Chapter Text
Vi stands in front of the full-length mirror, head tilted slightly, her face unreadable. Her gaze stays neutral as she takes herself in. This version of herself standing there. One she’s still getting used to.
She’s worn fine clothing before. Yet this is her first time bearing the Kiramman crest and colors.
Her hair is cut in a long mullet, with only one side shaved. For this occasion, she decides to push it back—neat and out of her face. The makeup is minimal: a touch of eyeshadow, a bit of gloss. Nothing to hide behind. But the suit—
Fitted purple dress pants with thin golden pinstripes hug her frame, high-waisted and sharp, cinched by a black leather belt. The buckle gleams, etched with the faint, unmistakable emblem of House Kiramman.
Her blouse is ivory silk, cut into a deep, plunging V that draws the eye without asking for attention. The fabric clings just enough to suggest shape. At her throat rests a delicate gold chain.
The jacket matches the pants. Structured but not stiff. Cut to move with her instead of against her. It makes her look... dangerous. Respectable. Untouchable.
Her eyes land on the crest stitched into the lapel again. Just a symbol. She feels its weight, something more than armor.
She stares.
Longer than she means to.
Then a voice breaks the silence. Dry, cool, edged with familiar humor.
“Well? Say something. What do you think?”
Vi doesn’t turn. Her gaze remains fixed on the mirror, her voice low.
“Is it really necessary to ask for my approval when you’ve already established such a high success rate?”
There’s a breathy laugh behind her. A presence steps into view in the mirror. Peeking at Vi from over her shoulder.
A woman dressed in tailored evening wear—dark, impeccable, unmistakably Kiramman. Her presence is immediate, cutting through the quiet like a blade through silk. She appears over Vi’s shoulder, posture ramrod straight, blue eyes bright and unyielding. One gloved hand reaches forward, guiding Vi to face her with a touch that is gentle, but leaves no room for refusal.
“Today is different, my Violet,” she says, voice warm and certain. “Today, people will formally recognize you as part of House Kiramman.”
Her hands cup Vi’s face with practiced ease, one thumb brushing over the tattoo on her cheekbone, lingering. Her gaze flickers. There’s pride, yes. And something else too. Something softer.
“You remind me of someone…” she murmurs to Vi, gaze distant. Then she shakes her head, chasing away the thought. “But never mind that.”
Vi doesn’t press. She reaches up and places her hand over the other woman’s, still and steady.
The woman’s lips tilt, her touch slipping from Vi’s face down to her bicep, grounding her.
“I know you never asked for any of this. I know you’re doing it because I asked you to. I’m grateful for that. But... Violet, this will make things easier moving forward. You’re doing it for me… but I asked you to do this for you.”
She leans in, her voice low.
“You need to carry yourself with the authority of a Kiramman. Do you understand?”
Vi meets her gaze. There is no coldness there. Only conviction.
“I understand,” she says in a low voice. The other woman’s mouth curves, proud and sure.
“I won’t let you down,” Vi adds, firmer this time.
“Of that,” says Cassandra Kiramman, her hand still resting on Vi’s arm, “I have absolutely no doubt, darling.”
The Kiramman ballroom has always been a place of grandeur, but tonight, it shimmers with something more intimate. Legacy, polished and curated for the eyes of Piltover’s elite.
Golden sconces line the walls, each one lit with a flickering flame behind etched glass. The ceiling arches high above in pale stone, veined with filigree patterns and inlaid with tiny, glinting gems that catch the light like stars. Three chandeliers hang like constellations, their crystals swaying gently with the movement of the crowd below.
Soft classical music fills the space played by a string quartet tucked into a discreet alcove along the left wall. The melody floats like perfume. Rich, refined, it doesn’t dominate the room, instead weaving itself through conversation.
The guests are dressed in opulent shades of deep emeralds, sapphire blues, silks in champagne and jet. Every suit is tailored within an inch of its life, every dress deliberate in cut and fabric. Lace gloves flutter as women gesture mid-conversation. Shiny boots click lightly on marble floors. Laughter rings out from pockets of conversation, all pitched to just the right volume, balanced between propriety and comfort.
At the center of it all, the banquet table stretches nearly the length of the ballroom. It is a still life of indulgence.
There are sculptural arrangements of meats, glazed in honeyed reductions and dusted with edible gold; rows of oysters on ice, nestled into seashells dyed with pink pearl. Artisanal breads spill from baskets in overlapping layers, their crusts dusted with ash, seeds, or flour, beside blocks of imported butter shaped into curls.
Champagne cascades from a crystal fountain in slow, looping rivulets. Bowls of steaming consommé are passed around by gloved attendants, the scent of saffron and bone broth winding through the air like incense.
Tobias Kiramman stands at the head of it all, blinking at a platter of golden croquettes—flaky and just shy of too hot, filled with some creamy blend of Gruyère and chive and something else he can’t name but always adores.
He reaches for one, already licking his lips, only to leap slightly as a sharp jab catches him in the ribs.
He turns, startled.
And finds his daughter smiling at him like she’s never left.
“Caitlyn!” he exclaims with delight, pulling her into a tight hug.
“I can’t believe you came! When we didn’t hear back, we thought…”
“I almost didn’t,” she admits, pulling back. “But you said it was important. Besides, I am ready to come back. Ready to face… all of this.” She gestures around her.
Tobias nods, his smile easing. “Where’s mother? Isn’t she with you?” she asks, looking around.
“Ah. No. Not yet.” He turns his attention to the table again, picking up a plate and selecting his croquettes.
“You’re not escorting her?” Caitlyn asks, arching a brow.
“Not at this moment, sweetie.” His tone is light, still, she catches something odd in it. Something reserved.
Then she remembers the question that has been burning in her mind since she returned to Piltover.
“Father?” she asks, carefully.
"Hm?" he replies, turning back to her, plate in hand.
"How's Vi?"
He doesn’t have to answer. A hush spreads through the ballroom like a velvet ripple. Quiet at first, then absolute.
Conversations die mid-sentence. Glasses pause halfway to lips. The quartet calmss into a near-whisper.
Caitlyn turns instinctively with the crowd, already dreading what—or who—might stand at the top of the grand staircase.
There stands her mother. Regal, poised, proud. And beside her...
Vi.
The contrast is striking. But what makes Caitlyn pause isn’t just Vi’s transformation—it’s the way Cassandra stands next to her. Cassandra’s posture curves subtly inward, as though drawn toward Vi like a flower bending toward light.
Her hand rests lightly on Vi’s bicep, a protective gesture, her fingers tracing slow, near-invisible circles. The smile Cassandra wears isn’t just prideful. It’s admiring. Possessive, even.
“Welcome Cassandra Kiramman and, for the first time and forever more, Violet of House Kiramman.”
Cassandra doesn’t look at the crowd. She looks at Vi. Only Vi.
Caitlyn’s brow furrows. It’s brief, easy to miss. But something about the exchange feels… off. She feels as if she’s watching a performance where one actor believes they’re playing a different role entirely.
Despite that, Caitlyn's breath still catches at the sight of Vi.
She has imagined a dozen versions of her over the years, wondered what she would look like grown. Though nothing had prepared her for this.
Vi is striking. Beautiful and handsome in equal measure. She has grown out her hair, which is pushed back out of her face. It is still shaved at the side, a bit darker now than the bubblegum pink Caitlyn remembers. The familiar powder-blue eyes and dusting of freckles remain, but everything else has changed.
Tattoos and piercings now adorn her lovely face, and Caitlyn can't help wondering how her mother reacted to them or even allowed her to get them in the first place. Vi is always bold, unapologetic. Someone who acts first and explains later. That fire is still there, now refined, sharpened.
She has grown into her strength. Broader shoulders, confident posture. Her suit is elegant on her, the pinstripes catching the chandelier light like threads of fire. The Kiramman crest sits neatly on her lapel, more than a mark of affiliation, a quiet claim of belonging. Her shirt, buttoned low, shows off enough skin to stir something sharp and breathless in Caitlyn's chest. Caitlyn feels her face warm as her eyes trace the gold details, the crisp lines, the subtle way it emphasizes Vi's body.
And then there's that smirk. Barely a flicker, and Caitlyn imagines that it, too, has grown to be more lethal.
Caitlyn turns to her father, surprised outright.
He just shrugs, as if to say, Don’t ask me.
She stands motionless in the crowd, the air thick with heat and memory.
She barely registers the applause erupting around her.
Vi descends the stairs with ease beside Cassandra, the image of poise—a more grown version of the chaos Caitlyn remembers. Her features have sharpened—cheekbones, jaw, expression. She scans the room with diplomatic detachment.
But they never land on her.
Vi doesn’t see her.
She is composed... focused. Her attention is locked in the performance of control, wielding her poise like a blade, cutting cleanly through each nod, each handshake, each wave of applause.
Caitlyn has imagined this reunion a hundred ways. Vi has always noticed her. Vi has always looked back. Not tonight.
She greets nobles and dignitaries with calm grace, matching her mother’s stride and tone. Vi never realizes she is being watched. Caitlyn feels like a ghost in her own house, a girl caught outside of time.
She watches for over half an hour, staying beside her father as Vi and Cassandra make their rounds. Eventually, she can’t wait any longer.
“Father,” she says, “why don’t you rescue Vi from all this high-society nonsense so I can catch up with her?”
“A splendid idea!” Tobias grins. “Let’s go together.”
Caitlyn winces. “Actually... I was hoping to speak with Vi alone first. Then I’ll catch up with Mother.”
Tobias’ expression warms as he sets his sights on his wife. A spark of energy blooms inside of him.
"You and your mother," he chuckles. "Always so greedy for one’s undivided attention."
He turns to where Caitlyn has been standing, only to realize she is already gone.
Tobias chuckles again as he makes his way toward Cassandra with purpose, weaving through guests with a familiarity born of decades in this space. When he reaches her, he pauses just a step behind, clearing his throat theatrically.
“Councilwoman Kiramman,” he says, voice smooth, playful. “Would you do me the honor of letting a hopelessly smitten old man escort you for the rest of the evening?”
Cassandra turns, already smiling before she lays eyes on him. “Hopelessly smitten, are you?”
"Tragically so,” he replies, placing a hand over his heart. “And completely at your mercy.”
She arches a brow. “A dangerous thing to admit, Tobias.”
“And yet, I live for danger.”
Vi, still beside her, bites back a smile.
Cassandra lets out a light laugh and turns to her. “If my escort doesn’t mind…”
Vi responds with a low, mock-bowing gesture, full of indulgent grace. “But of course not,” she says, grinning. “Though I expect a full report tomorrow on whether he behaved himself.”
“No promises,” Tobias quips back, already offering his arm with a flourish.
Cassandra slips her hand into Tobias’s waiting arm with practiced elegance. They walk off together like the evening is theirs alone, Tobias leaning in to murmur something that makes Cassandra chuckle, her laugh gentle and rare like a secret bloom.
Vi watches them go, smiling, happy to see two people she loves so in love still. Then she turns and makes her way to the open bar.
She moves through the crowd, her smile tight, her steps precise—measured diplomacy draped in Kiramman tailoring. The hard part is over. She has made it through the introductions, the handshakes, the questions.
This is her chance to grab a drink and sneak off before having to actually work the crowd. She hates this, but recognizes the benefits. It is for a good cause.
At the bar, she nods to the bartender, who knows her order already. A glass slides toward her, frosted and strong. Vi reaches for it.
And that's when she feels it—a hand closing gently around her wrist. She is tugged, insistently, into a quiet hallway.
She turns and for a moment, the air in her lungs catches. Caitlyn stands there, and is stunning in a way that makes the rest of the room fall away. Her dark hair, now longer, is pinned back in a graceful twist, a few loose strands framing her face just so. She wears a sleek, midnight-blue dress that fits her like it has been sewn with her in mind. Elegant and impossible to ignore. The fabric shimmers subtly with each movement, catching the light like ripples over water.
Vi admires Caitlyn’s skin, warm under the golden glow of the ballroom lights, and her sharp blue eyes, still so piercing, find Vi’s like a compass snapping north. She looks older, yes, but also more certain. More composed. Like she’s been carved by time into something with predatory charm. And beautiful.
Vi lets her gaze sweep over her. Measured, deliberate. No flinch. No hesitation. Her posture doesn’t shift, but something inside her sparks. A recognition… a pull. She tilts her head just slightly, taking in every inch of Caitlyn, and her mouth curls at one side. It doesn’t quite reach her gaze.
Caitlyn’s smile. Not the polite one she gives in photographs. The real one. Wide and warm, showing the tiny gap between her front teeth. It used to be endearing. It still is. Vi thinks it might be the prettiest thing she has ever seen.
She doesn’t let her stare linger too long and welcomes the feeling settling low in her stomach. An ache that is all want and memory.
“Hey,” says the voice. Low. Older. Unmistakable.
“Caitlyn,” she whispers, stunned.
Caitlyn doesn’t hesitate. She pulls Vi into a tight embrace, and Vi returns it without question.
“I thought you weren’t coming,” Vi murmurs, uncertain of what else to say.
“I didn’t know you were being presented,” Caitlyn replies, pulling back just enough to see her face. “But I was already planning to come home. And mostly… I wanted to surprise you.”
Vi smiles at her, warmth blooming across her face.
"Wait here. I'll only be a second… don't move!" she says, turning back toward the bar.
Caitlyn can only stand there, blinking, still caught in the daze of seeing Vi again. She smiles, dumbly, as Vi slams back the drink and returns in quick, confident strides. Straight to her.
When she finally reaches Caitlyn, she takes her hand, intertwining their fingers together.
Vi leads her away from the ballroom, through the old Kiramman halls, down the back corridor she'd memorized by heart. Her grip is firm and tight, Like she’s anchoring herself to Caitlyn.
They don't speak.
Don't need to.
Everything unsaid hung in the silence between their bodies.
Vi lets go of her hand, reluctantly, and pulls a ring of small keys from her pocket.
"What is this room? " Caitlyn asks, curious.
"It used to be a kitchen closet. Staff don't use it anymore. So one day I asked your mom, and she said I could have it. "
Vi opens the door, revealing a repurposed space. Cabinets lined the far wall, with counters beneath. A fridge and some old wooden crates sat in the corner. To the left, a deep sink. And beside that, a second door. This one with glass panels, slightly fogged. The hum from the fridge being the only sound in the room.
"She let you have it... just like that? " Caitlyn asks, brows raised. She couldn't understand why Vi would even want this shabby-looking room.
"Noooo," she says slowly in a low, funny voice "not just like that." A slight smile tugs at her lips, "That's just the short version."
She opens a drawer and pulls out a box of matches and a worn pack of cigarettes, her movements fluid.
From the freezer, Vi retrieves a glass bottle filled with clear liquid, frost curling around its neck like breath.
"Oh I see," Caitlyn says in a teasing tone. "this is where you stash your contraband." She says this with a touch of judgment in her voice. Yet the edges are softened by fondness.
Vi laughs under her quietly, the sound warm and sure.
Two glasses clink in one hand alongside the bottle.
"Your mother knows everything that happens in this house. She just.... lets me keep my things. Besides..." She nods toward the nearby door. "What I really want to show you is behind that. Open it for me," she added with a crooked smirk. More challenge than request. Caitlyn hesitates, then goes along with it. She opens the door and gasps. Again. For the second time that evening.
A hidden garden reveals itself like a secret blooming under moonlight. Hedges grow tall around the space, forming a protective green wall that shut out the world. Hushed, glowing lanterns float between winding vines of wisteria, casting golden hues across the enclosed nature made walls. Wildflowers spilled from the beds in natural bouquets. Lavender, deep blue irises, white jasmine that carries it's sweet scent with every whisper of wind. In the center stands a round wooden table, carved with subtle, intricate spirals, surrounded by iron chairs with velvet cushions faded by time and weather.
Overhead, glass panes form a greenhouse-style ceiling, now fogged slightly from the night chill, giving the stars a low, ethereal glow.
“How long has this been here?” Caitlyn asks, her voice quieter now, not wanting to disturb the serenity.
“Honestly? A while. But it didn’t look like this when I found it. I spruced it up a bit,” Vi says, stepping beside her. She hands Caitlyn a glass, half-filled with the icy liquid, her fingertips brushing against Caitlyn’s in a touch that lingers just a beat too long. Not an accident. Not quite intentional either.
Caitlyn takes it slowly, fingers curling around the cool glass, but Vi doesn’t pull away immediately. Her thumb grazes along the side of Caitlyn’s index finger before finally letting go.
Then Vi sits down. Casual. Careless, her movements slow as if savoring the silence. She leans back slightly in the iron chair, one arm draping over the curved back, drink in her other hand.
Caitlyn hesitates only a moment before lowering herself into the seat beside her, their chairs angled just enough to keep them close, although still not quite facing each other.
Vi lifts her own drink to her lips, then pauses, her gaze locking with Caitlyn’s.
“Cheers,” she says softly, voice low enough to vibrate between them.
Caitlyn lifts her glass, her wrist bumping lightly against Vi’s as they clink. Bare skin against bare skin. Neither of them flinch. If anything, they linger too long in that incidental contact.
They both drink. The alcohol burns gently on the way down. It’s nothing compared to the heat beginning to curl between them.
The silence stretches, electrified by something new, unsaid, and barely contained. Vi shifts her weight, and her knee brushes Caitlyn’s beneath the table. She doesn’t move it away.
Caitlyn glances down at the point of contact, then back up, her breath caught in her throat.
Vi sets her glass down and looks at Caitlyn.
Caitlyn drinks her in. This close, nothing blurs at the edges. Vi’s face is all planes and shadows, the small scar by her mouth, the tired set of her jaw, and those gray eyes that used to undo her. She did not realize how much she missed staring into them until now. She remembers how Vi would flush and cut her gaze away, pretending not to notice the attention. She is not looking away now. She holds Caitlyn’s gaze, steady as weather.
The moment stretches, thin and bright. Caitlyn feels it in her ribs.
Vi reaches for the cigarette pack on the table. She rises slowly. For a second she stands there, caught in starlight, then she turns and walks to the far corner of the garden. When she lights up, the first breath of smoke spills from her lips and drifts upward, curling like pale ribbon toward the night sky, until the breeze catches it and carries it off.
Another breeze sweeps through the garden, cutting through the warmth of the night. Vi’s shirt presses tight against her body, fabric molding to the hard lines of her torso. The wind sketches every contour—broad shoulders, lean waist, the faint outline of abs rippling beneath thin cotton. The cigarette glows between her fingers, smoke tracing lazy spirals as her hair lifts around her face, wild and untamed.
For a moment, time seems to stall. Caitlyn can’t look away. It’s all there, on open display: the strength Vi has earned, the adult muscle built from years of fighting and surviving, the confidence in the way she stands. There’s no trace of the awkward girl she used to know—only this woman, beautiful and formidable, shoulders squared to the world.
Caitlyn feels the pull in her chest—a sharp ache, something raw and hungry. She lets herself marvel, just for a heartbeat, at how Vi has become someone you can’t help but notice, someone impossible to forget.
Vi turns back and catches her staring.
“You’ve grown more beautiful,” Vi says, her voice a low, velvet hum. The cigarette burns quietly between her fingers. Her gaze traces the lines of Caitlyn’s form—legs, hips, waist... and stops just short of her lips.
Caitlyn looks away, face burning. She bites her lip, suddenly feeling sixteen again, awkward and unmoored.
“I… I’ve been thinking the same,” she murmurs. “About you.”
Vi simply hums and steps closer. Slow. Deliberate. She moves with the ease of someone born into shadows and secrets. Beneath the calm, her stomach tightens. Every step nearer to Caitlyn now feels like a cliff’s edge.
She takes another drag, then leans in. Close enough to exhale beside Caitlyn’s cheek. Not touching. The heat and the smoke linger between them, like breath held too long.
Caitlyn shivers.
Vi doesn’t move.
“Another?” she asks carefully, breaking the moment just enough.
When Caitlyn nods, Vi walks to the other side of the table, her shoulders squared and posture composed. But her pulse betrays her. She can feel it in her neck, her wrists. This part is easy. Pouring drinks. Letting silence cover what her face can’t.
The cigarette hangs loosely between her lips as she fills their glasses. She steps back into Caitlyn’s space and hands one to her—silent, deliberate. Their fingers touch around the rim. A beat too long. Caitlyn holds her gaze.
They say in unison, clinking glasses.
They drink.
Vi steps back again, now outlined by the hushed glow of the garden lights. She exhales another ribbon of smoke toward the fogged glass above. The air is fragrant with jasmine and fire, but her breath feels tight in her chest.
Caitlyn’s eyes drop lower. Past Vi’s clavicle and onto the piece of gold that hangs on her chest.
A delicate gold chain traces the line of her sternum, each fine link interrupted by small brass-toned accents, like the joints of a machine. At its base hangs a stylized charm: a heart, unmistakably mechanical. It’s composed of clean angles, layered plates, and a faintly glowing core that catches the light like mist on glass. It’s a heart remade. Built for strength, not fragility. For memory, not devotion.
This is Caitlyn’s chance to be bold. She rises from her seat with measured patience, her movements deliberate—slow as a huntress stalking her quarry, careful not to startle what she wants most.
Each step closes the distance. Gravel crunches under her boots, just loud enough for Vi to hear her coming. The breeze has died down, but the imprint of it lingers. Vi stands with her shirt still hugging her body, smoke drifting from her lips, gaze angled skyward. She’s beautiful and absolutely unbothered, radiating a kind of effortless strength that makes Caitlyn’s breath catch in her chest.
Caitlyn keeps her pace unhurried, letting Vi feel the approach—giving her every chance to turn and look, to run, to laugh it off. But Vi doesn’t move. She just flicks ash from her cigarette, jaw tight, profile cut against the darkness.
Caitlyn drinks in the sight, unashamed. The woman before her isn’t the same wild, brash girl she left behind. She’s taller, stronger, her silhouette sharpened by muscle and experience. There’s a heaviness in her shoulders that wasn’t there before, but she wears it well. She wears it like armor.
Another step, and Caitlyn’s close enough to see the soft glow of Vi’s cigarette reflected in her eyes. For a heartbeat, all Caitlyn can think about is how much she wants to touch. Wants to reach out and trace the line of Vi’s jaw, wants to see if Vi will let her. The air between them is thick, electric, every sense sharpened by the possibility of what could happen if Caitlyn keeps going.
She holds her ground, waiting to see what Vi will do—refusing to look away, refusing to retreat.
Vi freezes.
Just slightly.
Not visibly. Just enough for only herself to notice. But every nerve in her chest lights up as Caitlyn’s fingers brush the base of her throat.
She touches the necklace.
Vi doesn’t move.
Doesn’t breathe.
The chain is delicate, warm from her body, and as Caitlyn’s fingers curl around the pendant, Vi feels the press of memory rising against her ribs.
“I’ve never seen this,” Caitlyn murmurs.
Vi glances down, her jaw working once before her voice emerges—low and rough.
“I had it made. To remember my family.”
Her family. Vander. Claggor. Mylo. Powder. Caitlyn has heard of them before, long ago, in fragmented stories and broken moments. But never like this. Never spoken so quietly. So sacred.
Vi isn’t looking at Caitlyn now. She focuses on the garden, on the shadows and soft gold light. She can’t ignore how her body remains painfully aware of every inch of Caitlyn’s nearness.
“I like to think that if I wear it close,” Vi murmurs, “they won’t feel so far away.”
Caitlyn’s fingers linger just a second too long, dragging back down the chain, grazing skin as they slip away. Vi doesn’t shy. She can’t.
Her next breath comes just a little deeper.
Just to steady herself.
Caitlyn swallows, her throat tight. She lets go of the necklace slowly, her fingers dragging over Vi’s skin longer than they need to.
“How have you been?” Caitlyn asks tentatively, not trying to hide how she’s staring at Vi’s lips.
“I’ve been good,” Vi says. Her hand slides to Caitlyn’s hip with deliberate calm, her fingers curling around the fabric. She doesn’t squeeze. Just holds her there, thumb brushing slow arcs against her dress like she’s grounding herself.
Caitlyn tilts toward her instinctively, eyes half-lidded, breath shallow. Every inch between them hums like it’s been waiting years.
“And you?” Vi asks, her voice low, lips inches from Caitlyn’s cheek.
“I thought I was good. Seeing you again… is changing that.”
“What did you think?” Vi asks, and now her nose is almost brushing against the edge of Caitlyn’s jaw. Neither one of them pull back.
“I thought… that it would be easy. Finally facing you.”
“Thirteen years is a long time,” Vi murmurs, and her hand shifts slightly higher on Caitlyn’s waist. “We’re not fourteen anymore.”
Her thumb finds the bare skin just beneath the hem on the back of the dress and lingers there. Warm and steady, like a wordless declaration.
“A lot has changed, Caitlyn.”
Caitlyn pulls back and stares at her, eyes narrowing, voice barely above a whisper.
“You never spoke to me.”
Vi meets her gaze, expression unreadable. “You didn’t either.”
Caitlyn pouts. Genuinely, childishly—and Vi’s heart nearly caves in. It’s the cutest thing she’s ever seen. That small, sudden softness. That flash of vulnerability in the middle of all her poise. Vi’s smile is real and helplessly fond.
“Vi?” Caitlyn asks suddenly, recalling something. Vi gently hums, returning her gaze to Caitlyn’s.
“Not that I’m not happy you’re officially part of the family, but... how did that even happen?” Caitlyn asks, her fingers becoming bolder, all five now feeling the warmth of Vi’s skin.
“Oh, well, today isn’t just about presenting me, as you put it. We’re actually celebrat—”
“There you are.”
The voice isn’t loud, yet it cuts clean through the quiet, sharp as a snapped string.
Both women turn. Caitlyn’s hand jerks back from Vi’s chest like she’s just realized she was touching her at all. Her pulse hammers. Her breath stumbles. Vi straightens with calm precision, letting the hand she’d left at Caitlyn’s waist slip away.
A short woman steps forward, her smile bright and brittle. Her gaze sweeps the garden like a searchlight before landing on them. She takes in the flushed cheeks, the uneven spacing, the unmistakable closeness, and tilts her head. Easy. Like she’s trying to place a familiar tune.
“I was wondering where you’d gone,” she says again, her voice light. Too light. Vi doesn’t say a word. Her gaze narrows slightly as she takes the other woman in.
She’s wide-eyed and freckle-faced, her strawberry-blonde hair tousled like she’s just rolled out of bed on purpose. Irises the color of cold steel trying to pass for sky. She smiles too easily, moves too smoothly, like someone who’s practiced charm until it looks like instinct.
“I’m Maddie,” she says, stepping forward and offering her hand like it’s a test. “Maddie Nolen.”
Her eyes stay locked on Vi, though her smile doesn’t quite reach them. Not so much a greeting as a line drawn in silk.
Vi accepts the shake with measured calm. Her grip is firm, her expression gives nothing away.
“Vi,” she says evenly. “Of House Kiramman.”
Maddie’s smile tightens at the edges. “Right. I saw. Congratulations.” She glances at Caitlyn. “I just wasn’t expecting to find the two of you alone out here... I didn’t know Caitlyn had…” Maddie trails off, her gaze dipping to where Vi has just stepped back. She gives a faint, feigned laugh. “—a sister?”
The word hangs in the air like perfume laced with poison.
Caitlyn blinks. “What? No. No, we’re not... she’s not my sister.” Her voice comes out faster than she means it to. “Vi’s part of the family, yes, but we weren’t raised together. I haven’t even been home in over a decade.”
Vi watches Maddie calmly. Caitlyn knows that look. Impeccable stillness. Tension gone stealth.
“I’m more like the Kirammans’ ward,” Vi offers, her voice smooth and distant. Controlled.
Maddie tilts her head again, still smiling like it costs her nothing. “I see.”
Vi’s gaze sharpens just slightly, though her posture remains unchanged. Still relaxed and deceptively calm.
“How do you and Miss Kiramman know each other?” she asks, her voice like velvet over glass.
Maddie lifts her chin. “I’m her girlfriend.”
Vi doesn’t look at Maddie.
She looks at Caitlyn.
Vi asks her with her eyes if that’s true.
Caitlyn doesn’t answer. Can’t.
Vi’s posture changes. Not by much, just a subtle shift of the shoulders, the spine, the gaze. Caitlyn recognizes it—the way she’s seen her mother stand at council meetings when emotions have to be buried under etiquette. The way Cassandra speaks when power has to be softened into diplomacy.
Caitlyn watches Vi disappear behind that same polish. Learned, practiced, and honed.
She hates it.
Vi’s voice comes low and even.
“Well then. Miss Nolen... what a pleasure.”
She smiles. The kind of that gets mistaken for charm until it cuts you.
“I’m actually grateful you’ve arrived. I was dreading having to excuse myself from young Miss Kiramman here, to return to the ballroom.”
Her eyes flick toward Caitlyn once. No longer. “It is, after all, a celebration in my honor… and I’ve already spent more time here than good manners allow.”
A pause. Just a breath.
Then, more subdued... more honest than she may intend:
“It’s good to know she won’t be left wanting for company.”
Her tone is immaculate. Her posture, effortless. Her silence devastating.
She turns to leave.
Caitlyn reaches out instinctively, hand catching Vi’s arm. “Vi, wait—”
Vi pauses. She doesn’t turn back.
Caitlyn’s grip tightens. The muscle beneath her hand is coiled, tense. It’s Vi who speaks first.
Her voice is soft. Too soft. The edge is gone.
And somehow, that’s worse.
“It’s okay,” she says delicately. “Really.”
The words are gentle. Polite. Merciful. And Caitlyn wants to scream.
Vi pries her fingers off one by one. Slowly and carefully. As if returning borrowed things.
“I’ll see you inside.”
And just like that, Vi is gone. Walking away with the grace of someone raised in marble halls, not dark alleys. Someone her mother would be proud of.
And that’s what cuts deepest.
Not the coldness.
Not even the loss.
But how much it feels like Cassandra’s voice is the one handing Caitlyn off to Maddie.
Inside, Vi moves like she’s trying not to feel. She returns to the fridge, grabs two beers, uses one to open the other, and downs it like water. No ceremony. No pause. Then she walks out, letting the door shut with a muted thump behind her. A punctuation.
Caitlyn’s heart pounds as she stands frozen in place. Watching Vi walk away like she hasn’t just spent the last ten minutes pulling her soul to the surface.
Caitlyn can almost hear the silence it leaves behind.
Fury rises like heat beneath her skin. Rage not at Vi, but at Maddie. For walking in. For asking. For existing.
Maddie stands at the threshold of the little garden, blinking at the scene she’s just interrupted—two empty glasses on the table, Caitlyn flushed and breathless, hand on Vi’s chest, Vi walking away like she’s just closed a door she never wanted to open.
“Well,” she says. “That didn’t feel like nothing.”
Caitlyn doesn’t answer.
Maddie’s gaze drops briefly to the glass on the table, then back up.
“You looked like you were about to kiss her.”
Caitlyn whips around. “What the hell were you doing, following me?”
Maddie blinks, startled. “You left me. I didn’t know where you went... I don’t know anyone here, Caitlyn. You just… disappeared.”
Caitlyn’s voice drops, brittle with restraint. “That wasn’t an invitation.”
“And this?” Maddie gestures toward the garden, the table, the bottle still sweating in the warm air. “Was this an invitation?”
Caitlyn flinches. Her mouth opens, then closes again.
Maddie steps forward, quieter now but firm. “You didn’t introduce me. You didn’t tell anyone you brought me. And when I walked in, it’s like she had you by a string.”
Caitlyn turns away, hands clenched at her sides. The jasmine air feels too thick now. The walls of hedges too tight.
Maddie takes a breath. “You don’t look at me like that, Caitlyn. Like you did just now. With her.” Her voice trembles. “You’re not mad I interrupted something. You’re mad because I stopped it.”
The words land like a stone in water.
“That’s not fair,” Caitlyn says. Still, there’s no denying that the fight in her voice has already drained out.
“It’s true, though. You didn’t tell me about her. Not once. Not even when you talked about coming home. She’s not your sister. She’s not just family...” Maddie doesn’t finish.
Caitlyn says nothing.
Maddie steps further into the garden, wrapping her arms around herself, glancing once at the drinks, at the garden, then the door Vi has just vanished through. “You’re with me because it’s easier. Because I don’t ask too much. Because I don’t take up space you don’t want to give.”
“That’s not—” the words die in her mouth. Lying takes energy she doesn’t have. Especially not for Maddie.
The smaller woman laughs ruefully, the sound tinged with something bitter. “I was convenient. Safe. You needed someone to hold onto, and I was there. Honestly... it’s on me, because I’m the one who let you.”
She looks up at Caitlyn now, eyes tired, hollow. “But I deserve more than that, don’t I?”
Caitlyn’s voice finally comes, raw and reluctant. “Yes.”
The silence that follows is heavier than any argument.
“I won’t make a scene,” Maddie says. “I’ll stay polite. I’ll smile. But after tonight... we need to talk, Caitlyn.”
Caitlyn nods, once. It’s all she can manage.
Maddie takes a step toward the door, then pauses. “She loved you. I could see it. Even now. Maybe she still does.”
A beat. A breath.
“But you? You look like someone who never stopped.”
And then she turns, stepping back into the light and noise of the banquet without waiting for a reply.
Caitlyn stands there for a moment, still wrapped in the scent of jasmine and ash, her body heavy with unspoken words. Her pulse is loud in her ears. Her limbs feel too slow.
Then she follows. It all feels distant now, like she’s underwater.