With Sympathy, You Will Remarry: 1
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Shamrock Figarland x Reader Rating: 18+
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There was no formal way to return to the everyday life after the passing of a spouse. There were customs and ceremonies, color coordination and all the frivolities associated with such things, but a returning widow was always bound to be an odd duck. Especially one who had not quite managed to establish herself within the family she married into.
The Marcus family had been a good deal more desirable to marry into than remaining single, but the choice between grooms had been set in stone at birth. As a born and bred Bavette girl, there had never been a choice. Especially once you had grown into someone slightly pretty and mostly genteel.
It was a suitable look for a widow.
You were supposed to appear grieving, and that was the most important aspect of the entire charade. And you were, in some ways. The estate wore black bands, and when required, you wore black to the gatherings you were expected to attend. The servants moved more softly. The world politely narrowed itself to mourning clothes and lowered voices, as though sorrow were something that could be contained by etiquette alone.
Your husband was dead. The first one, anyhow.
The doctors said it had been an accident. A hunting mishap. A misplaced step, a startled horse, a fall that broke his neck so cleanly the physician spoke in reverent tones about mercy.
You, being a refined lady, did not scream when they told you. You nodded. You even thanked them. You went numb in the proper, ladylike way.
There was time for tears later, but for a husband who had become more like a manager than a companion, they did not last long. No man in Mary Geoise was particularly faithful, including yours. Not that it had bothered you. When you had mutually discovered there was little passion in the bedroom, the marriage had settled quickly into the shape most of them did. A formal tie between houses meant to sire a few children and continue the divinity of the Holy City.
One daughter had been sufficient for this purpose, despite the Marcus family’s disappointment. Privately, you felt the women they brought from the lesser world would do more to improve their visages than another noble. But pure Celestial Dragon blood was precious, and the Bavette Family bred children for such purposes.
Your sisters had nearly six children apiece. You, by contrast, seemed to be the defective draw. You certainly had no desire for six children, especially not with a husband who barely acknowledged you or your beloved Lisette.
You had never been a fighter, but you would fight for your daughter.
Life had not changed much, despite everything being different. As a widow, you were afforded certain courtesies. Mary Geoise made provisions for women like you. But without attachment to a man of any kind, there was less privilege. Less upward security. Fewer vested interests in your comfort.
Living alone with Lisette in the small brick townhome that had sharpened your attention in ways marriage never had. The Marcus family had graciously invited you to stay with them for a short while, but every widow knew that was the fastest way to find oneself married off to a distant cousin and quietly shepherded to some obscure estate.
Something that would only perpetuate the same fate for your daughter when she grew up.
You did not know exactly what you wanted for her, only what you refused to accept. You would not allow some cousin of your husband to barter her future away to a man twenty years her senior, all under the guise of tradition.
You had learned enough from one marriage to recognize a trap when it was dressed as kindness.
So you accepted the small townhome. You wore your mourning correctly. You accepted condolences with the proper expression when required. You raised your daughter quietly and carefully, aware now of how narrow the path had become.
Because a widow in Mary Geoise was not meant to remain a widow for long. The place itself was a carefully designed trap, meant to ensure each person continued the cycle of propagation and continuance.
Eventually, for Lisette’s sake, you would be required to remarry.
Likely some older man, whose household you would manage in exchange for his obligation to elevate your daughter and acknowledge any additional children he might demand from you. At thirty-seven, you would be less a bride than a caretaker. More housekeeper than bedfellow. The expectation would be fulfilled at least once to seal legitimacy and silence gossip.
After that, mercy would depend entirely on the man’s temperament.
Some men had peculiar tastes, and you hadn’t aged poorly, so you still may find a reasonable suitor. But you weren’t counting on that. Women often worked relentlessly until their bodies failed them, no matter their years, no matter how politely they endured it. You were under no illusion that maturity granted immunity.
The truth is that there wouldn't be many choices. You could hope only not to be handed to someone especially cruel. Certainly not anyone especially prestigious.
Thankfully, the Five Elders didn’t wed, and most family heads were too well married. Those who worked in the administration of Pangaea preferred younger brides without children.
The Holy Knights were rarely inclined toward marriage, though there were exceptions. Men like Sommers Shepherd came to mind, possessed of a strange sense of humor and a reputation that made you cringe despite yourself. You doubted he had an interest in anyone over twenty-five, though his family had been pressuring him to marry for years. Desperation did strange things to powerful houses.
Thankfully, you had managed to remain largely beneath the notice of most highly esteemed figures in Mary Geoise.
You were hardly the only single older woman. Many women chose to live alone as long as they were permitted to do so, quietly delaying the inevitable until circumstances made refusal impossible. Some deliberately married the oldest, most infirm men available, serving as temporary nurses rather than wives, trading comfort and attention for inheritance.
You had considered it.
But such men often left little behind, and instability was its own kind of cruelty. You preferred continuity. Safety. A household that would remain intact for as long as possible, provided the man was tolerable.
And you were, at least, competent.
You managed a household efficiently. You were pleasant enough to be noticed, but never enough to be resented. Even your husband’s associates had complimented you rather than dismissed you. His funds stretched further. His investments remained steady. He attended functions more regularly, brushed shoulders with important men, and seemed quietly improved by your presence.
Ballrooms bored you. You had little appetite for display, and even less illusion about what you had to offer in such spaces.
But you understood your value. And you understood that someone in Mary Geoise would eventually recognize it as well. It was only a matter of time before someone decided to claim it.
But had you known that morning, when you took Lisette to her classrooms as you always did, that you would end the day splashed across the front page of every respectable paper in Mary Geoise, you would have barricaded yourself inside your home and refused to answer the door.
You didn’t leave your house with any intention beyond what was necessary.
First, you took your very happy daughter to school. Even at five, Lisette was an unusually cheerful child. And while she did not qualify for a private tutor, the general school in Mary Geoise did a perfectly adequate job of satisfying her hunger for knowledge and her earnest desire to make friends.
You missed her the moment you left her there. You also cherished the brief solitude that followed, when you could finally let your smile fall away.
Because the next block of your schedule was time you would normally spend at home. Instead, like most women during the day, you made your way to the central plaza.
It was where widows and wives alike gathered. To gossip, exchange rumors, shop, watch films, or attend plays. To preen beneath the guise of leisure. Networking, after all, was the most efficient way to find a husband.
You moved among them easily, used to the endless sea of white-clad women.
Several other familiar faces had arrived the same way you had, leaving their children and nursemaids in the care of instructors and attendants. Conversations had already begun flowing with practiced ease, names were dropping, weighed and quietly catalogued.
The plaza was already humming by the time you settled in, shaded beneath pale awnings and ringed with cafés that catered almost exclusively to women like you. Wives with leisure. Widows with time. Mothers with schedules carefully arranged around the hours their children were supervised elsewhere.
Conversation drifted in practiced loops, circling back on itself like a familiar dance.
“Topman’s looking for another wife,” Jenelle Manmeyer announced, stirring her drink with delicate emphasis. “Apparently, his mother has finally put her foot down. Wants more kids.”
That earned a ripple of interest.
“Another?” someone asked. “At his age? Doesn’t he already have four mistresses?”
“Men are allowed,” another woman said lightly. “It builds character.”
“And resentment,” a third woman added lightly, lifting her teacup as though it were an afterthought.
That earned a ripple of laughter, though not unkind.
More names followed in easy succession, passed around like cards at a polite table. A Donquixote second son. A minor Killingham cousin. A Roseword with three children and, mercifully, a temperament described as tolerable. Each prospect was examined with the practiced efficiency of women who understood marriage as management. How much money. How much land. How much supervision would a man would require to keep his household orderly and his expectations modest.
One voice dipped lower, conspiratorial, and someone leaned in as though the thought itself carried weight.
“You know what bigger news? My nephew, who is a trainee knight, said Commander Shamrock has recently returned from a mission.”
It was big news. The table almost melted, most of the younger women sighing in tandem.
“And isn’t he handsome,” someone said, almost wistful, as though indulging a private daydream. More laughter came, soft, but very knowing, and entirely dismissive.
“Oh, please.”
“As if.”
“That is a fantasy best left unspoken. Don’t embarrass yourself like that Ethanbaron girl!”
Indeed, best not to daydream, for all the women knew better. The Figarland family had long been whispered to be cursed when it came to their wives. Not for lack of opportunity, of course. Quite the opposite. Women vying for Shamrock Figarland’s hand had never been scarce.
The trouble had always been the heir himself.
Commander Saint Shamrock Figarland had never shown the slightest interest in obtaining a wife. He had refused every arrangement placed before him, declined every suitable match. Politely ignored every introduction engineered with care and optimism. He had done so openly, stubbornly, even when it strained the patience of his own father, the menacing Supreme Commander himself.
A refusal, once or twice, could be dismissed as taste. A refusal repeated often enough became a statement. And clearly, he didn’t wish to marry.
Conversation drifted on.
Another important man was mentioned, this one recently widowed and already eager to remarry. A wealthy archivist with excellent connections and an unfortunate tendency toward pedantry. A man rumored to be kind but dull, spoken of with the resigned fondness reserved for reliable furniture. Someone else came up, praised for his generosity, with a delicate pause before the speaker added that fidelity was, perhaps, not his strongest virtue.
The names blurred together. Each arrived carrying its own careful list of calculations and quiet compromises. What one lacked in charm, he made up for in land. What another lacked in fortune, he compensated for with obedience. No one spoke of love. No one needed to.
You listened. You nodded when it seemed expected of you. You smiled at the right moments, soft and agreeable, the sort of expression that suggested attentiveness without commitment.
Then someone turned to you.
“Well?” she asked pleasantly. “You have been very quiet, Lettie.”
You perked up.
Lettie was the childhood nickname nearly everyone insisted on using for you. When you were small, you preferred writing letters instead of speaking. Sending careful little notes passed across tables or tucked into waiting hands to just about anyone. Letter had become Lettie, and the affectionate moniker had followed you far longer than the habit had.
Several faces angled your way. Their eyes were bright with interest that had little to do with concern. Dread settled over your shoulders like a shawl, light enough to seem polite, heavy enough that you felt its weight immediately.
“It’s almost time for your mourning to be over,” one woman said, tilting her head in a way meant to resemble sympathy. “Are you looking to remarry?”
You hesitated. Only a fraction of a second. Just long enough to choose your footing. This was precisely the moment you needed to act.
“Y-y-yes,” you said at last, softly. “Tentatively.”
It seemed to satisfy them.
Someone reached out and squeezed your hand, warm and possessive. Another murmured approval, remarking on how sensible you were. How wise it was not to wait too long. How important stability was for your sweet Lisette.
Their voices blended together, approval layering over approval, and you smiled gently through it all, letting them believe you had given them permission to add you to their quiet docket of potential pairings.
By evening, your words would have spread. You could already imagine it, the way news traveled through rooms like this. A remark here, a knowing look there. Soon enough, invitations would arrive. Luncheons. Small gatherings. Evenings arranged with just enough coincidence to appear accidental.
You, seated beside men you had never chosen, spoken of lightly over wine and laughter. Your future weighed, adjusted, and passed between acquaintances as though it were a topic of mild interest rather than the rest of your life.
You kept your smile in place. It was easier than explaining that the thought made you feel unbearably tired.
The remainder of the visit stretched thin. You found yourself watching the light shift rather than listening, counting small cues of time passing. When your maid finally approached and murmured that it was nearly the hour, you rose at once, perhaps a touch too quickly, relief loosening something tight in your chest.
The walk back to the school was ordinarily uneventful. Familiar streets, familiar sounds, and the steady comfort of routine. But as the building came into view, you slowed.
The usual cluster of mothers had gathered near the gates, though today they stood closer together than normal, voices pitched higher, laughter sharper, practically tittering. You frowned slightly, concern stirring.
Then you saw them.
A handful of Holy Knights stood just inside the grounds, polished and immaculate, their colorful cloaks catching the afternoon light.
It was astonishing. Absurd, almost to the point of disbelief.
The Knights of God didn’t loiter at schools. They were far too busy for that, ensuring the safety of the Holy Land.
But here they were, regardless of your suppositions.
The children, of course, recognized them immediately. Attention clustered around the knights without effort, little bodies drifting closer, faces tilted upward in wide-eyed reverence. It was the sort of awe born from half-understood stories and fully recognized uniforms, from tales of valor stripped of consequence.
You stood there for a moment longer than necessary, watching the scene settle into place, unease tightening in your chest.
The first knight you noticed was a youngish woman with blue hair. Saint Manmeyer, you realized after a beat. She stood quietly while a cluster of children pestered her with earnest questions about her hair, her eyes, whether they were real or some trick of the light. She answered them with patience that looked practiced rather than natural.
Next to her was the unmistakable Saint Killingham, and he was impossible to miss. Like always, he had chosen to remain in his ever-present Devil Fruit form; meaning he appeared as a dragon, neck coiled, comfortably standing within the school grounds as though it were the most reasonable thing in the world. He basked openly in the children’s attention, preening beneath his resin helmet. His grin was broad and unapologetic as young girls dared one another to touch his scales, shrieking with laughter when they did.
Those two alone would have raised brows, but the third figure was what made your breath catch.
The bright red of his long hair blazed like a wildfire, unmistakable no matter the setting. It was tied back neatly and entirely out of fashion, the length of it falling over broad shoulders carried by a tall, fit frame. One that had caused most of the wives in the Holy Land to swoon upon seeing him.
There was no mistaking him.
Saint Shamrock Figarland stood apart from the spectacle, quieter than his colleagues and yet somehow more observed than both of them combined.
He was speaking with the headmistress, head inclined just enough to suggest courtesy, his posture relaxed in the way of a man entirely at ease with his own authority. The lines of his face were sharp without being severe, handsome in a way that made the nearby mothers giggle like teenagers. Even the old, stern headmistress wasn’t immune to his charm.
Even at a distance, there was something arresting about him. The set of his mouth. The calm weight of his presence. The kind of beauty that did not invite admiration so much as assume it.
From where you stood, his expression was unreadable, composed but distant, as if this, too, were merely another obligation to be handled and set aside, no more disruptive to his day than a report or a summons.
But why on earth would the Commander of the Holy Knights be at a children’s school?
Was there a problem?
You couldn't see one. No alarms or raised voices or hurried movements. Everything looked, on the surface, entirely ordinary, and yet your pulse quickened all the same, a dull, insistent thrum in your ears.
More importantly, you just needed to see Lisette.
Thankfully, she was easy to find. She was near the edge of the yard, hair slightly mussed from play, hands clasped behind her back as she listened with solemn attention to something another child was saying. She looked perfectly unharmed.
Relief loosened your chest for half a breath before it caught again.
Because then the headmistress turned.
Her gaze swept the yard with practiced efficiency and landed, unmistakably, on your daughter. A small smile appeared, warm and inviting, and she lifted her hand in a gentle beckoning gesture.
Your daughter hesitated, glanced once toward the cluster of children, then obediently made her way forward.
Alarm spiked sharply and immediate. You started forward at once, pace measured only because you forced it to be, every instinct screaming at you to close the distance faster. The stone clacked beneath your shoes, each step suddenly too loud in your ears.
The headmistress bent slightly as your daughter approached, speaking to her with kindness, one hand resting lightly at the child’s shoulder. Shamrock straightened beside her, attention shifting at last, his gaze dropping to meet your daughter’s height.
To your shock, he crouched down, saying something you could not hear. Your daughter answered, small and earnest, hands twisting together.
The strangeness of a man like him standing in a schoolyard, attention fixed on a child who had nothing to do with his world, made your next rudeness necessary.
“Excuse me,” you said, breath steady despite the hammering of your heart, arriving just as the headmistress looked up.
Her smile widened, pleased. “Ah. Saintess Lettie! What perfect timing.”
Your daughter turned at the sound of your voice, relief brightening her face. She stepped instinctively toward you, and you placed a hand at her back without thinking, grounding yourself as much as her.
“I was just telling Commander Figarland,” the headmistress continued smoothly, “about how well Lisette is doing!”
Your gaze flicked, briefly and unwillingly, toward him.
He had risen to his full height, and the difference was impossible to ignore. He seemed to loom without effort, broad shoulders and straight posture lending him a presence that pressed in rather than reached out. For a moment, you had almost forgotten he was there, too focused on the impropriety of an administrator discussing your child so casually with a man who had no reason to know her name at all.
He looked down at the two of you with an attention that was unreadable, his expression composed, though his attention was sharper now.
It was a little surreal to see him up close, to register details you had not noticed from a distance. The faint scruff along his jaw. The way the shade of his eyes echoed the red of his hair was vivid and unrelenting. He really was good-looking, in a way that felt almost inconvenient to acknowledge.
And yet, if he were one of those men, then none of it mattered. The thought came sharp and uncomfortable—If it came to that, you and Lisette would be gone. Mary Geoise would be left behind without explanation or permission, because there would be no world in which you could deny the intent of a Figarland once it was set.
Thankfully, his attention did not linger on Lisette. He acknowledged her presence, yes, but without the weight you feared, his gaze moving past her almost at once. That alone felt like a reprieve. But the way his focus settled on you instead was unnerving in a different way.
Had you done something wrong?
Your mind raced through every possibility you could grasp. Every rule. Every quiet expectation. Or worse, was this about Lisette? Had she misbehaved so thoroughly that her teacher had seen fit to summon the Holy Knights themselves?
The idea made your stomach twist.
Your distress was likely written across your face. You could feel it there, tension pulling at your jaw, sharpness gathering in your eyes. Still, you forced it down, smoothing your expression into something polite and contained. Your hand remained firm at your daughter’s back, protective and grounding, even as you lifted your chin to meet whatever explanation was coming next.
The headmistress gave a small, knowing laugh, the sort meant to soften rather than reassure. “Oh, no need to be coy, Lettie,” she said lightly, as though you were all in on the same understanding. Then she turned back to him with an easy confidence that made your confusion spike. “Of course, Commander, I will keep things quiet.”
Quiet. Quiet about what?
Before you could ask, before you could even shape the question properly, the Commander spoke.
“Have your maid take your daughter,” he said to you, tone as though he were suggesting nothing more disruptive than an early supper. His gaze did not leave yours. “I would like a word with you. A walk, if you are willing.”
Your breath caught, every instinct you had bristled at the suggestion, at the implication folded neatly into it. Lisette shifted slightly at your side, sensing the disquiet in you even if she did not understand it.
“I—” you began, then stopped, painfully aware of where you were. Of who were listening. Of how many eyes were already trained in your direction.
The headmistress was smiling again, encouraging in a way that felt entirely unearned. “It will only be a few minutes,” she said. “Your daughter will be quite safe.”
Safe? As though that were something that needed to be said.
You looked down at Lisette. She was watching you now, brows drawn together, small fingers curling into the fabric of your sleeve. You forced yourself to smile at her, brushing a hand through her hair, murmuring something soothing you barely heard yourself say. When you signaled your maid, the woman appeared at once, obedient and silent, taking Lisette’s hand with practiced care.
Your daughter looked back at you over her shoulder, uncertain, until you nodded. Only then did she allow herself to be led away.
When you straightened, the space beside you felt abruptly too unsteady.
Saint Shamrock stepped back just enough to indicate direction rather than command, turning toward the path that led away from the school grounds. You were surprised when he offered an arm, though, as politely as you could, you declined it.
You followed, heart beating far too fast, acutely aware that whatever this was, it had already moved beyond your control.
The path away from the school was quiet, lined with trimmed hedges and stonework so familiar it usually faded into the background.
He did not speak at first, waiting till you were long out of earshot from the gathered mothers, desperately curious. When he finally spoke, his tone was stiff, formal in a way that immediately set your nerves on edge.
“I have heard,” he began, “that you are seeking a new husband. Is this correct?”
What a way to begin.
His words landed awkwardly, like a report delivered to the wrong audience at precisely the wrong time. You glanced at him, only to find his gaze fixed straight ahead, jaw set so tightly it looked as though he were bracing for impact rather than conversation.
You blinked. Once. Then again.
You had absolutely no idea how to respond to that, because what exactly was the expected reaction here? Gratitude? Horror? Applause for efficiency?
And how the hell did he even know? It had not been three hours since lunch when you’d casually mentioned it. How had it wormed its way to him?
And why would he care?
Surely the marital deliberations of bored women over tea did not rank high enough to penetrate the awareness of the Commander of the Holy Knights. And yet here he was, reciting them back to you like a filed memorandum.
While you were still reeling internally, he continued, undeterred by your silence.
“I have… overheard discussions,” he said, the pause before overheard doing a great deal of work. Each word was chosen with careful precision, as though he feared one wrong syllable might cause the entire sentence to collapse. “Regarding your suitability.”
You resisted the urge to stop walking entirely, if only to ask whether he had also overheard commentary on the quality of the tea and the cut of the pastries.
“It seems prudent,” he went on, tone rigidly neutral, “that a union with the Figarland family be offered.”
Your steps slowed despite yourself.
Be what?
You glanced sideways at him, taking in the immaculate uniform, the imposing frame, the sheer absurdity of the situation. Of all the words that could be used to justify whatever this was, stability felt wildly optimistic.
A union with the Figarland family?
A woman of your age and station would only have one conceivable option within his family, and it was not the man currently walking beside you. It was his much older father, the head of House Figarland, the Supreme Commander.
Stern, towering, and terrifying, Garling Figarland’s name alone was enough to make you regret every careless word you had spoken that day. From everything you had heard, he ate women alive and found them about as useful as a misplaced screw. You were a competent housekeeper, certainly, but a husband like that would make you regret every word that had ever left your mouth this day.
You swallowed, already exhausted, and could not help wondering how a perfectly polite conversation over tea had escalated into being verbally engaged by one of the most powerful families in Mary Geoise before sunset.
Still, you managed to keep your voice polite, measured down to the last syllable.
“With respect, C-commander,” you said delicately, horror carefully folded beneath courtesy, “your father is… a great man. Too great, in fact.” You offered a small, apologetic smile, as though the fault were entirely your own. “The honor alone is o-o-overwhelming, and I am deeply flattered. Truly.”
Well, if the words weren't enough, the stutter certainly would be.
Shamrock paused, slowly tilting his head.
“My what?”
You hesitated just long enough for the weight of it to register. An offer to join House Figarland was not extended lightly. Garling Figarland had taken only one wife in his lifetime and, by most accounts, barely seemed to notice women at all. To be considered, even in passing, was no small thing.
Which only made the question worse.
Why you? Had you once crossed his path without realizing it? Had your reputation simply been tidy enough, quiet enough, respectable enough to recommend you on paper? The thought made your stomach turn.
“That said,” you continued prettily, careful to keep your voice soft and deferential, “I must d-decline out of respect for my daughter.”
Your tone remained reasonable, gentle, even thoughtful. The sort of refusal designed to preserve everyone’s heads, including your own.
For a heartbeat, the man simply stared at you. Then something entirely unexpected happened.
Shamrock laughed.
It was abrupt and unguarded, a short bark of genuine amusement that clearly surprised even him. He brought a hand up to his mouth as if it were too late to stop it, shoulders loosening as the sound escaped.
“My father?” he said, incredulous, still half-smiling. “God, no.”
He shook his head once, red hair shifting with the motion, eyes bright now in a way they had not been before. There was something almost startled in his expression, as though he had just discovered a joke in his own delivery.
“I am not asking you to marry my father,” he said quickly. “He’s never— not after—” He stopped himself, exhaled through his nose, then added firmly, “Just no.”
Relief hit you first, sharp and dizzying, followed almost immediately by confusion so profound it left you reeling.
Oh.
Oh no.
The realization arrived all at once, mortifying in its clarity. You had not declined a terrifying honor with grace. You had politely rejected the wrong man entirely.
You stared at him, brain scrambling to recover. If not his father, then who? A cousin, perhaps. Some distant Figarland relative quietly waiting in the wings. Someone reasonable. Someone appropriate.
“I am not offering you to a family member,” he said again, slower this time, as though correcting a misfiled report. His tone lost some of its stiffness, something more earnest slipping through. “I am asking for myself.”
You blinked.
“Pardon?”
He cleared his throat.
“I am asking you to marry me.”
The world tilted.
You opened your mouth, closed it, then opened it again, producing nothing at all, your mind stubbornly clinging to the hope that you had misheard him for a second time.
The words hung between you, heavy and awkward, as though they had never quite been meant to exist outside his head. He seemed faintly dissatisfied with them, his brow tightening just slightly, as if the phrasing itself had failed him by lacking the precision he would have preferred.
“Y-y-you?” you managed finally. “M-m-marriage?”
The words that came out registered as more of a squeak than words.
Him? The handsome, young Commander of the Holy Knights? Asking you, an aged widow, standing beside a children’s school, to marry him? As though this were a logical, reasonable extension of the afternoon’s errands?
He nodded.
You drew in a deep breath, spots of black already blooming at the edges of your vision as your body struggled to keep pace with your thoughts.
Shock prickled along your spine, sharp and immediate, disbelief tangling with something dangerously close to hyperventilation. Of all the conclusions you had drawn in the last several minutes, this had not been one of them. Not even remotely close.
It defied expectation. It defied reason.
“Why?” you asked, the word leaving you before you could dress it up or make it polite, all of your disbelief and fraying composure packed into that single syllable.
He hesitated, just briefly, as though searching for the correct phrasing.
“I am… not practiced at this,” he said at last, stiff and earnest, as if admitting to a small professional shortcoming rather than explaining a marriage proposal. “But the arrangement would be suitable for both sides. Your daughter would have backing. You would retain autonomy. And I would—”
He paused, recalculating, then finished more quietly, “be married.”
You stared ahead, careful not to look at him, as though meeting his eyes might make the situation tip fully into the unreal.
“With all due respect,” you said, choosing each word with deliberate care, “a-a-aren’t I a little old for you, Commander?”
The question lingered, edged with disbelief more than insult. You could not make the logic align, no matter how hard you tried. Why you, when he could have anyone? The most beautiful women in Mary Geoise, women raised for charm and spectacle. The funniest, the cleverest, the wealthiest. Women without children, without history, without the quiet weight of widowhood trailing behind them.
You were practical. Sensible. Made for an average man and an ordinary life, not for whatever lofty, merciless standards House Figarland surely aspired to.
“Old?” He replied, amused, “I am older than you.”
None of this made sense.
You swallowed, still not looking at him, as though the stone path ahead might offer answers his presence did not.
“Surely there are… better options,” you added softly. The words were not self-pitying, merely honest. “Women without c-complications. Without obligations.”
He didn’t look surprised.
In fact, he seemed to have expected it, as though this particular objection had already been accounted for somewhere in his mind and filed neatly away.
“Your circumstances are not disqualifying,” he said after a moment. “They are known variables.”
You blinked at that. Known variables. As though you and your life could be reduced to figures on a page.
“Oh.”
“I am asking for simplicity,” he continued, tone steady, almost careful. “I am asking for suitability. You are discreet. You manage a household competently. Your reputation is stable. Your daughter’s existence does not present a problem.”
None of it was unkind. None of it was wrong. And yet none of it was reassuring either.
You hesitated, the refusal catching uncomfortably in your chest, because turning him down was not easy. He was handsome in that effortless, maddening way. The sort of man women built fantasies around from a safe distance. And there he was, offering stability and protection with a calm that made it all feel dangerously convenient.
“I don’t know you,” you said at last, quietly. “I have a daughter who needs safety, and you are the Commander of the Holy Knights. How can I be sure this is a good idea?”
That finally stopped him.
For the first time, he looked as though he had reached the edge of his prepared reasoning and found nothing written there. It was only a flicker, a brief hesitation, but it was real.
“That can be remedied,” he said after a beat.
You shook your head, just slightly. “Respectfully, I must d-decline.”
The words hurt to say. Not because you doubted his intent, but because some small, traitorous part of you wondered what it would be like to accept. To step into something so clean and decisive.
He absorbed your answer in silence.
When he finally nodded, it was slow and deliberate, acceptance settling into place with the same precision he applied to everything else.
“I understand,” he said simply.
There was no offense in his voice, nor any wounded pride, only quiet acknowledgment.
God help you, he really was the dream everyone thought he was. Polite and extraordinarily gracious in the face of refusal, which made walking away from him feel even harder.
He turned back toward the school with you, falling into step at your side without comment. The conversation did not resume, because what else was there to say?
The gates came into view, and with them the familiar noise of the afternoon. Children laughing, calling out names, the scrape of shoes on stone. Parents exchanged pleasantries and polite smiles, but their glances lingered far too long, curiosity sharpening as they took in the Holy Knights still stationed inside the grounds and, more importantly, you and Shamrock returning together.
You both slowed just short of the entrance, as that was when Lisette slipped free of her maid’s hand.
She ran straight toward you both, small shoes slapping against the stone with reckless determination, her expression bright with a peculiar mix of excitement and seriousness that made your stomach drop. It was not the look of a child racing on impulse. It was the look of a child who had had an eager question.
She stopped directly in front of Commander Shamrock, squared her shoulders the way you had taught her to do when addressing adults, and tipped her chin up.
“Are you going to be my new dad?” she asked.
Loudly. Very loudly. Enunciated with the careful precision of a child who had practiced the sentence at least once.
And, in front of everyone.
Your jaw dropped as pure horror flooded through you, hot and dizzying.
Your heart slammed painfully against your ribs as every mother, every teacher, every Holy Knight turned as one. The courtyard fell into an unnatural stillness, the kind that swallowed sound whole. Even the children sensed it, their chatter thinning into silence as dozens of eyes fixed on the small figure standing before the Commander of the Holy Knights.
You barely had time to inhale.
Shamrock knelt.
He didn’t glance at you, correct her phrasing, or soften the moment. He lowered himself to her level with calm deliberation, as though this were exactly what he had been prepared for all along.
He nodded once.
“Yes,” he said, clearly and evenly.
The sound that followed was not a scream, but it came close.
Gasps erupted in a wave, sharp and overlapping. A mother clutched at her chest. Someone whispered your name. You saw the headmistress go pale, then visibly brighten, already recalculating at terrifying speed.
Your vision tunneled.
Because that was it, there would be no undoing it now. By the end of the hour, the story would have reached every corridor of Mary Geoise. By nightfall, it would have hardened into truth.
And standing there, watching him rise beside your daughter as though nothing extraordinary had happened, you realized with sickening clarity that Shamrock Figarland had just announced, very politely, your engagement to the world.
