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The Glided Mask & The Sea of Stars - Chapter 5

✧ Pairings: Dangerous Era! Michael Jackson x Black! Female Reader ✧ Genre: Fluffy ⎜Drama ⎜⎜ Angst ⎜ Slow Burn ⎜sfw ⎜Titanic AU ⎜Historical Fiction ⎜Romance ✧ Warnings: Mild physical gagging (Doesn’t want to drink medicine), Lots of back sass from (Y/N) and Bridget being a bitch, Severe lack of sleep, physical discipline (light comedic fan swatting and Maeve about to throw hands), intense interrogation, racial profiling, colorism and heavy social scrutiny in a historical setting. ✧ Taglist (DM or Comment if you want to be tagged!): @fluffybunbunxo @blcknebula @maricxnt @lalea07 @j6wonsz @anonymouspyt @skiicoreee @5starr-staciii @delicate-ray-of-sunshine @gissellec1 @softchaosdiary505 @chocotragedy @lullora @kingofpopmj @isis-kali @ttwot1me-nia @summirin @chocotragedy @mjj-nostalgia ✧ Word Count: 10K ✧ A/N: Oh my goodness, sweethearts, I think this is officially the longest chapter I’ve ever written—we are easily soaring past the 10,000-word mark! 😭✍️ My brain is absolutely scrambled trying to organize these timelines, and my fingers are practically crying for mercy and I think I need a permanent nap💤🫩🛌. I hope you love every dramatic second of it! Enjoy! 💕

✧ Date: April 11, 1912

✧ Clock Time: 7:00 AM – 2:00 PM

✧ Slang/Terminology: Palooka (A clumsy, oafish, or easily defeated person.) Flummoxed (Utterly bewildered, confused, or perplexed.) High-flier (A person of high social status, wealth, or ambition.) Buck-o (A cheeky or headstrong young man.) Grover (An elite butler or top-tier domestic servant.) The Gutter (How the upper classes describe the lower-deck accommodations.)

[7:00 AM — Third-Class Sector, Cabin G-24]

The morning did not arrive with the gentle, amber glow of a high-society sun rising over the horizon. Instead, it fractured into (Y/N)’s consciousness like the sharp splintering of green glass.

Her eyelids felt as though they had been stitched shut with heavy linen thread, and her tongue was dry, coated in a thick, metallic bitterness that made her throat swell with an instantaneous wave of nausea. The ceiling—a low-hanging grid of riveted steel beams painted a stark, utilitarian white—was moving. It wasn't a violent shake, but a slow, sickening, rhythmic tilt that immediately sent a localized earthquake through her equilibrium.

Where... where am I?

She shifted her head, a soft groan catching in her chest as her brain scrambled to piece together the fractured geometry of her broken memories. The last definitive image her mind possessed was the deep velvet sanctuary of the First-Class library. She remembered the green emerald lamps. She remembered the terrifying, breathless proximity of the masked man—the strange, elegant creature whose eyes had burned with an almost ethereal intensity behind a shield of black silk. Then, the illusion had shattered. She remembered the harsh, booming shouts of the night watchmen, the blinding sweep of their electric torches, and the sheer, unadulterated panic that had driven her to run.

She remembered descending into the dark auxiliary stairs, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She remembered colliding with a solid wall of warmth—people. Shadows in the narrow crew corridor. The violent, acidic lurch of her stomach... and then nothing. Just a vast, cold expanse of absolute blackness.

Before she could even begin to contemplate how her limp, unconscious body had miraculously migrated from the upper decks back down into the depths of the ship, a piercing, high-pitched noise shattered the silence of the room.

"WAKE UP! Wake up, everyone! If we miss the first sitting for the Third-Class galley, we’ll be stuck eating the leftover porridge and cold mutton! Wake up!"

Maeve’s loud, boisterous voice cut through the small cabin like a rusty saw. She was already on her feet, her red hair a wild, chaotic cloud around her freckled shoulders as she vigorously shook a metal wash-basin to maximize the noise.

"Ugh... too loud. Zu laut..." a small, miserable whine echoed from the lower bunk opposite (Y/N).

Elsa, her porcelain face buried deep into the thin mattress, clutched her worn porcelain doll to her chest like a shield against the morning light. She spoke in her broken, hesitant English, her eyes squeezed tightly shut as she rubbed them with the back of her small fist, looking for all the world like an overgrown baby. "It is... too bright, Maeve. The sun is a monster today..."

With her blonde hair standing up in a spectacular, birds-nest display of pure bed-head, Elsa slowly, begrudgingly dragged her small frame out of the sheets. She didn't even look at the wash-basin. Instead, she wandered across the small floor space like a heat-seeking missile, her small fingers immediately latching onto the silk sleeve of Madame Mei Lin’s morning robe. She buried her face directly into the older woman's side, becoming instantly, hopelessly clinging.

Madame Mei Lin did not flinch. She was already fully dressed in a crisp, high-collared dark tunic, her silver-streaked hair swept back into a flawless, unyielding bun that defied the very movement of the Atlantic Ocean. In her elegant, steady hand, she held a steaming porcelain cup filled to the brim with a dark, aromatic blend of warm tea and bitter traditional herbs.

"Maeve," Madame Mei Lin’s voice rang out—not loud, but possessing the sharp, unbendable weight of a velvet gavel. She didn't look up as she began to rhythmically run a fine-toothed horn comb through Elsa’s tangled blonde locks, her touch firm but practiced. "A lady does not bellow like a livestock merchant in the marketplace before the sun has even properly cleared the deck. Your manners are showing their seams, child. If you cannot announce breakfast with the proper etiquette, you will find yourself learning how to clean the oil lanterns with the stewards."

Maeve instantly went quiet, her mouth snapping shut as she dropped the wash-basin with a sheepish, red-faced mutter.

From the top bunk, a sudden, violent rustle of bedsheets heralded a different kind of rebellion. Bridget’s face emerged from her blankets, her expression twisted into a look of absolute, unmitigated hatred.

"Shut your trap, Maeve, or I swear to the saints I’ll strangle you with your own stockings!" Bridget hissed, her sharp Irish tongue practically dripping with venom. Before anyone could stop her, she grabbed her heavy, goose-feather pillow and hurled it directly across the cabin with full force. It struck Maeve square in the shoulder, sending the red-haired girl stumbling backward against the wash-stand. "Some of us were up half the bloody night dealing with... with things! I need my beauty sleep, you absolute palooka!"

Beside Bridget, tucked deep into the corner of the berth, Mina remained completely dead to the world, her mouth slightly open as she let out a low, rhythmic snore that ignored the entire chaotic display.

(Y/N) swallowed hard, the movement causing a sharp spike of pain behind her temples. She needed to find her book. The Gray’s Anatomy text. If Madame Mei Lin found out she had taken it out of the room—or worse, if she discovered it was missing entirely—there would be an interrogation that no amount of clever vocabulary could save her from.

With a trembling breath, (Y/N) shifted her weight, intending to swing her legs over the wooden edge of the bunk. But her nervous system flatly refused to cooperate. The lingering effects of the severe panic attack, combined with the toxic, draining toll of the seasickness, had turned her muscles into heavy, unresponsive lead. The room gave a sudden, sharp lurch as the Titanic cut through a cresting wave.

Her balance vanished. (Y/N) slipped right out of the berth, her body falling straight toward the hardwood floor with a massive, echoing THUD that shook the small wash-stand.

"Oh, good heavens!" Maeve shrieked, dropping her morning rag.

"Doctor!" Elsa cried, her grip tightening on Madame Mei Lin’s waist as she stared down with wide, startled eyes.

But from the top bunk, Bridget let out a sharp, mocking snort, a cruel smirk instantly spreading across her freckled face as she looked down at (Y/N)’s srawled form. "Well, look at that. The grand scholar can calculate the stars but can't even manage to stand on her own two pins. Beautiful drop, that was."

(Y/N) ignored her, her cheek pressed against the cool wood of the floor as her hands frantically swept the narrow space under her bed. Where is it? Where is the book? It wasn't there. The empty space beneath her mattress offered nothing but dust and the cold iron frame.

Madame Mei Lin slowly lowered her teacup, her dark, piercing eyes locking onto (Y/N) with a calculation that was far more terrifying than any watchman’s lantern. She patted Elsa’s head gently, her expression softening for a fraction of a second as she spoke to the clinging blonde girl in a low, soothing tone, using a soft Cantonese endearment. "Siu-mui, go with Maeve and Bridget to the galley. Take the doll."

"But Madame—" Elsa whined, her lower lip trembling like a toddler's as she tightened her arms around the older woman.

Madame Mei Lin reached down, softly kissing Elsa’s forehead before patting her behind with a gentle but firm finality. "Go. The fresh air on the lower deck will wash the sleep from your eyes. And bring back a fresh pot of hot water from the galley stove, along with some dried fruit and unbuttered bread. Move along."

Bridget practically scrambled out of her bunk, her eyes darting nervously toward the corner of the room where her own traveling bag sat. The frantic, sudden energy with which Bridget dragged a sleepy, profoundly flummoxed Mina out of bed was suspicious enough to catch anyone's attention. Bridget didn't even wait for her boots to be properly laced; she grabbed Mina by the sleeve, shoved Maeve toward the door, and practically fled the cabin as if the devil himself were chasing them.

The heavy wooden door clicked shut, leaving the cabin engulfed in a sudden, suffocating silence.

Madame Mei Lin did not move from her stool. She simply set her porcelain cup down on the small table and reached into the deep, dark folds of her heavy traveling trunk. When her hand emerged, she wasn't holding herbs or tea leaves.

She was holding the massive, leather-bound volume of Gray’s Anatomy.

(Y/N)’s breath hitched in her throat. She remained on the floor, her heart stopping entirely as the older woman placed the heavy book squarely on the small table between them.

"You are a very poor liar, (Y/N)," Madame Mei Lin said, her voice dropping into an overprotective, steel-edged tone of pure, unadulterated interrogation. "And your friends are even worse. Did you truly believe that Bridget and Tommy Ryan could drag your limp, unconscious body through that doorway at one in the morning without my knowledge?"

A sudden, vivid memory flashed through (Y/N)’s mind—a memory of the previous night that her subconscious had tried to bury. She remembered the door to G-24 bursting open in a frantic whisper. She remembered Tommy Ryan’s face slick with sweat, his breath smelling faintly of smuggled oranges, while Bridget held her legs, both of them desperately trying to concoct an absurd story about finding her "fainting from the sea air near the steerage latrines." Madame Mei Lin had stood over them like an ancient, vengeful deity, her eyes immediately spotting the stolen fruit spilling from Tommy’s pockets—a detail that had been more than enough motivation to make Bridget shut her mouth and hide the anatomy book under her own blankets until morning.

"Madame, I..." (Y/N) started, her voice raspy and weak as she tried to pull herself up against the edge of the lower berth.

"Silence," Madame Mei Lin commanded, her hand flying to her waist where her heavy, silk-ribbed folding fan hung. Crack! She snapped the fan open with a sound like a pistol shot, her gaze drilling into (Y/N)’s soul. "You went to the upper decks. You crossed the barriers into the First-Class sectors. Do you have any understanding of what they do to colored women found wandering among the high-fliers at midnight? They do not ask for your credentials. They do not care about your desire to study medicine. They throw you into the ship’s brig and leave you to be processed as a thief at the docks in New York."

"I was only trying to read," (Y/N) protested, her inner child suddenly flaring up through her exhaustion, her jaw tightening with a stubborn, defensive pride. "The light down here is too dim, and the books they give us are nothing but garbage. I didn't hurt anyone. I didn't steal anything."

"You risked your life for paper and ink," Madame Mei Lin countered, her tone a fierce mix of tough love and deep-seated fear for the girl’s safety. "And you return to this room smelling of sickness and fear, with your mind completely out of it. You will not hear any more of my lectures today because your punishment has already been decided."

Madame Mei Lin reached for a secondary jar on her shelf, pouring a thick, dark, viscous liquid into a small tin cup. The scent that immediately rose from the brew was wretched—sharp, sulfurous, and smelling of boiled roots and ancient bitterness.

"Drink it," the older woman ordered, thrusting the cup toward (Y/N)’s face. "Every drop. It will settle the poison in your stomach, or it will force the rest of it out."

(Y/N) pinched her nose, her eyes watering as she lifted the tin to her lips. The moment the liquid hit her tongue, her entire body shuddered in violent revolt. It tasted like liquefied dirt and old iron. She gagged, her chest heaving as she desperately tried to force the vile liquid down her throat, her hand flying to her mouth as she reached for a small, dry crust of bread from the table to scrub the horrific taste from her palate.

"And when you are finished wiping your tongue," Madame Mei Lin said, setting a heavy stone ink-pot and a long, slender bamboo brush on the table alongside a stack of coarse gray parchment paper, "you will sit at this desk. You will write out the characters for Míngbái—to understand. One hundred times. With a steady hand. If the ink runs, you will begin again."

(Y/N) stared at the brush, then crossed her arms over her chest, her lips lifting in a sarcastic, mutinous pout. "Madame, this is ridiculous. I don't even know how to write, say, or speak that language. I am an American. My calculus doesn't require Chinese calligraphy."

Smack!

The silk-ribbed fan came down sharply against the back of (Y/N)’s knuckles. It wasn't enough to break the skin, but it stung with the precise, humiliating bite of a schoolmistress’s ruler.

"Then you will learn today," Madame Mei Lin spoke in sharp, rapid-fire Cantonese, her words a torrent of disciplinary authority that needed no translation to be understood. "Your mind is too busy running toward things that do not belong to you. Sit. Write."

By the time the heavy wooden door opened again and the girls returned from the galley, (Y/N) was sitting miserably at the tiny desk, her fingers stained with fresh black ink, her hair still slightly wild as she traced the intricate, confusing strokes of the character. Every time her hand shook from the lingering vibration of the Titanic’s massive engines, Madame Mei Lin would click her tongue in deep annoyance, forcing her to crumble the parchment and begin anew.

Bridget stepped into the room first, carrying a tray of dry biscuits. The moment her eyes fell upon (Y/N)’s ink-stained fingers and her frustrated, sweating face, a sharp, delighted laugh barked from her throat.

"Look at her! The grand doctor has been turned into a schoolgirl!" Bridget laughed, nudging Mina with her elbow. "What's that you're drawing there, (Y/N)? Looks like a bunch of dead spiders on a page!"

Mina giggled behind her hand, her eyes wide with a malicious curiosity as she leaned over the desk to peer at the ink-pots. "Careful, Bridget, don't upset her. She might try to calculate the trajectory of that ink right into your face."

(Y/N) felt the heat of pure embarrassment crawling up her neck, her jaw clenching as she kept her eyes locked on the paper, her fingers gripping the bamboo brush so tightly the wood creaked.

"Quiet," Madame Mei Lin snapped, her dark eyes flashing toward the door as she silenced the room with a single look. "If your mouths are working this hard, your hands can be working just as hard on the laundry tubs on the lower deck."

But before Bridget could offer another sarcastic retort, the entire atmosphere of the cabin shifted in a single, terrifying instant.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

It wasn't the chaotic, frantic banging of Tommy Ryan or the heavy, clumsy fist of a Third-Class steward. It was a soft, measured, yet incredibly stern knock—the kind of sound that belonged to a grand mahogany door in a London estate.

The laughter in the room died instantly. Bridget froze, her hand hovering over the biscuit tray, her eyes darting toward Madame Mei Lin. The older woman’s face went completely stone-cold, her expression hardening into a mask of pure, unyielding vigilance as she stood up from her stool, her fan closing with a slow, deliberate click.

"Stay behind me," Madame Mei Lin whispered, her voice losing every trace of its previous disciplinary heat, replaced by a cold, protective instinct that made the hairs on (Y/N)’s arms stand up.

Maeve crept forward, her hand trembling slightly as she reached for the brass handle and slowly pulled the heavy wooden door open.

Standing in the narrow, dim corridor of G-Deck—a place characterized by the smell of damp wool, coal smoke, and crowded humanity—were two figures who looked as though they had been entirely misplaced by God himself.

The first man was a tall, immaculate gentleman dressed in a flawless, midnight-blue woolen coat with silver buttons, his white gloves pristine, his posture so perfectly rigid he looked like an oil painting. He was a Grover—a high-society butler of the highest order, his face a mask of supreme, professional detachment. Beside him stood a massive, broad-shouldered White Star Line security guard, his dark blue uniform pressed to a razor edge, his leather holster gleaming under the dim electric bulbs of the ceiling.

The security guard looked down his nose at the crowded cabin, his expression filled with an open, undisguised disdain for the lower-deck accommodations—the place his peers frequently referred to as the gutter.

"We are seeking the young woman known as (Y/N) (L/N)," the butler spoke, his voice soft, aristocratic, yet carrying a piercing clarity that echoed right through the metal hallway.

The silence that followed was absolute.

[7:00 AM — First-Class Sector, The Palatial Suite]

While the lower decks were freezing under the weight of routine and discipline, the upper levels of B-Deck were experiencing a very different kind of chaos.

Bill Bray walked through the double mahogany doors of the Palatial Suite’s master bedroom, his massive frame moving with a slow, deliberate caution. He had spent the last four hours conducting a highly dangerous, incredibly delicate operation in the ship's administrative offices—a feat that had required a substantial, gold-backed bribe delivered into the palm of a sympathetic First-Class chief steward. That steward, in turn, had utilized his secret personal connections with a sympathetic Third-Class deck steward to locate and sneak a brief, forbidden glance at the highly guarded Third-Class passenger ledger.

Bill had the paper in his pocket. He knew exactly where Cabin G-24 was.

But as he stepped into the lavishly appointed bedroom, the sight that met his eyes made the towering bodyguard halt in his tracks, a low, rumbling chuckle rising from his chest.

Michael was fast asleep. But he hadn't managed to make it into the massive, silk-sheeted bed.

The young performer was sprawled across the thick Persian rug at the foot of the mattress in the most absurd, comically tangled position imaginable. His long, black velvet traveling robe was twisted completely around his legs like a cocoon. One of his arms was thrown over his face to shield his eyes from the morning sun, while his other hand was still loosely curled around a half-chewed graphite pencil.

The floor around him was an absolute battlefield of creative madness.

Dozens of sheets of expensive, heavy vellum stationery were scattered across the carpet like fallen snow. Some were crumpled into tight balls; others were covered in frantic, elegant script that had been crossed out so many times the paper was nearly black with ink. Michael had spent the entire night awake, refusing to close his eyes, driven by a stubborn, childlike intensity that Bill knew all too well.

A fond, weary smile touched Bill's lips as he looked down at the scene, a specific memory flashing through his mind. He remembered Michael as a little boy—a tiny, fiercely stubborn buck-o who would throw the most magnificent, quiet tantrums when bedtime was announced during their early performance tours. The boy would clamp his jaw shut, hide beneath his writing desk with a stack of children's storybooks, and insist with absolute gravity that he "did not get tired" and that "the stars were still awake, so he had to be awake too."

He hadn't changed a bit.

Bill walked over, his heavy boot nudging a discarded sheet of paper near the edge of the nightstand. He leaned down, picking up a beautifully bound, pristine new edition of Percy Bysshe Shelley's poetry—the replacement book Michael had demanded they procure from the ship's first-class gift salon the moment the shops opened at dawn.

Tucked inside the volume was a small, delicate watercolor illustration Michael had torn from an expensive botanical text from the ship's private collection. He had spent an hour analyzing the drawing, holding it up to the light while questioning Bill with an intense, naive earnestness: "Bill, look at this. Do you think they have this specific white rose in the Verandah Café's conservatory? Can we just go down there and pick one from the bushes? It has to be perfect, Bill. It has to look like the moon." Bill had simply raised a heavy eyebrow, dryly reminding him that they were on a steamship in the middle of the freezing North Atlantic, not walking through a meadow or an open-air flower shop in Gary, Indiana.

Now, Michael let out a soft, breathy snore, his slender shoulders shifting slightly against the rug as the morning light caught the dark, messy curls of his hair.

"Wake up, Mike," Bill said, his deep voice a low rumble as he carefully tapped the toe of his boot against Michael's hip. "Get up off the floor before your brothers come in here and see you looking like a fallen stoker."

Michael stirred, his long eyelashes fluttering open as he let out a dramatic, drawn-out yawn, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles like a sleepy child. He sat up quickly, his blanket of velvet robe falling away as his eyes immediately locked onto Bill’s face with a sudden, electric intensity.

"Bill! Did you find her? Did you get the ledger?" Michael asked, his voice instantly clear, devoid of any sleep-haze as he scrambled to his knees on the rug.

Bill let out a weary grunt, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small, folded scrap of paper. "I got it. Cabin G-24. Deep down in the lower levels. It wasn't cheap, Michael, and if your father sees the ledger discrepancies—"

"Thank you, Bill! Oh, thank you!" Michael cried, a brilliant, childlike smile illuminating his face as he snatched the paper from the bodyguard's hand. He immediately reached for the beautifully wrapped poetry book on the desk, his fingers smoothing down a neat, perfect satin bow he had spent thirty minutes tying. Beside it lay a heavy, cream-colored envelope sealed with expensive wax, containing the poetic, deeply reverent masked letter he had written and rewritten until his fingers were bruised.

"I already sent the Grover down with the security escort," Bill said, his tone turning serious, warning. "They’re delivering it directly to her door now. But Michael... you need to understand something. By sending a first-class butler and a line guard down into the steerage cabins, you are drawing a massive amount of attention to that girl. A minority colored woman down there... people are going to talk. The stewards are going to watch her. You might think this is a fairytale, but out there in the real world, this kind of attention can be a very dangerous thing."

Michael’s smile faltered slightly, his large eyes shifting to the silver ocean outside the window. He held his hands together, his voice dropping to a soft, determined whisper. "I know, Bill. I know what the world is like. But I have to show her that she matters. I have to show her that her voice was heard."

[8:15 AM — Third-Class Sector, Corridor Outside G-24]

Back in the dim, cramped corridor of G-Deck, the tension had reached a boiling point.

(Y/N) stood up from her desk, her legs still slightly shaky from the lingering effects of the seasickness and the horrific taste of Madame Mei Lin’s herbal remedy. She walked slowly toward the open doorway, her posture straight, her chin lifted with a quiet, defensive dignity that she had learned to cultivate whenever she was forced to face the authority figures of the white-dominated world.

Behind her, Bridget, Mina, and Maeve were huddled together in a tight knot of pure, anxious nerves. Madame Mei Lin stood like an iron sentinel at (Y/N)’s shoulder, her face a completely unreadable, stone-cold mask of absolute vigilance.

The immaculate First-Class butler did not step across the threshold into the small cabin. To do so would be to defile his polished leather boots with the dust of the lower decks. Instead, he maintained his perfect, aristocratic distance, his cold blue eyes scanning (Y/N)’s ink-stained fingers and her simple cotton shift with a professional neutrality that felt like a slap.

In the hallway outside, the doors to neighboring cabins were clicking open one by one. Heads were popping out into the narrow space—Irish laborers, Swedish families, and English immigrants all crowding the corridor, their voices rising in a sudden, intense wave of low, frantic whispering.

"What's a First-Class Grover doing down here?" "Look at her... the colored girl. Did she steal something from the upper suites?" "I knew she didn't belong here... always carrying those massive books around like she's a proper lady..."

The whispers cut through the air like small knives, drawing an immense, unwanted amount of attention to (Y/N)’s presence on the ship. The heavy security guard noticed the gathering crowd and turned his head, his sharp, menacing gaze sweeping across the corridor with a cold, unyielding authority that instantly caused the onlookers to fall silent, their heads ducking back into their rooms but their ears remaining pressed firmly against the wood.

The butler bowed his head by a fraction of an inch—a gesture of respect so subtle it was almost invisible.

"Miss (L/N)," the butler spoke, his voice carrying the distinct, polished weight of high society. "I have been instructed by a gentleman of the upper decks to deliver this item directly into your personal safekeeping. There is no requirement for a response."

With a fluid, practiced movement, the butler extended his white-gloved hands.

Resting within his palms was a magnificent sight that made every girl in the cabin gasp. It was a pristine, heavy calfskin volume of Percy Bysshe Shelley’s poetry—the exact same book (Y/N) had longed to read in the library, but this copy was brand new, its edges gleaming with fresh, brilliant gold leaf that caught the dim corridor light like a small treasury. The book was wrapped in a beautiful, thick satin ribbon tied into a perfect, symmetrical bow.

Resting on top of the leather binding was a heavy, cream-colored envelope made of the finest high-society vellum paper, sealed with a dollop of deep crimson wax. And beside the envelope lay a single, perfectly preserved white rose, its petals so flawless and white they looked as though they had been carved from the purest winter snow.

(Y/N)’s hands trembled as she reached out, her ink-stained fingers carefully taking the heavy weight of the gifts from the butler's white gloves. The scent of the rose immediately filled her senses—sweet, fresh, and carrying the crisp, clean aroma of a world far above the coal smoke of Steerage.

"Good day, Miss," the butler said simply.

Without another word, the immaculate gentleman turned on his heel, his midnight-blue coat billowing slightly as he and the massive security guard began their rapid, hurried ascent back toward the upper decks, clearly eager to escape the suffocating air of the lower cabins as quickly as possible.

The heavy wooden door of G-24 clicked shut, and the room instantly erupted into an absolute frenzy of sound.

"OH MY GOD!" Maeve shrieked, her hands flying to her cheeks as she practically leaped across the floor, her eyes wide with a frantic, delirious excitement. "A secret admirer! (Y/N), you have a secret admirer from First Class! Look at that ribbon! Look at that rose! It’s like something out of a penny-dreadful novel!"

Elsa abandoned Madame Mei Lin’s side entirely, dropping her doll onto the bunk as she danced around (Y/N)’s skirt, her small face illuminated with a pure, childhood wonder. "Doctor! Doctor has a prince! A beautiful white rose! Who is it? Is he a lord?"

"Stop it! Both of you, shut your traps!" (Y/N) cried, her face burning with a deep, violent blush as she immediately went on the defensive, clutching the heavy book against her ribs as if trying to hide the gold leaf from their prying eyes. "I don't have a prince! I don't know anyone from First Class! I’ve never met a lord in my entire life! This... this must be a mistake. A delivery error."

From the upper bunk, Bridget let out a loud, mocking scoff, though her sharp eyes were narrowed into a look of absolute, deep-seated disbelief and toxic jealousy. Her fingers dug into the edge of the wooden frame as she stared down at the pristine calfskin book.

"A mistake? Don't make me laugh," Bridget sneered, her voice dripping with a bitter, defensive malice. "First-Class grovers don't make mistakes with room numbers, (Y/N). They probably just want a new servant for their suites. Or maybe one of those rich toffs wants a bit of amusement—a bit of dark entertainment to pass the time on the ocean. You truly think some wealthy aristocrat looks at a colored girl from the gutter and sees a lady? It’s a joke. A cruel joke."

Mina nodded in fierce agreement, her lip curling in a nasty smirk. "Exactly. Probably some young drunkard who thinks it's funny to play tricks on the steerage passengers. Don't go filling your head with grand ideas, scholar."

"That is enough!"

Madame Mei Lin’s voice boomed through the small cabin like a clap of thunder, instantly silencing both Bridget and Mina. The older woman stepped forward, her hand moving with a lightning-fast, commanding precision as she snatched the heavy, cream-colored envelope straight out of Maeve’s reaching fingers and placed it firmly back into (Y/N)’s hand.

"You are all behaving like brainless children in a common alleyway," Madame Mei Lin said, her dark eyes flashing with a cold, protective fury as she stared down the mean girls. "What happens in this room is none of your concern. If I hear another word of this gossip outside this door, I will ensure that your breakfast privileges are revoked for the remainder of the voyage. Get your shawls and go out to the deck. Now."

Bridget let out a sharp, angry huff, but she didn't dare defy the older woman's iron authority. She grabbed her woolen wrap, shoved past Maeve, and slammed the cabin door behind her, Mina trailing close behind like a faithful shadow. Maeve and Elsa lingered for a second, their eyes still wide with lingering excitement, but a sharp, warning look from Madame Mei Lin sent them scurrying out into the corridor as well, leaving the room silent once more.

Madame Mei Lin turned her gaze back to (Y/N). The stern, disciplinary anger was gone, replaced entirely by a profound, skeptical gravity that made the older woman’s shoulders look incredibly heavy. She looked at the expensive calfskin binding, the pristine white rose, and then at the crimson wax seal on the envelope.

"A book like that would cost an arm and a leg for a woman of my standing to buy in London," Madame Mei Lin spoke softly, her voice carrying a deep, unyielding curiosity. "And first-class servants do not descend into G-Deck for a drunken joke, (Y/N). They value their positions too highly."

She walked over, her long fingers gently touching the single letter printed on the wax seal—a clean, elegant, capital "M."

"Now," Madame Mei Lin said, her dark eyes locking onto (Y/N)’s pale, anxious face with an absolute, unbendable focus. "Tell me the truth. What really happened to you in that library last night? And who is this mysterious Mr. M?"

[9:30 AM — Third-Class Sector, Cabin G-24]

(Y/N) swallowed the lump of anxiety rising in her throat, her thumb gently tracing the smooth, cool edge of the crimson wax seal. The scent of the white rose was a sweet, persistent weight in the small cabin, a fragment of high society that refused to be ignored.

"I told you the truth, Madame," (Y/N) whispered, her voice trembling slightly as she sat back down at the narrow wooden desk, her ink-stained fingers resting against the heavy vellum of the envelope. "I was only trying to find a quiet place to read. The library was empty... or at least, I thought it was. But then he was just... there."

"The man in the mask," Madame Mei Lin stated, her voice flat, her arms crossed over her chest as she stood over the girl like an ancient judge. "The one Bridget and Tommy mentioned when they brought you in."

"Yes," (Y/N) said, her eyes drifting down to the paper as the memory vividy recreated itself behind her eyelids. "He didn't speak like the other toffs, Madame. He wasn't loud or arrogant. He was... soft. Gentle. He wore a mask of black silk that covered his face, but his eyes... they looked so lonely. We talked about the human brain. We talked about how the nerves send signals to the heart, how the body can't lie even when the mouth tries to."

She let out a small, breathy sigh, her fingers tightening around the envelope. "He tried to give me his book—a volume of poetry. But then the guards shouted from the upper balcony, and I panicked. I ran because I knew what would happen if they caught me up there. I dropped my anatomy text, and I must have dropped his book too when I fell into Tommy's arms."

Madame Mei Lin remained silent for a long moment, her sharp gaze scanning (Y/N)’s face for any sign of deception. Slowly, the older woman reached down, her long finger tapping the crimson wax seal.

"Open it," Madame Mei Lin commanded softly. "Let us see what your mysterious gentleman has to say for himself."

With trembling fingers, (Y/N) carefully slipped her thumb beneath the thick paper flap, breaking the wax seal with a sharp, clean crack. She pulled out a single sheet of heavy, gold-rimmed vellum. The handwriting inside was magnificent—fluid, elegant, yet possessing a frantic, energetic rhythm that seemed to dance across the page in a flurry of sweeping loops and sharp, precise strokes.

She began to read the words aloud, her voice a low, hesitant whisper in the quiet room:

To the Lady of the Library, The stars over the Atlantic are bright tonight, but they lack the sharp, beautiful clarity of the logic you shared with me under the green lamps. You told me that the nerves do not lie—that the human heart and the human brain are bound by a calculus that cannot be altered by the rules of men. You ran before the song could finish. You left your sanctuary in the dark, and in your haste, you left behind the words we shared. I could not allow the cold wind of this ocean to blow away the memory of the only intelligent, truly sweet voice I have heard since this vessel left the shores of France. Please accept this volume in place of the one that was lost in the shadows. It is my hope that these words will offer you the light that the lower decks deny you. You spoke of charity and pity, and you told me that a colored woman in Steerage has no right to touch what belongs to First Class. I write this to tell you that those words are a lie told by a cruel world. True intellect and true beauty do not possess a class, nor do they bow to the boundaries of a ship's deck. I promised you I would find a way to see you again. I am a man of my word, no matter what it takes. Yours in the silence, M.

The reading of the letter left a heavy, vibrating silence in the small cabin. (Y/N)’s breath caught in her throat, her eyes staring at the single, bold initial at the bottom of the page. The words were a direct challenge to the reality of her existence—a poetic, high-society declaration that completely ignored the dangerous social boundaries of the year 1912.

Madame Mei Lin let out a low, slow breath, her expression turning into a complex mixture of profound skepticism and maternal dread. She reached down, taking the letter from (Y/N)’s fingers and analyzing the quality of the ink.

"He is a romantic," Madame Mei Lin said, her tone sharp, warning. "A wealthy, dangerous romantic who plays with words the way a child plays with fire. He speaks of true beauty and true intellect as if the men who built this ship wouldn't throw you into the sea for simply standing on their promenade deck."

"He meant what he wrote, Madame," (Y/N) said, her voice rising with a rare, sudden heat as she stood up from the desk, her protective instinct flaring. "I felt it when he spoke to me. He isn't playing a game."

"It does not matter what he means," Madame Mei Lin countered, her voice dropping into a cold, unyielding register. "What matters is what his world will do to you if you allow yourself to be drawn into his light. You are a colored woman in Third Class, (Y/N). You are traveling to America to find a life where you can study, where you can be free from the definitions of your skin. If you allow this 'Mr. M' to turn you into a first-class scandal, your journey will end before the ship even reaches the harbor."

She thrust the letter back into (Y/N)’s chest, her dark eyes flashing with an overprotective, unbendable authority.

"Hide the book. Hide the letter. And if that butler returns to this door, you will tell him that the lady of this cabin does not accept charity from strangers. Do you understand me?"

(Y/N) looked down at the gold leaf of the poetry volume, her jaw clenching in a silent, stubborn rebellion. She didn't answer. Her fingers simply tightened around the smooth leather binding, her heart calculating a very different kind of path through the dark.

[10:15 AM — First-Class Promenade Deck]

The late morning sun finally broke through the heavy grey mists of the North Atlantic, turning the expansive wood-planked surface of the First-Class promenade into a blinding sheet of brilliant white light. Wealthy aristocrats, wrapped in heavy furs and expensive woolen coats, strolled lazily along the brass railings, their polite, empty laughter drifting over the sound of the churning sea below.

Michael stood apart from them.

He was leaning heavily against the polished teak rail near the forward section of B-Deck, his long black velvet robe replaced by a sharp, tailored grey traveling suit that made his slender frame look tall and elegant against the horizon. His dark fedora was pulled low over his brow, his large sunglasses shielding his eyes from both the glare of the water and the curious, lingering stares of the other passengers.

Beside him, Bill Bray stood like a massive, unyielding wall of muscle, his arms crossed over his chest as his sharp eyes scanned the crowd, maintaining their permanent, disciplined perimeter.

"The Grover returned a half-hour ago, Michael," Bill said softly, his deep voice barely carrying over the rushing sound of the wind against the ship’s hull. "The package was delivered directly into her hands. No complications with the line guards."

Michael didn't move. He kept his gaze locked on the silver path the sun was cutting across the black ocean, his fingers tracing a light, rhythmic pattern against the brass railing. A small, brilliant smile broke through his expression, the heavy melancholy that usually defined his mornings completely vanished.

"Did she look well, Bill?" Michael asked, his voice soft, high, and filled with a breathless, anxious intensity. "Did the butler say anything about how she received it?"

Bill let out a dry, amused sigh, shaking his head at the young performer's absolute, unyielding focus. "Michael, he’s a first-class butler. He doesn't stay to chat with the steerage passengers about their health. He handed over the book, he took his leave, and he came back up the stairs. But he did say one thing."

Michael turned his head quickly, his large eyes wide behind the dark glass of his sunglasses. "What? What did he say?"

"He said she was sitting at her desk, studying," Bill said, a small, knowing smile touching his own lips as he looked at the boy. "Her fingers were covered in fresh black ink. Looks like your lady of logic doesn't stop working just because the sun comes up."

Michael let out a soft, delighted chuckle, his shoulders relaxing as he turned back to look at the sea. The image of (Y/N) sitting in her small, crowded cabin, her sharp mind defying the limitations of her deck, filled him with a deep, emotional warmth that he hadn't felt in years.

"She’s going to be a doctor, Bill," Michael whispered, his voice ringing with a fierce, absolute pride. "A real doctor. And I’m going to see her again. I don't care how many barriers they put between the decks. I’m going to find a way."

Bill Bray looked out at the vast, unforgiving expanse of the Atlantic, his expression turning serious as the weight of the world settled back into his thoughts. "Just be careful, Michael. The higher you fly, the harder the fall if the wind changes."

But Michael wasn't listening to the warning. His mind was already calculating the distance between First Class and the deep, silent world of Steerage, his heart beating to the rhythm of a song that had only just begun.

[12:00 PM — First-Class Verandah Restaurant/Cafe]

A sudden, sharp pinch to the meat of his thigh jolted Michael straight out of the heavy, suffocating fog of his own mind.

"Wake up, sleepyhead," a voice hissed.

Michael blinked rapidly, his vision clearing to reveal the gleaming, sunlit expanse of the First-Class Verandah Restaurant. The opulence of the room was almost blinding—white-paneled trellises covered in climbing ivy, the crisp clink of fine bone china, and the soft, synchronized glide of white-gloved waiters carrying silver platters of poached eggs and kippered herrings.

"Look at him," Marlon snickered from across the table, leaning over his plate of bacon. "Our esteemed Maestro of Melody is drooling all over the linen. Did the sea air make you soft, Mike?"

Michael rubbed his eyes nervously, a cold sweat pricking at his hairline. His heart was still hammering against his ribs from the memory of the previous night in the library (The hidden door, the cryptic files, the weight of the secrets he, Bill, Jackie, and Marlon had uncovered.) He risked a side glance. Bill Bray was staring fixedly into his black coffee, his knuckles white against the porcelain cup, while Jackie and Marlon suddenly looked very interested in their silverware, their shoulders stiff with a mutual, unspoken terror.

"Michael, dear," Katherine whispered, her voice laced with maternal anxiety as she leaned closer from his left. Beside her, Elizabeth Taylor lowered her teacup, her famous violet eyes searching his pale face with deep concern. "Did you not sleep a wink last night? You look as though you've seen a ghost."

"I... I'm fine, Mother," Michael stammered, his voice pitching slightly higher in his panic. He forced a weak, boyish smile, trying to smooth down his rumpled waistcoat. "I just... I stayed up far too long reading that new compilation of European classical arrangements. The sheet music was so intricate, I lost track of the hours. My eyes are just tired from the dim lamplight."

It was a believable lie. Everyone at the table knew Michael could get hopelessly lost in music for hours. Katherine sighed with relief, but before she could speak, a heavy, authoritative hand clapped down firmly on Michael's shoulder.

Joseph sat forward, his expression carved from granite. "Then you need to straighten up and take some pride in your appearance, boy," Joe growled in a low, dangerous rumble that made Michael’s stomach drop. "You are in public. The press might not be on this ship, but the wealthiest eyes in the world are. Act like you belong here. Furthermore, we have exceptional guests joining us for breakfast and the midday tour of the vessel. Try to show some life."

Michael didn't care. He picked up his fork and began listlessly pushing a piece of smoked salmon around his plate, his mind drifting back to the mysterious girl from the Third Class—the one whose medical textbook he had returned.

Suddenly, the ambient chatter of the restaurant died down to a sharp, collective intake of breath.

The double doors of the Verandah Restaurant swung open with a theatrical flourish, and into the room walked Elvis Presley, beside his pristine, porcelain-skinned wife, Priscilla. They moved with the unshakeable, magnetic grace of absolute royalty. Elvis wore a perfectly tailored dark wool suit, his jet-black hair immaculate, an aura of immense wealth, power, and masculine beauty radiating from him. The aristocrats at the surrounding tables stopped chewing, their forks suspended mid-air, as appreciative whispers rippled through the room.

"My word, it's the Sovereign of Memphis..."

"Look at her gown... sheer perfection..."

But the real shockwave followed just a step behind them. Emerging into the light was a poised, slightly moody Lisa Marie Presley.

At the sight of her, several young gentlemen at neighboring tables nearly spilled their tea. She was the sole heiress to the vast Presley fortune—a girl whose face the world had only glimpsed in rare, protected childhood photographs. Now, she stood before them as a young woman of striking, haughty beauty, her dark eyes sharp, her posture radiating an aloof, untouchable power.

Beside Joseph sat Thomas Andrews, the Chief Designer of the ship, and J. Bruce Ismay, the Managing Director of the White Star Line. Both men immediately stood up to greet the newcomers.

"Ah, Mr. Presley!" Ismay beamed, puffing out his chest with corporate pride. "You arrive just as we are discussing the sheer majesty of our vessel. Titanic—derived from the Titans of Greek mythology, quite literally meaning 'Gigantic.' She is not merely a ship, sir. She is an unsinkable fortress of steel, designed to cross the Atlantic at speeds that will leave the old world in the dust!"

Michael didn't look up. He kept his eyes glued to his plate, his fork turning the salmon over and over.

"Michael," Elizabeth Taylor whispered sharply under her breath, giving his elbow a firm nudge. "The Presleys are here. And your father is looking right at you."

The mention of Joseph made Michael snap to attention. He raised his head in a sudden panic, his eyes darting across the table and locking directly onto Lisa Marie’s gaze.

For a second, the sheer, aristocratic beauty of her face caught him off guard, and a soft, betraying blush crept up his throat. But Lisa Marie did not smile. She gave him a freezing, entirely emotionless stare, her eyes tracking the slight unevenness of his heavy facial powder.

With a look of supreme boredom, she rolled her eyes, snapped open an ornate silk fan, and covered her mouth, turning her head away. Michael felt the sting of the rejection instantly; he nervously averted his gaze, his chest tightening as Elvis and Joseph exchanged boisterous, proud greetings, while Katherine and Priscilla began politely discussing Paris fashions and their children's tutors.

"Introduce yourselves, boys," Joseph commanded, his eyes boring into Michael when the young man remained silent.

To break the suffocating, awkward quiet, Lisa Marie lowered her fan, her voice carrying a bold, slightly mocking edge. "Well, Mr. Joseph... your boy Michael certainly looks different from when we were children. He’s much quieter now. And... lighter."

Michael swallowed the lump of bile in his throat. "It's... it's nice to see you again, Lisa," he murmured, forcing a polite nod. "You look very beautiful. Quite a change from our first meeting."

Beneath the polite veneer, a dark, unpleasant memory flashed through Michael’s mind. They had met briefly as children at a private estate in the south—a meeting dictated by the rigid, cruel social and racial hierarchies of the early 20th century. Michael remembered his skin being much darker then, his youth marked by the harsh reality of segregation. He remembered the wealthy white children giggling behind their hands, and he remembered Lisa Marie, a spoiled child of immense privilege, pointing at his darker skin and calling him "peculiar," using ignorant, xenophobic playground slurs to mock his heritage and his family's rapid rise from poverty.

Flashback: A Childhood Meeting (1898)

They had met in a manicured garden in New York during a high-society gala. Michael had been a darker-skinned, wildly talented boy, already labeled an "eccentric prodigy," while Lisa was the darling child of Southern aristocracy. She had refused to shake his hand, hiding behind her father's coat.

"Why is his skin so dark and dusty?" she had whispered loudly to her nurse, pointing a childish finger. "And why does he look so peculiar, like a strange street-sweeper dressed in silk? He is weird. I do not wish to play with him."

The memory alone of that childhood rejection, rooted in the ignorant, xenophobic classism of the era, still burned.

But the waiters were walking towards the table ready to take their orders it brought back to the harsh reality of the lunch table, as Michael's hand trembled. Beneath the white linen tablecloth, he reached out and desperately squished Elizabeth Taylor’s hand. She squeezed back with fierce, protective loyalty. Michael looked across at Bill Bray, his eyes filled with a quiet, pleading misery. They both knew this day was going to be an agonizingly long ordeal.

[12:30 PM — Third-Class Sector, Promenade Deck]

Meanwhile, back down on the lower decks, the atmosphere was entirely different……

After hours of being forced to scrub the floor of their small cabin and complete a stack of tedious reading assignments as punishment for her late-night disappearance, Madame Mei Lin had finally shown a shred of mercy.

"You may go to the deck for fresh air," the older woman had said, her eyes narrowing. "But you do not go alone. Maeve, Elsa—you will keep her in your sight."

"Oh, thank goodness!" Maeve cheered, practically dragging (Y/N) out of the humid companionway and up the iron stairs, with Elsa following close behind, a gentle smile on her face.

As they stepped out onto the open Third-Class Poop Deck, the crisp, biting Atlantic air hit the (Y/N)‘s face, a welcome relief from the stuffy lower decks. The deck was alive with energy—passengers from a dozen different countries were basking in the mid-morning sun, children were playing tag around the cargo hatches, and a group of men were leaning against the railing, smoking pipes and watching the endless blue horizon.

Walking ahead of them, Bridget and Mina turned around, their noses turned up in synchronized disgust. "Honestly," Bridget sneered, adjusting her cheap shawl. "I don't even know why we have to walk on the same side of the deck as her. Imagine getting caught by the Master-at-Arms on your very first night. It's embarrassing to be seen with someone so reckless."

"Ignore them," Maeve muttered, giving the Reader's arm a reassuring squeeze.

"Look! Over there!" Elsa pointed, her broken English melodic as she spotted some familiar faces near the stern.

Tommy Ryan and Fabrizio were leaning against a winch, laughing with the Italian family they had shared dinner with the previous night. When they saw the girls approaching, Tommy’s face softened significantly. He stepped away from the crowd, approaching (Y/N) with careful, discreet steps so as not to draw the attention of any crew members.

"You alright, lass?" Tommy asked in a low voice, his eyes scanning her face for any signs of distress. "No trouble from the officers after last night?"

(Y/N) smiled gratefully, keeping her voice down. "I'm okay, Tommy. Thank you... for helping me back there. And for not telling the whole deck what happened. I really appreciate you keeping my business to yourself."

"Ah, think nothing of it," Tommy said with a wink. "We working folk have to stick together. The grand gents who built this floating palace—the Andrews and the Ismays—they like to pretend they mapped out the whole world, ranking society from the top deck down to the boiler rooms. They think money makes them a better class of human."

(Y/N)’s blood boiled at the thought, her jaw tightening. "Nobody is better than anybody else, Tommy," she said fiercely, her voice rising with a quiet, dangerous passion. "I don't care how much gold they have in their pockets or what deck they sleep on. We all breathe the same air, and we all bleed the same blood. I'm going to get my education, and I'm going to work every single day of my life to change this broken system."

Tommy looked at her, utterly shocked by her intensity, while Fabrizio let out an appreciative whistle.

But the moment of empowerment was short-lived.

"Oh, listen to the grand philosopher!" Bridget’s voice shrilled from right behind them. She stepped forward, a nasty, triumphant smirk plastered across her face. She had noticed the crowd gathered around (Y/N) and couldn't stand the attention the girl was receiving. "You talk a mighty big game for someone who's secretly hoarding favors from the aristocracy!"

(Y/N) turned around, her eyes narrowing. "What are you talking about, Bridget?"

"Don't play innocent!" Bridget barked, pointing an accusing finger. "Everyone knows! Word's gone round the whole steerage deck that you received a private letter carried down by a ship's official from First Class!"

"A letter?!" Maeve gasped, her hot-headed excitement completely blinding her to the trap Bridget was setting. She grabbed onto (Y/N)’s shoulders, shaking her with pure joy. "Oh my stars! A secret admirer! A Prince Charming from the upper decks! You would never think that a handsome lord would traveled all the way down into the depths of the boat just to personally deliver a token to our room?!"

"Yes!" Elsa chimed in, nodding happily in her limited English. "The beautiful book! And the lovely white flower! A grand gift!"

The entire deck seemed to go dead silent. Dozens of Third-Class passengers gasped in shock and disbelief, staring at (Y/N) with wide, suspicious eyes.

"I heard that rumor too," one of the young Irish boys nearby muttered, crossing his arms. "Some Master-at-Arms went down to the single women's quarters last night looking for a girl. I didn't think it would be her."

(Y/N) then felt a burning, humiliating blush crawl up her cheeks. She felt trapped, exposed, and deeply uncomfortable. "It is not a romantic interest!" she yelled, stepping directly into Bridget’s face, her eyes flashing with fire. "It is absolutely none of your business what goes on in my life, Bridget! Get your nose out of my affairs and find your own!"

"Remember..." Elsa whispered sadly, tugging at (Y/N)’s sleeve, her face falling as she recalled their chaperone's strict warnings. "Remember what Madame Mei Lin said about causing trouble..."

Bridget and Mina looked at each other and burst into cruel, mocking laughter. "Oh, please," Mina scoffed. "A first-class gentleman? He probably just wanted some cheap entertainment from a steerage girl. You're just a novelty to them."

"That's enough!" Tommy roared, stepping between them, his fist clenching. "Hold your tongue, girl, and show some bloody respect!"

Maeve was practically vibrating with rage, her sleeves rolling up. "Let me at her! I'll throw hands right now—"

"No, Maeve, stop," (Y/N) commanded, putting her arm up to hold her friend back. She drew herself up to her full height, staring down Bridget with cold, absolute disdain. "It’s fine. A real, respectful woman isn't going to stoop to her pathetic level or listen to her desperate lies."

Without waiting for a response, (Y/N) spun on her heel. She quickly gathered her things—her heavy wool shawl, her textbook, and a secret, highly technical response letter she had frantically written during her morning chore break while Madame Mei Lin wasn't looking.

Her heart hammered with a sudden surge of adrenaline as a desperate plan formed in her mind. Going to the First-Class sector during the daytime was suicide, but the Second-Class library was far less guarded. If she could sneak into the Second-Class area, she might find a sympathetic steward or a mail clerk who would be willing to deliver her response to the mysterious 'M.' severely and discreetly.

At first, she hadn't known what to write. The poem he had sent her was so beautiful it had overwhelmed her, making her overthink, terrified that it was a declaration of love from a world she couldn't touch. But reality had brought her back down to earth. She had crafted a clever, intellectually sharp response using complex medical and anatomical terms to mask her vulnerability.

Slipping away from Maeve and Elsa while they were distracted by Tommy and Bridget's ongoing shouting match, (Y/N) darted down a narrow service companionway. She figured she had about fifteen to twenty minutes before anyone noticed she was gone. She ran silently through the white-painted corridors, heading upward toward the Second-Class boundaries.

But as she rounded a sharp corner leading out onto an open promenade deck, the wind caught her shawl—and without a single breath of warning, she collided violently with someone coming from the opposite direction.

Back with Michael, the midday tour had become a living nightmare.

Walking the sun-drenched A-Deck promenade with Joseph, Katherine, the Presleys, and Mr. Andrews, Michael was entirely detached. His mind was a chaotic mess until they passed a group of ship officers speaking in hushed, urgent tones with Captain Smith. Michael's sharp ears caught the words: "...Ice reports incoming... heavy bergs ahead."

The Captain merely chuckled, waving his hand dismissively. "Perfectly normal for April, gentlemen. The sea is like glass. We shall see them long before we are near them."

Michael’s brow furrowed. He looked out over the vast, open deck, and then his eyes traveled to the standard rows of wooden lifeboats swinging from the davits. He began counting them. Four... eight... twelve...

"Mr. Andrews," Michael spoke up suddenly, his voice cutting through the polite chatter of the aristocrats.

Everyone stopped. Lisa Marie, who had been heavily lectured by Priscilla just minutes prior about "manners, grace, and a fine woman's duty to show respect to eligible suitors," had been trying to walk close to Michael to make a better impression. However, every time she had stepped closer, Michael had subtly changed his direction or veered to the side—an act that was incredibly rude in Lisa’s eyes, but playfully fair in Michael’s mind. Now, she stared at him with newfound curiosity.

"Yes, Michael?" Thomas Andrews asked warmly.

"There are only twenty lifeboats on this entire vessel," Michael said, his perfectionist, detailed-oriented nature taking over. His eyes were wide, intensely focused. "The capacity of this ship is at least over a thousand people. Twenty boats will only hold about half that number. Why are there so few?"

A collective gasp echoed among the group. Joseph’s face darkened instantly to a dangerous shade of crimson.

Mr. Andrews, however, let out a soft, booming laugh—not out of mockery, but out of genuine admiration for the young man's intellect. To Andrews, this wasn't an insult; it was the question of a remarkably observant, caring soul. "Ah, you have a remarkably keen eye, my boy. A true perfectionist's mind," Andrews chuckled kindly. "Michael, you see the Board of Trade regulations only require us to carry boats for 962 people. I actually designed her to carry forty-eight, but... the company felt the decks would look too cluttered. They wanted our first-class passengers to have a beautiful, unobstructed view of the sea."

Andrews smiled warmly, placing a hand on Michael’s shoulder. "But do not worry, young prince. This ship is her own lifeboat. She is built with watertight bulkheads. Even in the worst-case scenario, she cannot sink."

"It is a matter of basic safety, not aesthetics," Michael murmured, his brow furrowed in genuine concern.

"Michael, that is enough!" Joseph snapped violently, stepping forward and shoving himself between Michael and the shipbuilder. Joe treated him like a fragile, misbehaving child right in front of the crew and the Presleys. "Stop asking stupid, embarrassing questions and ruining the afternoon. Keep your mouth shut."

Michael’s fists clenched so hard his fingernails bit into his palms through his gloves. He felt an roaring, white-hot fury ignite in his chest. Across from him, Lisa Marie’s eyes widened; for the first time, she saw him completely serious, his jaw set in anger, and a sudden pang of genuine sympathy shot through her at the cruelty of his father’s words. He looked at his brothers, who looked away in embarrassment. Katherine reached out a trembling hand to comfort her son, but Michael stepped back, his chest heaving.

In order to maintain a perfect public appearance and not scream at his father like a spoiled brat, Michael had to escape. "Excuse me," he choked out, his voice cracking with emotion. "I... I need some air. Alone."

He stormed off down the promenade, his heart breaking under the weight of his entire life—the abuse from his father, the suffocating demands of the world, and the agonizing secret of his vitiligo skin condition. In his blind, weeping rage, Michael pulled off his leather gloves, desperately trying to use his hands to cover his face from the bright, mocking sunlight. He could feel the heavy makeup melting, patches of his true, dark skin beginning to show through the white powder.

Bill Bray and a frantic Lisa Marie immediately ran after him, trying to catch up.

Michael turned a sharp corner blindly, his eyes blurred with tears of anger—and slammed directly into none other than (Y/N) herself.

Books, paper, and shawls flew into the air, scattering across the pristine white deck.

It wasn't a romantic, cheesy, slow-motion encounter. It was a disaster.

Michael stumbled back, his hat flying off, his sunglasses clattering to the deck. He looked around in absolute horror. First-Class passengers who were strolling the deck immediately stopped, gasping and whispering loudly as they recognized the famous aristocrat.

"Is that Monsieur Michael?" "Good heavens, look at his face... what is wrong with his skin?" "What is a steerage girl doing up here on the First-Class promenade?!"

Michael looked down at his bare hands, then caught his reflection in a polished glass window. The makeup was smearing, leaving dark, stark patches exposed across his pale face. The absolute pinnacle of his anxiety, humiliation, and aristocratic pride collapsed into a single, defensive explosion of utter rage.

"Watch where you're going!" Michael snarled, his voice cracking hysterically as he looked down at (Y/N). He acted like a spoiled, terrified rich man backed into a corner. "How did someone like you even get up here?! How dare you touch me! You're probably crawling with filth! How dare you breathe the same air as us?!"

In a fit of panicked malice, Michael kicked her hand away as she reached out to gather her things, treating her as if she were a diseased, cursed creature.

(Y/N) froze, completely shocked to her very core. The venom in his voice tore through her defenses. She looked up into his face—and her jaw dropped as she realized this hysterical, cruel man was the very same 'M.' who had written her that beautiful, soulful poem.

"Michael! Oh my god, Michael!" Lisa Marie shrieked, arriving at the scene with Bill Bray. She looked at the Reader with a flash of fierce, jealous disgust. "Are you alright? Did this... this steerage brat attack you?!"

The surrounding aristocrats began to point and laugh, mocking the poor Third-Class girl who had dared to cross into their territory.

(Y/N) felt a suffocating wave of anxiety and humiliation wash over her (A feeling she hadn't experienced in years). Tears pricked the edges of her eyes. But instead of crying, she pushed Bill Bray’s helping hand away, rising to her feet on her own. She looked up at Michael with such a quiet, burning dignity and raw, intellectual fire that Michael immediately felt the sharp, agonizing sting of instant regret. The anger vanished from his eyes, replaced by horror at what he had just done.

Without a word, then (Y/N) grabbed her scattered books and her shawl, spinning around and disappearing rapidly into the gathering crowd before the Master-at-Arms or the ship's security could arrive.

"Michael, let me help you," Lisa Marie pleaded, rushing forward with a silk handkerchief, desperately trying to wipe his face and fix his smudging makeup. Neither she nor anyone else knew the truth about his condition, assuming it was just a strange accident or a reaction.

But Michael couldn't hear her. All he could hear was the mocking laughter of the crowd. All he could see was the her terrified, deeply shocked eyes staring back at him with absolute disappointment.

Bill Bray stood frozen, shaking his head in utter disbelief and shame at Michael’s sudden, cruel act of malice. As Bill looked down at the deck floor, his eyes caught a single, folded piece of paper left behind in the chaos—the secret response letter that (Y/N) had written.

Before anyone else could notice it, Bill quickly bent down, scooped up the letter, and slid it safely into the inside pocket of his coat jacket.

⇐ Chapter 4 | Chapter 6 ⇒

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