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lilpaigeywbb · 2 days ago

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when in the south || prologue 𖦹₊˚✧

➜ summary: intro to bea, intro to paige, and a small meeting point

➜ warnings: n/a

➜ pairing: paige bueckers x mafia daughter!oc

➜ authors note: prologue is out hooray! i'm working on chapter one as well as favorite teacher part 2 (i'll drop it sooner if the first part gets 500 notes 🥳). hope u guys enjoy and send in requests!!!!!!

beatrice forbes was not southern. her name - well, more like ‘name’ - was southern but she was not.

COVER NAME beatrice (nicknamed bee): “bee-AH-triss” forbes: "FORBS”

REAL NAME beatrice (nicknamed bea “bay-ah”): “beaˈtriːtʃe” (bee-AH-TREE-CHE) fabrizio: “fah-bree-SHI-o” REAL NAME beatrice (nicknamed bea “bay-ah”): “beaˈtriːtʃe” (bee-AH-TREE-CHE) fabrizio: “fah-bree-SHI-o”

if you wanted to get technical, both were her southern names. her cover was airtight: born and raised into the rich part of louisiana, graduated from dillard university with a degree in kinesiology, and landed a job as a medical trainer for the dallas wings. her reality was completely different. no college, no transcripts, no dorm room memories. just carefully curated documents, coded phone numbers and calls, and a family legacy buried in lies and destruction (there WAS a real interest and knowledge in kinesiology, though).

the fabrizio family wasn’t just notorious in catania, they were untouchable. it was the kind of empire that built itself on power and fear. her father was still the head, but he wouldn’t be for long. the torch was meant to pass down to the next in line, bea. she had an older brother but he had fled the minute he found out that he was meant to be next. it was a nasty business that took out their two older siblings and neither one wanted the same fate. bea was bright and smart. too good to waste, too young and loved to sacrifice.

so her mother helped get her out of the country.

they had connections everywhere and hence, bea frabrizio became bee forbes. she had gotten used to her new identity. after a couple months in america, she was more accepting of her new life. to make it more fun for herself, she learned how to perfect a southern accent.

eventually, this new life became enough.

but for paige bueckers it wasn't.

she’d probably never admit it out loud but she didn’t feel like she belonged in dallas, not yet, anyway. all she wanted was to go back to connecticut- to uconn. she missed her team and her friends and the barista she saw every morning at her favorite cafe. everything was different and she hated it. but she kept it all to herself. she didn’t know how to tell anyone. she missed her family, her friends, and her college life. she learned that she could be grateful for her new life and what she has while also mourning her old life and the loss of what once was. leaving behind the life she’d built, the version of herself she knew best, felt like losing a limb and trying to walk like normal.

but it got easier.

within just a few days, she had found a coffee spot she liked and gotten familiar with the surrounding areas. maybe dallas wasn’t so bad after all. acceptance was the first step into a great rookie season and overall career. right?

pre-talk

the air outside of the gym smelled like rubber, sweat, and lemon-scented cleaner. was i technically supposed to be here? no, but that was irrelevant. to be fair, they already gave me a keycard so i had access and all i wanted to do was check out the training room and see the gym.

my manicured fingers were playing with a strand of my espresso brown hair from the nerves. it was overwhelming. i had yet to be in an actual work environment since coming to america, much less one wear i had to wear evidence of my false name. it read ‘beatrice (bee)’ which annoyed me. i hated the nickname but the more american, the better. both my name tag and id card felt like giant neon signs reading ‘faker’. it was a rough adjustment, leaving everything i knew for… this.

i came to dallas a few weeks ago, wanting to familiarize myself with the area before throwing myself into work. both in catania and here, i studied vigorously about kinesiology and everything i’d need to know in order to be a good medical trainer. i needed this to work. i couldn’t go back to italy nor could i go through the process of changing myself again.

i smoothened my silky locks and sighed, thinking to myself ‘pull yourself together, bea. what’s the worst that could happen?’

first mistake and note to self? never say that ever again.

the nerves were real. i don’t even know why i wanted to come to the gym. maybe it was because i wanted to get a glimpse of it. or maybe i needed to get out of my apartment, i don’t know. i just know i needed to do something other than think about everything going. i had toured the training facility already but it was a vague one. one that was rushed during all of my post-draft madness. speaking of post draft madness, i couldn’t stand dallas. it was too hot, too different, too… not paige. it didn’t feel me and yet everyone said i belonged here. of course i was grateful for everything here and everyone i met, especially my teammates.

i just wish the washington mystics had gotten the number one pick in the draft lottery.

my air forces were squeaky on the freshly cleaned floor, my lavender tank top tight on my muscular form under the black nike jacket i was wearing. as i walked towards the gym, i smelt… no. perfume? wait- it smelled like my perfume. i sniffed the air a bit and shook my head. nah. not mine. maybe the same brand though. i always felt like valentino had its own signature scent. the closer i got to the gym doors, the stronger the scent got. i pulled out my phone, shooting a text to nika. we talked more than anyone really thought.

paige: smells like perfume. paige: i think someone else is here nika: maybe she’ll be hot paige: haven’t even been here a week and you want me to get a girl? nika: maybe dallas is where you’ll find the one🤷🏻‍♀️

yeah, right.

i rolled my eyes at the phone, trying to type and open my bottle of gatorade simultaneously. i wasn’t looking in front of me that i didn’t notice there was someone there. not until she turned around, causing my gatorade to spill on my shirt. fuck.

all of a sudden, a voice with a southern accent smoother than honey filled the air. i looked up, my eyes falling on a seriously panicked girl. she was short, maybe 5’4 or 5’5. no, definitely 5’5. she was wearing a navy blue button downed short sleeve and black jeans. interesting combo. she was apologizing profusely- oh, shit, she was apologizing.

“i am so so sorry- oh, and i ruined your shirt… i can buy you a new one, i-” “don’t apologize,” i interrupted her, not wanting her to feel bad, “that was on me. i should’ve been watching where i was goin’. and don’t mind the shirt. it was kinda old anyway.” i shrug nonchalantly, not wanting her to worry. she bit the inside of her cheek and nodded, “if you say so.”

there was a moment of silence between us as i zipped up my jacket. i could feel her watching me and it made me nervous. “you’re paige bueckers, aren’t you,” she asked quietly, almost like she was scared of me. “yeah, that’s me. nice to meet you…” “beatrice.” beatrice. the name suited her. she seemed like a beatrice kind of girl. “beatrice,” i repeated, liking how it seemed to roll off my tongue. i noticed her hand was out so i shook it. her skin was so soft. “you ever go by bea or anything?”

first mistake and note to self? never call her that again.

#paige bueckers #dallas wings #paige bueckers x oc #carol writes #wbb #wlw #paige bueckers x mafia!daughter #fanfic #series

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gav-san · 1 day ago

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Chapter Three

A Lineage of Red Masterlist here

One Piece Masterlist

Masterlist here

A Court of Calculations Word Count: 7,500+ This story is not a commendation of slavery, cruelty, sexual assault, or violence. It’s also held together with tape and war crimes. Read responsibly. 18+

Previous/Next

The Juniper Ball arrived. Another palace. Another chandelier dripping in gold.

Outside, the capital trembled with fresh scandal: a naval outpost in revolt, a trade pact collapsing, and a noble marriage ending after four nights. The nobility danced beneath emerald silk and polished judgment as if none of it mattered.

The ball was not only for the new; debutantes remained the favored prey.

The season’s crowned jewels moved with ease, laughing in polished circles. The failures lingered at the edges, too well-dressed to dismiss, already forgotten.

You stayed close to Thorne, who, by some miracle of strategy and sincerity, had managed to quietly help you remain under the radar and faux court you without major issue or rival. He danced with you the correct number of times. Spoke to the house head with dignified warmth and sent you boring, discreetly flattering but always appropriate letters.

The sour-tempered, aging patriarch of House Vauntierre seemed entirely convinced that he was the most suitable candidate for an alliance, and that you should be grateful for the honor.

Best of all, the commander of the God’s Knights had not made a single appearance at any outing or gathering—a quiet disappointment to his admirers, but a welcome relief to you.

Only a few lesser Knights mingled, each with a vested interest and a glittering gem. At this ball, it was tradition for suitors, friends, or sponsors to gift debutantes a precious stone as a sign of favor.

The ritual was largely performative; a concession to appease the lower houses while real wealth quietly circulated among the higher ones. Even so, the debutantes of lesser families stood to gain the most, especially if their season had gone poorly or they had faced disgrace.

In Mariejois, it was rare for lesser houses to acquire wealth so openly. But small gestures like these helped maintain the illusion of balance. Just enough fortune trickled down to let even the poor feel rich.

You held a white opal set in silver, the one Thorne had gifted you before the first dance. Perfectly plain, and suiting house status and colors, it went into the little bag tied fashionably at your waist.

The rest of yours did not come from other suitors but pre-planned emissaries. Men who would circle you and shoo other suitors away.

They pressed jewels into your palm with hollow smiles, and mindfully thought about which would eventually be smuggled to fund the revolution, and which you’d have to hand over to the Master of House Vauntierre. For now, you accepted them with the grace expected of a debutante.

Lyonel Carienne approached with his hands behind his back, wearing the faint smile of a man who had been talked into a dance—his code name: The Seamster.

“Thorne asked me to show you kindness,” he said with a low bow. “It’s the least I can do for an old friend.”

He offered a white opal, the smallest yet—almost insulting, but deliberate. Its pale surface gleamed softly in the light, pure and forgettable. The message was clear.

It was going well. Slowly. Carefully.

You dipped your head and accepted it, voice smooth and soft. “You’re too kind.”

The two of you danced with the stillness the court admired; quiet, elegant, just present enough. Only near the end did Lyonel lean in to murmur,

“Hollow Hound saw movement. Ash Scribe tracked them to the old archives. They weren’t the usual government agents.”

You kept your face unreadable. “Then what were they?”

“CP0.”

You slipped a pale grey ribbon into his pocket as the dance ended. A quiet thank you. The threads embroidered along its edge carried the instructions Maria had received from the chain of revolutionaries outside the Holy City, specific to each contact.

Continue. But do not follow them alone.

Lyonel did not thank you. He simply stepped away.

Then came Deronne Lewis.

He gave no pleasantries, no flattery. Just a faint smirk. His code name: Ghost Dock.

“Mind if I steal her?” he asked Thorne, who allowed it with a look. “You’ve been hoarding your mystery too long.”

Deronne’s opal was oddly cut. Rough around the edges. Urgent.

The dance was quick and sharp, all corners and coded tension.

“Ash Scribe lost the Decimus trail,” he said. “They dropped a name before burning the ledgers. They say it’s from the Nerona family.”

You exhaled, barely a breath. “That again?”

“It’s spreading. New scribes have started marking it in the margins. Ledger Ghost is trying to isolate the source.”

“But?”

“It’s too deliberate.”

You slid a faded ribbon beneath his sleeve. Worn cotton. Older thread. The meaning was simple.

Trace the rumors. Do not confront.

He nodded once. No farewell. Just quiet momentum.

The music played on.

And the court never noticed.

Of the three, Elias Miscaviage was the only one who looked at you properly, not like a favor being granted, but like a dangerous object. Equal parts brilliant and unsettling, Elias was not someone you trusted completely, but his results were never in question.

His code name: The Archivist.

You were fairly sure Thorne disliked him. He never said as much, but the tension was there, humming beneath every exchange. Still, Elias was part of the core group. One of the original silent revolutionaries who had made their way into Mariejois and stayed alive long enough to matter. Trust among them had to be absolute or all would die.

“It would be uncouth not to dance with Thorne’s beloved,” Elias said with mock charm, extending the opal in a closed hand. It was unusually blue. Cool. Striking.

“What a generous display,” you replied, your smile measured, the warmth carefully thin.

As the two of you moved across the floor, Elias leaned in, speaking softly and smoothly.

“One of my newer business partners is a very well-informed noble. Lord Revance offhandedly mentioned the… artifact we’ve been searching for.” Elias pulled you forward. “He laughed when I called it a relic. He said the Chalice is more than I could hope to acquire.”

The word caught in your chest for just a moment.

The Chalice was neither a relic nor a physical object at all, but rather a plot that had shaken the Revolutionary Party so much that they had deployed all avenues to uncover its secrets.

That is why you, young and inexperienced, were allowed to go uncovered when initial plans folded.

Thorne would want to hear everything.

“Was it House Nerona?” you muttered. Elias gave a stilted laugh, twirling you away from the mass of dancing lace and velvet.

“Heavens no, it came from higher. Maybe even from the Five Elders themselves. The Confessor tried to follow the lead, but—”

Your breath hitched, as if he had told you a piece of scandal and not treason.

The Confessor. Code name for Silvain Delcaire. One of your oldest allies in the revolution. Trusted. Brilliant. Cautious.

Elias glanced at the crowd around you, casual as ever.

“Slipped down the stairs,” he said lightly. “Broke his neck.”

You did not react outwardly, but tears stung briefly in your eyes. You raised your fan and turned your face slightly, letting the movement disguise your recovery.

Silvain was dead. And it had not been an accident.

You slipped a slate-colored ribbon into Elias’s hand as the music slowed. The color spoke for you.

Keep going.

Elias did not nod. He only smiled.

And then he let you go.

You returned to Thorne with the quiet expected of a debutante who was getting tired. Thorne offered no words, but when his lips brushed your fingers, you knew he had seen it all; the favor dances, the opals tucked into your sash, the ribbons now hidden away like threads in a web.

All men hiding the colors of the revolution they were actively plotting.

You don’t speak to him of what you’ve heard, save it; all for later. You just curtsy.

“They don’t hate you,” He murmured. “I’m almost impressed.”

So far, it was a successful, quiet evening where the five strategically-placed spies communicated their next steps.

At the height of the night, when the waltzes began to blur and the opals on your sash grew heavy, disaster struck.

A voice rang out, charming, bored, and falsely jovial.

You and Elias turned as one of the God’s Knights entered. He was unfamiliar, blonde, and bespectacled, with the polished arrogance of someone used to being watched. More knights followed behind him, moving with the lazy confidence of men who had never been told no.

“Shall we have a game of wit and wager?” he called. “This ball grows dull with safety.”

Thorne, standing nearby, muttered something under his breath. You caught only part of it, but the words “fucking Sommers Shepherd” were clear enough.

A soft and immediate murmur spread through the ballroom. Fans twitched, eyes shifted, and the temperature of the room changed in an instant.

“A game?”

“It’s been years since they allowed it.”

“Surely not one of those games—”

He rose from the upper dais with a goblet in one hand and a glint of mockery in his eyes.

“I propose we revive an old tradition,” he called, smiling like a poison dipped in wine. “It seems the room is brimming with beauty and blushes, and what better way to stir the Mariejois than with a little fun?”

The other knights laughed. A few nobles stiffened.

You felt Thorne’s arm tense beneath your hand.

Another knight lifted a silver bowl filled with select men's calling cards.

“The Dance of the Cards!” he announced. “Gentlemen submit their tokens, ladies draw in turn. One pairing, one hour. No refusals.”

On paper, it was harmless. Each eligible gentleman submitted a calling card to a bowl or tray, along with a token, something symbolic of his interest: a ribbon, a cufflink, a ring from his house. These were then presented to the debutantes, who would each select one and agree to spend a short, playful hour with the bidder.

But in practice?

It was courtly warfare.

For the highest-born daughters, it was a matter of prestige. The tokens were extravagant: heirloom brooches, pieces of old family armor, notes laced in rare perfume and sealed with ancestral wax. Refusing a high-ranking suitor could insult a House. Accepting the wrong one could ruin a girl’s standing.

But it was far more vicious for you and the others of your tier, second daughters, legitimized heirs, political accessories. You were not so much courted as bartered. It was a test of power. It was a way to isolate girls from their chaperones, from their chosen beaus, from the small amount of control they maintained.

The knights, especially the God’s Knights, treated it like a sport. They’d drop in their tokens with mock solemnity, draw lots for who would “take the mouse to supper,” and trade wagers on how quickly a girl would stammer, faint, or cry.

Once, a girl from a merchant’s house received a rusted knife as a “token.” She smiled through it, accepted the walk, and was never spoken of again. Not ruined, not bred. Just… gone. As if her house had quietly accepted the price of the insult over warring with a fiercer one.

Silver trays glinted as the stewards passed them around. Calling cards flickered like teeth in a lion’s grin.

“It’s a barely concealed bloodbath,” Maria said behind you, her voice low.

“It doesn’t need to be concealed,” Thorne replied. “The lesser houses will welcome it. A child from a knight is still a youth in standing.”

He didn’t have to infer much more.

And already, stewards were moving through the crowd. Noble sons handed over their tokens, some reluctant, some grinning. And the bowl made its way toward the debutantes.

Back in the center of the room, a steward read aloud the rest of the “matches” in an overly gleeful voice.

“They’re targeting the pairings. They're separating anyone who looks too comfortable,” Thorne leaned down, lips brushing your ear like a lover. “Be prepared.”

You nodded, still smiling, still radiant, playing your part. You let out a light, breathless giggle that echoed prettily off polished marble and chandeliers.

The music grew louder and cheerier, in the way only expensive things could afford to be. Laughter resumed, but thinner now. Strained. Several girls drew cards with fingers that trembled. One fainted before the draw even reached her. Another clutched her token to her chest and smiled too brightly, as if pretending could still save her.

“Lady Phine of House Vachette and Saint Clovis of the Redisles House.”

Clovis, a known brute dressed in orange-colored velvet, grinned as the girl took his arm. Her smile was pale and uneven. A few years ago, her elder sister had gone missing after a similar match. Everyone knew it. No one said a word.

“Lady Nella Dorne and Saint Vynn of Bellrose.”

That one at least looked pleased. Saint Vynn was handsome, his family quiet, and his reputation reasonably clean. But he was also deeply in debt, and the Dorne dowry was heavy. Everyone knew how that story ended.

For the rest, it was worse.

Cards kept appearing without names.

Broaches. Seals. Trinkets with a terrible family legacy attached.

“Miss Calienne Rowe. A request… from the Red Circle.”

A ripple of murmurs broke through. The Red Circle was no family. It was a title. A group of God’s Knights that operated without public structure or heraldry. They’d pass her around like a party, and compensate her afterwards.

But the girl of the house Calienne stepped forward, white as milk, but did not hesitate. Because hesitation could be taken for rebellion. And rebellion from a poor girl in satin was just another excuse to execute her family publicly.

You did your best not to blanch.

Maria’s fan snapped open behind you. Sharp. Controlled.

You glanced over your shoulder.

“Miss Vauntierre.” A steward bowed before you, silver tray in hand.

You took a breath.

Thorne released your arm slowly.

And that was the trick of it. You had to play along. Refusal would mean drawing attention. The wrong kind of attention. A rejection here wasn’t rebellion; it was an invitation for worse.

But then something strange happened.

The steward held the bowl a bit away, fingers tightening slightly around the silver tray. You could feel the shift in the air before you could select a token.

He didn’t offer you a choice. There was no polite selection. No laugh or draw, no name among equals.

Instead, he slipped something into your gloved hand, small but weighty. Warm from his palm. Not even a pretense at letting you pick. Something warm, folded in a handkerchief of scarlet silk.

Not a card.

Not a cufflink.

Not a ribbon or ring.

It was a single gold coin, weighty and unmistakable, pressed with the seal of the Commander of the God’s Knights. Still warm from a hand.

“Miss Vauntierre,” he said smoothly. “Your presence has been requested by his holiness, Commander Saint Garling Figarland.”

This was an order.

Your party grew still.

So did the conversation around you.

Your stomach dropped, a slow, sinking realization that pressed colder than any winter wind. Beside you, Thorne’s hand clenched, just once, at his side, so tightly the leather of his glove creaked.

You didn’t look at him. You didn’t need to. You could feel the warning in his stillness, the way his entire posture changed.

His reply was low, quiet enough only for you.

“Dammit.”

You could feel a fan snap shut behind you, a soft but final sound.

The steward cleared his throat, his gaze respectfully lowered, as he addressed you with all the decorum of ritual but no illusion of freedom.

The music swelled again, cheerful and false, like a silken curtain drawn over a gallows. A quartet picked up their instruments. A noble pair resumed a dance they’d only been pretending to enjoy.

You were already being guided forward, one step at a time, the steward’s hand at your elbow light as a threat.

Thorne didn’t stop you.

He couldn’t.

Not here. Not tonight. Not without costing everything. So you walked.

One step. Another.

Thorne remained rooted, his hands behind his back, jaw clenched. He watched you go, and he didn’t follow. To follow would be to interfere. And interfering with a Garling Figarland’s claim wasn’t defiance. It was suicide.

The crowd's murmurs grew as you passed, news of who and what causing shock and dismay. Better debutants watched with little concealed fury.

You were escorted away like a lamb wrapped in silk, the golden coin burning cold through your glove. The steward’s touch was firm on your elbow.

Behind you, the game limped forward.

You were guided across the ballroom, soft steps over marble echoing louder than they should have. The steward’s hand never tightened on your arm. He didn’t need to. The coin in your glove did all the work.

You didn’t stumble. You didn’t pale. You kept your head down. Polite, boring, and humble. Not that it mattered.

Behind you, the ballroom changed. Not slowly. Not gradually. Immediately.

Because Commander Saint Garling Figarland had played the game, and Commander Saint Garling Figarland never played in games—especially ones with debutantes.

There was no rule against it, of course. The Dance of the Cards was open to all eligible men of noble standing and high favor. But Figarland didn’t draw. He didn’t bid. He didn’t need to. He sat above such things; untouchable, unbothered.

Whispers began, hesitant, strangled.

“She drew him?”

“No—he didn’t submit through the bowl.”

“She didn’t choose—he picked her. The redhead.”

“Curious. It is rumoured House Figarland always had a penchant for bright hair.”

Thorne’s head bowed slightly, as if tipping it forward would hide the tension in his jaw. Maria did not move. Her fan remained perfectly still in her hand, unmoving. Watching.

Across the room, one of the other knights chuckled.

“Didn’t think he liked debutantes,” Sommers said with a raised brow, arms crossing as he leaned back to watch the carnage he had been sent to instigate. “Weird.”

“He doesn’t.” Another replied.

“So why did he suggest the game then?”

No one answered.

You were led up a shallow flight of stairs, across a velvet-lined corridor, toward the glass terrace that overlooked the ballroom floor like the eye of a storm. Gold doors loomed ahead, flanked by ceremonial guards who did not speak.

The steward bowed once, precisely.

A guard opened the door.

The room was dimmer than it should have been, lit only by a flickering hearth and one long candelabrum that cast everything in a golden hush. Shadows crawled against the marble and velvet.

Inside: light. Warmth. A single table set for two with a chess set between.

And at the center of it all, him.

The doors shut behind you with a heavy finality.

Garling Figarland sat already poised at the chess table. He hadn’t waited to greet you. He hadn’t even looked up. Like a spider at the center of a perilous web, he awaited your steps to signal his creeping intent.

He was very, terribly, beautiful.

It's beautiful in the way obsidian glints just before it cuts or how a blade can gleam and ruin you before you feel its wound.

His features were too refined to be real; cheekbones drawn like an artist’s sketch, mouth carved with care and cruelty in equal parts. The long lashes and arresting eyes didn’t soften him; they only made the brutality beneath seem intentional. Crafted.

Your feet didn’t want to move.

“Miss Vauntierre,” he said, the low timbre of his voice brushing your spine like fingertips.

“Commander Saint Figarland.” You dipped into a curtsey, blood thrumming in your ears.

“Sit.”

No title. No gentleness. Just an order.

Your legs obeyed, not your will.

The chair was too large, too deep. You folded your hands in your lap to hide the twitch in your gloves.

The table stretched long—lacquered black, lit only by candlelight and a ceiling of stars. The board was set. The game was arranged in standard formation, save for the pieces themselves: hand-painted, each one a miniature effigy. Martyrs for pawns. Traitors for kings.

“You’ll play white,” he said, voice low and smooth—like someone addressing a slow child, or a future regret. “White moves first.”

You swallowed a retort, but your face must’ve cracked, just slightly. A sliver of irritation.

His smile came slow. Not warm. Not amused.

Predatory.

Cold.

“If you’re wondering,” he said, voice like a blade sliding free of its sheath, “yes. There will be consequences if you lose.”

Words caught in your throat. He didn’t elaborate.

He didn’t have to.

You reached for a pawn. Moved it forward, measured.

He laughed. Just once. Short. Sharp.

“A nursery move,” he murmured. “Safe. Polished. Empty. Is this the strategy of a woman who quotes revolutionaries—or just another girl raised to survive applause?”

You said nothing.

He moved his piece in silence. Smooth. Precise. A rook, cast like a gauntlet.

“I’ve been watching you. Your little charade. The breathy laughs. That barely-there lisp you put on when speaking to lesser men. The way your gloves slip from your fingers like an afterthought.”

He tilted his head, gaze like iron pressed to skin.

“Clever. Sloppy. You present as prey, but only just.”

You placed your bishop. His eyes flicked down, then up.

“But it’s not real,” he said, tone dropping. “The harmless act. The dull eyes. You don’t blink like a girl with nothing between her brows.”

Your breath slowed. Still, you said nothing.

He slid his rook forward, brutally taking your pawn.

“I’ve seen smarter girls play dumber games,” he said softly. “They didn’t end well either.”

His gaze cut.

“And Thorne. That poor boy’s shadowing you like a dog who thinks he’s grown fangs. Slavering and pathetic. Loyal enough to gut.”

That struck. Of course it did.

You let it show. Just a flicker of ire, polished into poise. And took his rook with your castle.

“We’re a minor house, Commander. Surely our schemes are beneath your attention.”

He smiled again. But this time it was worse—almost sweet.

“Beneath me? Oh, Miss Vauntierre. You are not just beneath me. You are debris. Remnants of a bloodline mortgaged for relevance. Scrubbed from every true ledger until someone bored and well-bred decided to sponsor your rehabilitation.”

His knight moved.

“Tell me,” he asked, voice curling like smoke in your lungs, “Did you lower your price for him? Or did he name it for you?”

Your hand paused above your next move.

Just for a second.

It was enough.

“I see,” he said, tone a velvet garrote. “You were rebranded. Polished. Labeled. One of three trotted out like livestock at a country fair. The other two married quickly enough—to coin and consolation.”

He leaned in, gaze gleaming.

“And you? You smeared on civility like rouge and painted yourself provincial. Did you think no one would notice? The Holy City is built on girls like you.”

You moved your knight.

Clean. Unexpected.

“It’s as you say, Commander. I am flattered by this degree of attention. I wasn’t aware I warranted such… scrutiny.”

A trap. A challenge. An invitation to stumble.

He paused.

Then smiled.

This one was colder. Less wolf, more guillotine.

“I have a soft spot for red,” he said, as though commenting on a corpse’s earrings. “But don’t confuse fascination with forgiveness.”

Your fingers hovered over the next piece.

And the room felt like it had teeth.

Back in the ballroom, the music played on. Waltzes gilded with false cheer, debutantes giggling too brightly, noblemen swaying like snakes in powdered silk.

But Maria wasn’t laughing.

She stood near the refreshment table, eyes scanning the room with trained calculation. Her lips pursed. One gloved hand tapped her fan twice, then again.

“Thorne,” she said under her breath.

He tilted his head, almost imperceptibly.

“She’s gone too long,” she said. “How long does this bloody game take?”

Thorne’s jaw was tight. “Too long.”

Maria’s fan snapped shut. “Do we go after her?”

“He’s a God’s Knight,” Thorne hissed. “Garling Figarland. I make a scene, and this entire charade is ruined. If I show favoritism, she is guaranteed to die faster.”

Maria’s mouth flattened. “I had thought we had lost his interest.”

“I know.”

He scanned the upper dais. Nothing, though the other suitors had begun returning their prey.

“What’s the plan?” Maria asked, low and sharp.

Thorne didn’t answer immediately. His fingers flexed at his side.

“She has one hour,” he finally said. “If she’s not back by then—”

“Then what?” Maria asked.

Thorne’s jaw clenched.

You moved your bishop with a steady hand, though your pulse thudded in your throat like a warning drum.

Commander Figarland said nothing, just shifted his knight with surgical finality.

The silence between you was not peace. It was a dissection. He wasn’t simply playing the game. He was studying your anatomy, peeling you apart with each flick of his fingers across the polished ivory.

“You know what I admire?” Figarland said, voice soft as velvet and twice as suffocating. “Not cleverness. Cleverness is common among women like you.”

His rook swept forward, pinning two of your pieces with elegant cruelty.

“I admire being surprised.”

He let the silence settle between you like smoke, watching for your reaction, for the flicker of hesitation or pride.

“Clever girls are trained. They rehearse their charm, perfect their timing, and tailor every word to flatter or distract. But surprise—that cannot be taught. It’s either in you, or it isn’t.”

He finally looked up, and the air felt thinner for it.

“And you surprised me.”

You did not speak. You couldn’t afford to. But you moved your queen, not defensively, but with poise, a calculated refusal to be cornered.

He paused. Just long enough to register the change in tempo.

Then came the smile. It was not warm, it was not mocking. It was the kind of smile that belonged to a surgeon moments before the incision.

“You’re unexpected,” he murmured. “Nothing is more compelling than a well-timed defiance. That alone makes you interesting.”

His gaze never left the board, yet you could feel it on you. Like weight pressing against your ribs, just shy of cracking them.

“I wonder,” he said, fingers gliding across the curve of a pawn, “what drives a girl like you. It isn’t loyalty. Your house would trade you for land or livestock if it kept them standing. And it’s not gratitude. No one grateful wears silk like shackles.”

He moved a piece.

“You fail too neatly. It’s rehearsed. You fall in ways that protect your secrets. Like a thief trained to die politely.”

Your stomach curled.

“You aren’t a debutante.” His hand lingered near his black castle. “Tell me, Miss Vauntierre. Who taught you to bleed without screaming?”

You did not answer.

He leaned back slightly, a portrait of luxury and menace.

“You’re a dying house’s final wager,” he continued. “A counterfeit jewel dropped on a gilded table, praying some heir mistakes you for fortune. You quote revolutionaries like poetry. Not for rebellion, but for relief. You want someone to say something real before this whole theatre burns.”

He said it like someone describing the weather. Not cruel because he wanted to hurt you. Cruel because he did not care if it did.

The words lodged deep. They scraped bone. Not because they were false. But because they were familiar.

You felt it then. Not fear. Not anymore.

Fury.

Slow. Righteous. Bone-deep.

When you spoke, your voice came soft and sharp.

“And what does that make you, Saint Figarland?” you asked. “The collector of broken things? A man with unique taste?”

The air changed.

Not with noise. With stillness.

His hand rested gently on the arm of his chair. The other hovered just above the board, perfectly still. You had touched something.

He looked at you like a swordsmith must look at a sword with a flaw near the hilt. Wondering if it can be mended, or if it will shatter when it matters most.

Then, slowly, he leaned back.

He did not speak right away. The music faded into the background, and the rest of the room seemed to stop breathing.

“A collector,” he said, almost to himself. “No.”

His fingers rolled a pawn once. Then he set it down with a soft click.

“The difference, Miss Vauntierre, is that I do not pretend broken things are whole. And I do not believe anything that breaks so easily was worth owning in the first place.”

His eyes held yours. Cold. Unmoving.

“But I do enjoy finding priceless artifacts after I break weak ones. I always personally ensure quality within my household.”

Your breath caught.

Still, your hand moved to the next piece.

Your spine straightened. Fury coiled hot beneath your skin, searing through every polite instinct that had kept you silent until now. The other girls played at survival. They tilted their heads just right. Smiled with their teeth hidden. They looked down and drank poison with honeyed tongues, praying men like him would pass them over in favor of easier prey.

You saw it now. He counted on that. He had built his world on exploiting others.

He picked up a pawn. One of yours. Turned it slowly between two fingers. The faintest smile tugged at his mouth. It was not cruel. Not amused. It was worse. It was certain.

Your throat tightened.

You had spent your life believing revolution could be sewn into hems and societies changed in drawing rooms. But as your hand hovered above the board, you had a creeping insight that the softness you’d honed to do such a task was not enough.

Figarland’s gaze caught yours again. Ruby, deepening into burgendy, sharp as lightning bottled in dusk. Not cruel. Not amused. Just focused. Like something old and patient had turned to look at you and found the taste of your defiance interesting.

You met his gaze—unflinching. Unyielding. It was like standing at the edge of a cliff, eyes locked with the abyss below, yet never once stepping back. His eyes, cold and calculating, tried to pry through the layers of your resolve, but you didn't blink. You didn't flinch. There was power in that stillness, a quiet rebellion in the way you refused to break under the weight of his scrutiny. In that moment, the air between you thickened, a silent challenge hanging there—like a storm waiting to unleash.

“Then I suppose you’ll have your hands full,” you said, voice calm and measured, yet laced with a quiet fury. “There’s no shortage of breakable objects here.”

He smirked.

His smile was beautiful in the way all dangerous things were, like a blade glinting in the light just before it strikes. His features held an impossible symmetry, carved with intention. His mouth curled, a subtle play between mockery and something darker—like a man born to either bless or condemn, and entirely unconcerned with which path he chose.

The pawn clicked as he set it down. Gentle. Final. A man who had never once feared the outcome of a game. His movements were deliberate, measured, as though the board was a mere reflection of his control over everything else. There was no rush in him—just the serene confidence of someone who knew he could bend the world to his will. The question was never if he’d win, but rather how long the rest of you would endure before breaking.

“No,” he said softly. “There isn’t.”

A blow, dressed as agreement.

“You’re despicable,” you snapped.

He didn’t respond. He didn’t even blink.

Instead, he moved his rook forward. Elegant. Direct. Unhurried. The motion of a man whose victories were not guesses but guarantees.

Your fingers closed around your bishop.

You struck.

As you claimed the square with brutal precision, the rook clattered to the floor. He didn’t react. Not with surprise. Not with irritation. He simply reached for his queen.

Glass touched wood.

“You have one more mistake left,” he said softly.

The queen settled on the board like a blade poised at your throat. Not loud. Not triumphant. Just still. A quiet threat.

Your knights were divided. One was stranded beyond help, and the other dangled like bait. Your flanks had collapsed from within. The pieces you had placed with purpose were now strangled under his relentless advance.

Across from you, his eyes moved over the board with casual precision. He studied the ruin he had built, square by square, not as a man reviewing effort, but as one confirming inevitability.

He had made no errors. He had offered no mercy. He had strategized every possibility, every weakness. He had pulled you forward, baited each move, and stripped your defense bare in twelve turns.

Commander Saint Garling Figarland was terrifying in the quietest way imaginable.

You stared at the board.

His hand rested lightly at its edge. His thumb tapped once and then again. The sound was soft, deliberate, and maddening.

“You play like someone who hates to lose,” he said.

His tone remained flat. Not mocking. Not kind. Simply observant. Detached.

“No one plays to lose,” you said quietly. “That’s the point of playing.”

He did not answer at once. The corner of his mouth lifted, just slightly. A flicker of interest sharpened the edges of his gaze. The indifference slipped away, replaced by something colder. Something amused.

Cutting humor, cloaked in charm. The kind that smiled before striking.

He hummed, low in his throat. Almost amused. “Then you must be miserable right now.”

You pressed your teeth together and stared at the board.

Your next move would not save you. One desperate, deliberate counter. Yes, he had seen every strategy.

Save one.

Your hand shifted. Calm. Precise. Your fingers found the queen.

“Draw,” you said.

The word sliced through the silence.

Garling stilled. Even the air seemed to hold its breath.

He leaned in slowly, his gaze moving across the board once and then again. His expression gave nothing—not insult, not satisfaction, just silence—still and watching.

Then his hand moved.

He tipped his king.

The soft clack of ebony on wood cracked through the quiet like breaking glass.

It was the sound of surrender. But not the sound of defeat.

He lifted his gaze to meet yours, and its weight pressed hard against your ribs.

He didn’t look angry. Or annoyed. There was no heat in his expression at all. Only calm. Only interest. Like something patient and dangerous had finally tasted what it wanted.

“Well,” he said, voice low and even. “That was… unexpected. And impressive.”

The words dropped like silver. Polished. Gleaming. Deceptively warm.

You had won nothing.

And yet, he had given the game.

The edges of victory felt frayed. Unsteady. Cold in your hands.

He stood.

No words yet. No movement wasted.

The room seemed to shift around him. The candlelight dimmed in tone, as if drawing back. The air thickened with his absence as he stepped from the table, adjusting his cuffs with slow, deliberate care.

His eyes passed over you one last time. A measured sweep, like a commander weighing whether a soldier should be promoted or erased.

“You are free to return,” he said. “But next time,” He shifted just enough for you to glimpse the edge of his mouth. A smile. Not pleasant. Not cruel. Only precise. “I will be more prepared.”

Two steps carried him further before he stopped again.

“Oh—”

His tone lightened by a fraction. So faint you might have missed it if you hadn’t been primed for danger.

A pause.

“Tell Thorne,” he said, almost warmly, “his taste was better than I expected.”

And then Garling Figarland walked away.

The ball had ended in something perilously close to scandal.

Not loudly. Mariejois never tolerated noise. But the signs had already begun to stain the marble for those who knew where to look.

A poor young lady from the western districts had been carried out through the servant’s corridor, limp and ghost-white, her heels missing, her dress trailing like wilted garden silk. Her mother followed silently, her smile locked into place with such unnatural precision that it looked embalmed.

Another girl, an heiress whose family controlled the salt routes of the southern coast, had simply vanished. Her chaperone, a dowager countess with hands that shook beneath layers of lace, sat weeping behind her fan as the chamber musicians played on without looking up.

A third was struck. A backhanded slap mid-dance, after refusing a God Knight’s vulgar invitation. She disappeared seconds later, pulled into the East Wing, past the velvet curtain where no guests were permitted. No music followed her. Neither did her chaperone.

By the time the night ended, ten debutantes had been quietly removed from the floor. Their names weren’t spoken. They would not be mentioned in the morning papers. But every courtier who mattered noticed.

A silent culling.

A performance review of the season’s stock.

Fewer than half of the original debutantes returned untouched. No ruined silks. No bruised wrists. No smeared powder clinging to skin. No shadows in their expressions.

And then there was you.

You emerged alone, upright and clean. No chaperone trailing behind in hysterics. No court doctor. No red-rimmed eyes. Your spine remained straight. Your gaze level. Your gloves still immaculate.

You had escaped Garling Figarland without a scratch, making you more interesting than even the wealthiest, prettiest of girls.

You had walked into something sharp, cruel, and impossible to name– That alone sent whispers racing through the marble halls. And what followed that ignited them—That you had walked out of it whole.

No one knew what that meant. Not exactly. But everyone agreed it meant something.

Thorne stood near the colonnade, flanked by foreign banners and gilded torchlight, like a man ready to betray a nation. His posture was military stillness wrapped in barely concealed panic. One wrong word, one more minute of uncertainty, and he would have crossed every forbidden line without hesitation.

His eyes locked on you the moment you stepped from the shadowed corridor. They did not move. Not even when two senators brushed past, murmuring half-sentences that bent with interest.

He met you halfway.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice low and urgent. “Did he—”

“He didn’t touch me,” you said, cutting the question short.

But the words felt foreign. Not rehearsed. Not false. Just strange in your mouth.

Thorne watched your face closely, his expression a mixture of relief and disbelief. As though he suspected your mind had fled the moment your lips formed the answer.

“He didn’t,” you repeated, more softly this time. “He just—”

You swallowed.

“A game. Chess. He said I played well.”

Thorne’s jaw tightened. The muscle at his temple flexed like a loaded wire. You watched the fury rise through him, not as an explosion, but as a slow, smothered burn. The kind that destroyed cities in silence.

“He said you played well,” Thorne repeated, each word pressed from his mouth like a punishment. His jaw clenched again, so hard it seemed one wrong word might fracture it. The ripple of rage passed through him like heat rippling beneath frost, dangerous and deeply buried.

You didn’t nod. You couldn’t.

It had not been a compliment.

It had been a calculation.

Behind you, the music returned. Laughter resumed. Too loud. Too bright. Like a ballroom desperately pretending the hunt had never happened.

“We’ve caught his eye,” Thorne said, quiet and tense. “But I don’t know why. That’s the part I can’t stand. He’s not trying to win. He’s… watching. Waiting. Like he wants to see what we’ll do.”

You turned your head, slowly, toward the ballroom. The chandeliers glittered. The dancers moved. The coppery scent of fear lingered beneath expensive perfume. Nothing had changed. Yet everything had.

The last half hour had shattered multiple households and was already rewriting the order of power with whispers and silence.

Maria appeared at your side, her face pale but composed. Her gloves were creased from how tightly she had gripped them. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. Her presence alone was your signal.

With no further word, you and Maria moved. Silent. Measured.

You both walked out of the hall without turning back.

The fire was low. Just embers now.

Garling Figarland sat in near-darkness, the candlelight flickering over brocade and polished brass. He had not changed since the ball. Only the gloves were gone, dropped beside the hearth like dead skin. Forgotten. Unnecessary.

His hands were bare. Calloused. Steady.

The chessboard before him was a perfect replica of the one he had just played. Every piece was placed in time and location to reenact, that every move could be vivisected.

He moved in silence, retracing the match with the care of a man who remembered everything. Each pause. Each flutter of her lashes. Each breath she dared to hold.

Knight to E5.

The bishop sacrificed.

A feint, not a flaw.

She had wrapped her strategy in sweetness and restraint. Simpering grace, misplaced modesty. She tried to lose. That had been her lure. He took the bait without hesitation.

But somewhere in the middle, the mask slipped. Not from error. From tension. His tension. His words. He had pressed too hard, and something inside her shifted.

His mouth curved. Not a smile. Not quite.

He remembered her expression. The twitch at her mouth when he insulted her friends. The subtle flutter of her fingers over the knight, pretending ignorance. But she had known.

A clever little thing.

Soft skin, expensive scent, a touch of powder at the throat. Everything measured to be average and nothing more. She had not rebelled with raised voice or trembling pride. She had simply shifted her weight and used her queen.

And drawn blood.

The white king turned slowly in his hand. His thumb pressed into the carved crown. Firm. Testing.

“There you hide,” he whispered, more to himself than the fire. “A knife, burnished and secreted. Someone dressed you in civility and hoped no one would notice.”

He leaned forward. Set the king down.

Beside the board sat a thick dossier. Miss Vauntierre's name was printed across the front in deep red ink. The folder bulged now, full of notes, gossip, anecdotes, fragments, and fingerprints smudged by ink and haste.

He opened it again, though there was no need. He knew the contents by heart. But he was determined to know every single thing about Miss Vauntierre. He knew the tilt of her voice when she lied. The curve of her mouth when she decided not to speak. The scent she wore when she meant to distract. The precise moment she had chosen to let her mask slip.

Every line.

Every rumor.

Every whispered sin.

All of it memorized. All of it his.

He traced the spine of the dossier with his thumb, slow and deliberate, the way one might trace the edge of a blade.

“Not a standard debutante,” he said under his breath. “A little fox, certainly. But what are you playing at?”

He didn’t expect an answer. The question was for the fire, or perhaps for himself. For the pull still coiled tight across his shoulders, long after the game had ended.

And if she was a distraction, she was dangerously effective.

She wasn’t the prettiest. Not the one with the most gold or the longest shadow of pedigree. But she had surprised him without faltering. She had bitten back with silence, with posture, with those calm, deliberate movements that made mockery of every other girl’s rehearsed trembling.

He could still hear the tone in her voice. Not raised. Not soft.

Measured.

Like something meant to provoke.

And it had.

He snapped the folder shut, the leather creasing beneath his hand. The sound echoed like a sentence handed down.

Then he leaned back, letting the shadows gather at his feet again. Their presence settled, heavy and familiar, but it did not calm the tightness still sitting low in his spine.

“It looked sweet,” he said quietly, thinking of her again. The way she had looked at him. “That anger on her lips.”

He stood, pulling his cloak off, as if the room had turned too hot.

She had not flinched. She had not smiled. She had simply stood there, spine straight, fear locked behind her ribs, anger shaped into elegance.

That was the part that lingered.

He shrugged off his vest, fingers dancing down the buttons.

“If she’s a plant,” he said slowly, “I’ll see how deep her roots go… and pull until something gives.”

His tone remained steady, but there was a weight beneath it—heat, restrained and deliberate. He moved to his cravat, pulling it off, before grabbing the goblet of wine.

“If she’s a plot,” he added, fingers grazing the rim of his glass, “then I’ll take my time unraveling it. Strand by strand.”

Then he paused, letting the weight of the third possibility settle into the room.

“But if she’s something else,” he murmured, the corner of his mouth lifting in a slow, deliberate curve, “if she’s real… I may just keep her. Break her in myself. See how sharp she is when pressed.”

His eyes slid back to the chessboard.

She had stepped into his domain, head high, full of bite, and then walked away untouched. That fact settled in his shoulders like unfinished business.

He let the white king fall to its side with a soft, satisfying clink.

And left it there.

#gav story #romance #x reader #figarland garling x reader #garling figarland #God's Knights #Pre-time period

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