In his arms, he whispered her name—Lo. Lee. Ta. Each deliberate syllable sealed her tighter in his grip. His embrace wasn't sanctuary, but confinement. Her father, blind to the terror she endured, chided her for coldness, forcing her to turn to secret online transfers.
Posing as a sponsor for a "children's education fund," she siphoned gold crowns from the Intermarium treasury—her father's coffers—into a hidden account to buy the sangria that numbed her nights. In each forged ledger line, she reclaimed a shard of power.
He branded her sin his own, calling himself "weak" because of her. Weak? His hands were shackles, clamped tight around her soul. She wasn't his seductress—she was his captive, haunted by midnight visits that left her weeping into damp pillows.
"Lolita—you're the fire of my loins," Desmond murmured, his voice a velvet trap that sent shivers down her spine. But she wasn't fire; she was prey, fed to lions she couldn't outrun.
Her only escape from remembering Desmond was getting wasted. The political gathering in the ballroom had been suffocating, especially when Jacob Kennedy insisted that her half-brother Ethan would make a magnificent ruler of Intermarium, despite the mining riots in the northern provinces.
Worse, James had announced to Renne—standing there by the crystal-laden buffet—that Lolita was fond of Desmond. She would rather taste arsenic than endure Desmond's serpentine tongue again.
Why, she wouldn't allow her brother be the ruler of girls' scout cookies let alone a country!
When she retreated to her bedroom, she kicked off her red strapped high-heels. High-heels were made for fashion not for comfort. She couldn't wait for James to "kick the can," especially when he treated her like a child, and she had to hide her stash of alcohol in her closet. For fuck's sake, she'd been drinking alcohol since the age of twelve! You would think by now she would know her limits.
With determination, she drained her glass of sangria he sweet and tangy scent of sangria filling her stomach. She grabbed the gem-encrusted bottle resting on the polished mahogany table. As she poured another glass, a chill swept through the air, and a shadow flickered at the edge of her vision.
Lolita paused, her heart racing. She squinted, trying to focus on the shadow, but it disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. Shrugging it off, she took a deep breath and raised the glass to her lips.
Suddenly, the room grew colder, and the air seemed to thicken. Lolita's grip tightened on the glass as she swayed, her vision blurring. "What the—?" she murmured, her words slurring.
A figure materialized above the white lynx fur carpet, coalescing from the ether like spilled ink on parchment. His presence was unsettling and enthralling.
He wore a waist-length, wine-colored coat—deep burgundy, like aged Merlot—its hem trailing smoke-like shadows that curled around his boots. The fabric shimmered faintly, as if woven from regret and velvet. A silver chain hung from his neck, catching the light like a dangling comma.
His posture was slightly hunched, as though he'd spent centuries leaning over manuscripts. His hands, pale and bony, looked like they belonged to someone who annotated margins with fury. A single ink stain marked his left thumb.
His face was ghostly pale, with sharp cheekbones and a mouth that curled into a smirk too knowing to be kind. His eyes were deep-set hollows, flickering with literary disdain—like candlelight behind cracked glass. His hair was tousled, and streaked with gray at the temples, as if time had edited him.
A faint scent of old paper and tobacco lingered in the air around him—dry, brittle, and nostalgic.
"Who... who are you?" Lolita stammered, her voice barely above a whisper.
He titled his head and his voice was cold. "Intermarium is a geo-political fantasy."
Lolita's grip tightened on the glass as she swayed, her vision blurring. "Liar," she slurred, her words heavy with defiance. "Intermarium is real. I'm not delusional." The ghost's form coalesced before her, its void-like face becoming more distinct and menacing. A featureless smirk seemed to bore into her soul.
"Intermarium never became a unified country," the figure intoned, its voice echoing in the room. "Ossory has been dust since the twelfth century. The war between Intermarium and Ossory? Inspired by Quebec's separatist threats," the ghost said, as if Canadian politics were common knowledge in haunted castles.
"Canada? Sounds like a place from a fantasy novel!" Lolita scoffed.
The ghost snorts. "Canada? Fantasy? Darling, you've clearly never tried to navigate their healthcare system. That's a level of bureaucratic fantasy Tolkien himself couldn't dream up. Too much sangria, darling, and you won't be able to tell the difference between truth and the fiction I've written for you?"
"There's no such thing as too much," She spat.
"Oh, yes there is. I know how Desmond trapped you like a caged bird unable to sing her name."
Lolita's mouth dropped. "How the fuck do you know Desmond?"
"I'm the one weaving your tale," the ghost stated calmly, a hint of pride underlying his words.
"Shut up!" she shouted. "I exist beyond your pages."
The ghost sighed and pondered. Vladimir warned me in his foreword—Lolita despises her author. But she needed to trust me. I'm not Humbert, not obsessed with nymphets
"Lolita is a name that can't rest neatly on a dotted line because of the book called Lolita. It's a name that makes girl's cheeks bloom red with shame. A catchier title than Confessions of a White Widowed Male. Don't you think?"
"Absurd!" Lolita exclaimed, pressing her back against the wall, leaving sangria-slick fingerprints on the pink wallpaper. "Lolita is a rose entwined in thorns sharp enough to draw blood if stolen."
"You can always count on a murder for fancy proses." The ghost replied, a sly smile creeping across it's featureless face. "Honestly? I'm glad your fiction! You're one of my least favourite characters!"
"Get. Out."
Her arm shook. She hurled the sangria glass. It shattered against the pink wallpaper. Crimson liquid bled down, staining the carpet. He vanished, sensing this wasn't the right moment to break the news to her.
Stumbling, she approached the loud knock on her door, the alcohol making her movements clumsy, her heart racing as anxiety coursed through her.
"Why are you yelling?" Ethan asked, his voice tight, his arms crossed defensively.
"It's called none of your business," Lolita snapped, swaying slightly.
"Really?" Ethan raised an eyebrow, his gaze sharp and unwavering. "Because I can hear you from the other side of the hall, and the entire castle can probably hear you. How much have you been drinking?"
"Screw off, Ethan!" Lolita's cheeks were flushed, her eyes glassy and unfocused, fighting against the dizziness swirling in her mind.
"That's no way to talk to your brother-"
"Ethan!" He turned to face James' cold eyes. "Leave her alone. She wants her space."
"She's not allowed to be disrespectful towards me—not when I'm about to inherit a country." Ethan furrowed his eyebrows.
"Ethan," James said calmly, "I have more pressing matters. The Intermarium-Ossory conflict isn't going to resolve itself."
Ethan muttered under his breath but stepped away. Lolita slammed the door shut.
She leaned against the door, her heart pounding, legs unsteady. Maybe the sangria had blurred her vision—but some truths cut sharper than glass, even through the haze of alcohol.