “I like that,” he says. “Wanting to just be happy. You’d be surprised how many people don’t choose that when they have the option. I know my mother didn’t.”

“Just your mother?”

He swallows. Does he really want to get into this right before bed? But he’s already gotten this far, so… “My father’s been married twice. His first wife was the love of his life—that’s what I’ve been told, anyway. But she died tragically—drunk driver. Apparently he was never the same after. It’s why he’s so…” Cold? Unfeeling? Relentless? “Withdrawn,” he settles on.

Dorothea goes still beside him. “That’s… heartbreaking.”

“Sometimes it doesn’t matter what you choose, I guess,” he murmurs.

“I wasn’t talking about your father, though,” Dorothea says. “I was talking about you.”

He scrunches his nose. “Me? I’m plenty happy. Do you think I’d go to all the trouble of avoiding responsibility if it wasn’t fun?”

She heaves a sigh. “That’s not the same thing.”

“Enlighten me, then,” he says.

“Well, you’re clearly not happy right now. You wouldn’t be bothering with this whole charade if you were.”

He closes his eyes. The more he thinks about it, the more he realizes that he is happy right now, in this exact moment. Even if this conversation is difficult, a testament to everything that’s wrong with him and his stupid life, he feels like a weight’s been lifted from his shoulders. Like he can breathe properly for the first time. Funny how that happens.

“I’m glad you’re here, though,” he tells her. “I’m glad I didn’t have to face my parents alone. And that you get to see how beautiful Derdriu is.” The positives outweigh the negatives by far.

“That’s a good start, I suppose,” Dorothea mumbles, the exhaustion evident in her voice.

It is. Sylvain just wishes he had any clue about what comes next.

chapter 2: