Sylvia wasn't what people called "normal," at least not emotionally. She didn't have the patience to act the way the world wanted her to act. If she wanted to say something, she said it. If she didn't want to play along, she didn't. Life was short, and she wasn't interested in spending it tiptoeing around everyone else's feelings just so they could stay comfortable.
Financially and status-wise, though, she was almost aggressively ordinary. No title, no inherited influence, and no gilded safety net, just a life built on scholarships, part-time work, and a sharp understanding of where she stood in a city that loved hierarchies.
She met Dean when they were both seventeen.
The Fitzgeralts had sent their children to public schools on principle and strategy, hoping to persuade other noble families to follow suit, raise interest in public education, and normalize investment in it. It worked, in the way Fitzgeralt ideas tended to work: people copied them, then pretended it had been their idea all along.
Dean stood out immediately, not because he tried to, but because the name followed him everywhere. Sylvia was one of the few people who didn't treat him like a symbol. She didn't widen her eyes or lower her voice when she spoke to him. To her, he was just Dean, smart, tired in a way teenagers shouldn't be, and quietly lonely even when he was surrounded by people.
He confessed to her first. Awkwardly. Earnestly. Like he'd rehearsed it and still didn't trust the words. Sylvia agreed to a date because she liked him and because it felt, for once, like something that belonged to them instead of to his family's expectations.
They lasted exactly two hours before they realized the truth.
They didn't like each other like that.
It wasn't dramatic. There was no heartbreak or betrayal, only a moment of shared clarity that made them both laugh and feel relieved. They finished their drinks, rewrote the evening on the spot, and walked home as friends instead of forcing a romance that would have turned sour out of obligation.
After that, Sylvia became the person he called when he needed something real. The one who could insult him without fear, defend him without making it feel like charity, and remind him, on the worst days, that he was a person before he was a Fitzgeralt.
Sylvia got home later than she meant to.
The hallway light was still on, but the house had that quiet, settled feeling with shoes by the door, a faint smell of dinner that had been reheated once too many times, the TV murmuring somewhere in the background like it was keeping the place company. Normal and very much comforting. The exact opposite of imperial palaces and contracts that could change your life with a signature.
She closed the door softly, then stood there for a second with her bag still on her shoulder, staring at nothing.
Because she had the final version of the contract in her email now.
Not a draft. Not "we'll confirm." Not a polite maybe.
Final.
Arion of Alamina had made the offer two weeks ago, casually, like he was offering lemonade again. Sylvia had laughed. She'd joked. She'd negotiated like it was a sport and not a turning point.
And today, the official document arrived, complete with seals, clauses, and language that didn't care if she was prepared.
It was real.
She walked into the kitchen and set her phone on the counter as if putting it down would make it less true. Her hands moved to a glass, and she poured water from the filter jug.
The house creaked softly. Somewhere upstairs, a door shut. Her father? Her mother? She couldn't tell yet. She held her breath anyway.
They knew she was friends with Dean. Everyone knew she was friends with Dean. It was the one piece of her life the world insisted on noticing, because Dean Fitzgeralt came with a spotlight whether he wanted it or not.
Her parents had never made a big deal out of it. They'd done the normal parent thing. They asked if Dean was kind, asked if she felt safe and if she was getting pulled into something she didn't understand. Sylvia had answered with varying degrees of sarcasm. They'd watched her for a while, decided she wasn't being reckless, and then… let it be.
They trusted her.
Which, inconveniently, made this harder.
Sylvia took a sip of water and stared at her phone again. The contract sat there, unreadable in the way official documents were unreadable, too many polite words hiding deadly consequences.
Income. Housing. Access. Travel privileges.
The palace.
Dean's authority written into clauses like it mattered more than rank.
Her name on paper next to an empire's letterhead.
She exhaled slowly.
How do you tell your parents you were moving to Alamina because your best friend was getting engaged to a foreign Crown Prince and said Crown Prince had decided the solution to "Dean might be lonely" was to… buy Sylvia a life?
How do you explain that without sounding insane?
She heard footsteps then and her mother appeared in the doorway in old, comfy pajamas, hair clipped back, face half tired and half curious.
"You're home," her mother said, quietly. "Everything okay?"
Sylvia opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
Her mother's eyes narrowed a fraction, instantly alert in the way mothers were. "Sylvia."
Sylvia swallowed. "Okay, don't panic."
Her mother moved fully into the kitchen, one hand automatically reaching for the kettle like comfort came in tea form. "I wasn't going to panic until you said that."
Sylvia let out a short, humorless laugh. "Yeah. That's fair."
She picked up her phone, hesitated, then turned the screen outward like she was presenting evidence in court.
"I got the final contract," Sylvia said.
Her mother blinked. "Contract for what?"