Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Prologue:

A Royal Flush of Bad Luck

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I have dreams like you, no really

Just much less suchy-feely

They mainly happen somewhere warm and sunny

On an island that I own

Tan and rested and alone

Surrounded by enormous piles of money

. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁.

Rhysand used to say that the secret of a great lawyer was not just knowing the law, but knowing exactly when to bend it without it breaking under his feet. However, as he stared at the Velaris skyline through the floor-to-ceiling glass walls of his fortieth-floor office, the only thing that seemed on the verge of breaking was his own dignity.

The late afternoon sun bathed the office of Night Court & Associates in shades of amber and gold, reflecting off polished mahogany surfaces and the brushed steel of bookshelves filled with civil codes and international treaties. It was a temple of power. A sanctuary of sophistication where multi-million dollar decisions were made with a simple nod of the head. Rhysand, in his bespoke three-piece suit and onyx cufflinks, was the high lord of this empire.

Or, at least, that was what he liked to think before he accepted that damned poker round the night before.

"You’ve been silent for a long time, Rhys," Cassian’s voice cut through the air, heavy with a sadistic pleasure he didn’t even bother to hide. "Silence is the first stage of grief. The second is denial. The third... well, the third involves glitter."

Rhysand did not turn around. He continued watching the movement of the cars down below, as tiny as toys. 

"I was thinking about how easy it is to dispose of a body in the Sidra River without leaving a trace," Rhys murmured, his voice a smooth baritone that had already made judges tremble and clients sigh.

"Too late for death threats. We have witnesses. Azriel saw everything. He even recorded the moment you bet your 'unshakeable pride' against my cancellation of that Monte Carlo casino debt."

Finally, Rhysand turned.

Cassian was sprawled on the Italian leather sofa, his heavy-booted feet resting on the designer coffee table. He held a glass of aged whiskey, the golden liquid catching the light as he swirled it with disdain. Cassian was the opposite of Rhys: while Rhys was precision and shadows, Cassian was brute force and a smile that usually preceded a natural disaster. They were partners, brothers-in-arms in courtrooms, but at that moment, they were only the executioner and the victim.

Between them, on the oak table that cost more than a luxury sedan, lay a brown paper package. To anyone else, it would look like an innocent bundle. To Rhysand, it was Pandora’s box.

"You cannot be serious, Cassian." Rhysand walked toward the table, every step exuding the authority he was about to lose. "I am the highest-paid lawyer on this side of the continent. I represent celebrities, tech conglomerates, and heirs to oil fortunes. I don’t... I don’t do 'events'."

"You don’t do common events," Cassian corrected, standing up and walking toward the package. "But you do keep promises. And in our brotherhood, a poker debt is more sacred than the Constitution."

With a theatrical movement, Cassian tore open the brown paper.

Rhysand felt his stomach lurch. Inside the package, there was no humiliating service contract or a heavy fine. There was something much worse. The smell of new plastic and cheap textile dye invaded his nostrils, offending his sense of smell, which was accustomed to sandalwood colognes and genuine leather.

"Is this..." Rhys reached out, touching the material with his fingertips as if it were radioactive material. "Is this synthetic suede?"

"Highest quality," Cassian lied, unfolding the piece. "Note the finish on the seams. Note the texture that screams 'I run from royal guards for fun'."

It was the Flynn Rider vest. The hero from Tangled. Complete with plastic buckles that tried desperately to look like bronze and a shade of blue that did not exist in nature.

"Cassian, I am going to kill you. I will sue you until you don’t have enough money to buy a toothbrush."

"Save the legalese for Monday, 'Flynn'. Tomorrow is Saturday. Hyacinth’s fifth birthday." Cassian took a step forward, his expression softening only by a millimeter, which was more dangerous than his mockery. "Listen, man. Hyacinth is crazy about that movie. Her mother, Feyre, is going through a rough time. The guy who was hired for the role broke his leg, and the party is tomorrow. Nesta called me desperate. And when Nesta calls..."

"You shake in your boots," Rhys finished, bitter. "And you decide to use my dignity as a human sacrifice at the altar of your relationship."

"Exactly. You understand the logistics. You have the hair, you have the annoying charm, and let’s face it, you already spend half the day acting like you’re the most wanted man in the kingdom. All that’s missing is the vest."

Rhysand picked up the vest. It weighed almost nothing, but in his hands, it felt like the heaviest burden in the world. He looked at Cassian, searching for a shred of remorse, and found only manic excitement.

"There’s more," Cassian said, plunging his hand into the package again. "The full kit."

He pulled out a faux-leather satchel (where "Flynn" kept the stolen crown), a pair of felt boots meant to be worn over shoes, and finally, a long object wrapped in bubble wrap.

"No," Rhys whispered.

"Yes," Cassian confirmed, handing him a hobby horse. "Maximus. He is your faithful steed. Try not to run over the children with him."

Rhysand closed his eyes for a moment, praying that this was a lucid dream caused by overwork. But the scratchy touch of the polyester in his fingers was all too real.

"Go change," Cassian ordered. "I need to see if the adjustments Elain made fit. She said you have shoulders 'too broad for an animation hero,' but she made it work."

With no other choice, Rhysand walked toward his private bathroom. The path felt like death row. He entered the white marble environment with recessed lights, closing the door behind him. The silence there was absolute, broken only by the sound of the zipper on his tailored trousers being pulled down.

Minutes later, Rhysand was staring at himself in the mirror.

The contrast was almost violent. The face was the same: the perfectly sculpted jawline, the clear eyes that seemed to read anyone’s soul, the impeccably cut dark hair. But from the neck down... he was a joke. The blue vest was too short, ending just above his waist, giving the impression that he had outgrown his clothes overnight. The white shirt underneath had puffed sleeves that made him look like a budget pirate.

"The 'smolder'," he muttered to his own reflection.

He tried. He tilted his head, narrowed his eyes, and projected his lower lip slightly outward, recreating the character's signature expression.

In the mirror, he didn't see the charming thief from the movie. He saw a man who looked like he was suffering from a severe midlife crisis or trying to hide a terrible stomach ache after eating sushi of dubious origin.

"This is a disaster," he said, his voice cracking.

"Rhys? Did you die in there or is the vest too tight for you to breathe?" Cassian’s voice came through the door, followed by a rhythmic knocking.

Rhysand took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders (which made the synthetic fabric pop dangerously in the back), and opened the door.

Cassian was silent for three full seconds. His hand, holding the whiskey glass, trembled slightly. Then, the sound came. It wasn't a normal laugh. It was a roar of pure, unbridled joy that was probably heard in the building’s lobby.

"Oh... my... God," Cassian managed to say between fits of laughter, doubling over. "It’s better than I imagined. You look like... you look like you were kicked off a themed cruise!"

"I hate you with every fiber of my being," Rhysand said, keeping his voice flat, though his cheeks were burning.

"Look on the bright side," Cassian tried to catch his breath, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. "Hyacinth is going to love you. And her mother, Feyre... well, she’s so stressed with this party that if you show up in that vest and don't drop the cake, she’ll probably want to give you a medal."

"Who is this Feyre, anyway?" Rhys asked, trying to adjust the satchel that insisted on slipping off his shoulder. "Another general in skirts like Nesta?"

"Feyre is the younger sister. An artist. A bit... intense, I’d say. She’s raised Hyacinth alone since that piece of trash ex left the scene. This party is her world. So, make sure you’re the best damn Flynn Rider this world has ever seen. If you disappoint a five-year-old, Rhys, I’m telling the Bar Association ethics committee that you wear silk underwear with star prints."

Rhysand turned pale. 

"How do you know about my underwear?"

"I’m your best friend. I know everything. Now, grab the glitter backpack. We have an empire to pretend we aren't destroying."

Rhysand picked up the backpack. The name "Flynn" was written in large letters of golden glitter that kept coming off and sticking to his fingers. He felt his soul being eroded.

The path from the office to the elevator was the longest walk of his life. Rhys's secretary, a woman who had worked for him for ten years and had never seen him without a tie, dropped her phone as he passed.

"Good evening, Mrs. Weaver," Rhys said, without stopping, his head held as high as when he went to defend a case in the Supreme Court.

"Good... evening, Dr. Rhysand. Are you... going on a hunt?"

"I’m going to my funeral," he replied.

At the elevator, he found Azriel. The third member of their trio, the master of technology and investigations, was leaning against the metallic wall. He looked Rhys up and down, his expression remaining as stoic as a granite statue.

"The vest is crooked," Azriel said calmly.

"Thank you, Azriel. Your contribution is invaluable."

"And you’re losing glitter on the carpet."

The elevator reached the ground floor. The doors opened to the luxurious lobby, where two security guards in impeccable uniforms guarded the entrance. When Rhysand stepped out, in a blue vest, puffed pants, and carrying a hobby horse, the silence that followed was almost poetic. He could hear the gears in the guards' heads turning, trying to process if this was a new security code or just a nervous breakdown from the company owner.

Rhysand walked to his car — a black Bentley that cost a small fortune. He opened the trunk, threw the glitter backpack inside, and looked at the hobby horse in his hand.

"I’m sorry, Maximus," he whispered. "But there’s only room for one of us with dignity in this car. And it isn't me."

He got into the vehicle, the genuine leather of the seats seeming to mock the synthetic leather of his costume. As he started the engine, he saw Cassian and Azriel on the sidewalk, they were going a long way off, and Rhys was grateful for that, because if he were in the same car as those idiots he would have killed them, and well... they were good lawyers and he didn't want that, waving as if he were setting off on a glorious mission. Rhysand shifted into gear and accelerated. He had an address in a charming residential neighborhood, a five-year-old girl to entertain, and an ego to try and rebuild. What he didn't know, as he crossed the streets of Velaris under the confused gaze of pedestrians, was that this ridiculous vest would be the best thing that ever happened to his life.

Because somewhere in that city, a woman named Feyre Archeron was finishing painting a mural of floating lanterns, not knowing that her "prince of thieves" was on his way — and that he was terrible at doing the "smolder," but incredibly good at changing destinies.

Rhysand took a deep breath. 

"It’s just a five-year-old’s party," he repeated to himself. "What’s the worst that could happen?"

. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁.

He almost slips on his own authentic Persian rug as he tries to kick his Italian leather boot away. The cell phone vibrates on the quartz kitchen counter as if it were possessed by a vengeful spirit. The bath steam still clings to his skin, a thin layer of moisture that the loft's central air conditioning tries in vain to dissipate. And there, on the other side of the room, resting on the white linen sofa signed by an unpronounceable European designer, the hobby horse stares at him.

It is a personal insult. The big, bulging plastic eyes seem to judge every life choice that led him to this exact moment.

Why had he said yes?

Rhys runs his hand through his still-damp hair, the dark strands falling heavy over his forehead. He takes a deep breath once — twice — and fails miserably on the third. The loft's silence is too elegant for that kind of incipient chaos. Everything there was designed to exude absolute control: the clean lines of the architecture, the impeccable surfaces of glass and brushed steel, the indirect lighting, the floor-to-ceiling windows that offer Velaris at his feet. It is the kind of space that responds to his presence like a well-trained subordinate. A temple built in homage to corporate success.

And yet, in the middle of all that architectural glory, there is a wooden horse with a stupid expression and a synthetic wool mane.

"This is premeditated humiliation," he murmurs to the empty room, grabbing the puffy white shirt that Cassian had left behind. He pulls it over his head with zero delicacy, feeling the fabric prickle.

The sleeve catches on his elbow. He almost loses his balance again, stumbling and hitting his hip on the corner of the kitchen island. A curse word in ancient Illyrian escapes his lips.

The cell phone vibrates. And vibrates again.

He ignores it.

He tries to button the shirt. His fingers, accustomed to white gold cufflinks and perfect Windsor tie knots, seem useless against the cheap plastic buttons. He misses two. Closes it crookedly. The collar gets pulled taut. He breathes deeply through his nose, mentally counting to ten.

The cell phone vibrates a third time, dragging itself millimeters across the polished counter.

"If I answer, I'll kill him," he says to no one, although his reflection in the dark glass of the window seems to fully agree.

He gives up on aligning the buttons and picks up the device. The screen's light illuminates his tired face.

Cassian: "Already wearing the vest?"

Cassian: "I need to see this. The world needs to see this."

Cassian: "Rhys."

Cassian: "Rhys, answer me."

Cassian: "I swear by the stars that I will break down your door."

Cassian: "Hyacinth wants to know if you sing."

Cassian: "I said you sing.."

Cassian: "Do not make me lie in front of a five-year-old child, Rhysand."

Rhys closes his eyes, massaging his temples where a tension headache begins to throb to the rhythm of the electronic music he heard at the nightclub last night. The night of the damned bet.

"I am going to sue you," he says in a low voice, far too calm, with the tone he usually uses when he is about to destroy an adversary's financial life in court.

One more vibration.

Cassian: "Oh, and Nesta asked if you know how to dance. Because apparently Flynn dances. Did you stretch your hamstrings?"

He throws the cell phone on the counter as if the device were radioactive.

"I am definitely going to sue you. And I will put Nesta as a co-plaintiff in the lawsuit for moral damages."

The shower still drips behind him in the master suite, forgetting to exist. The smell of bergamot and sandalwood soap hangs in the air — clean, masculine, sophisticated, almost irritating in how it contrasts with… that.

The horse.

Rhys turns his face slowly until he faces the object on the sofa.

Maximus. That was the animal's name, according to the unsolicited fifteen-page dossier that Cassian had sent to Rhys's corporate email at three in the morning.

He crosses his arms, the puffy fabric of the sleeves rustling in a way that hurts his ears.

"You have no right to be here," he says to the toy.

Silence.

Maximus continues to be stupidly offensive, with his tooth-yellow felt smile.

He sighs, the heavy sound of a defeated man, and walks to the sofa to pick up the blue vest. The fabric is rough, stiff, and has the unmistakable smell of a costume factory that does not care about safety standards.

It is too tight. He pulls it from the front, adjusts the armholes, tries to ignore the fact that the seamstress — whom Cassian swore was a professional — clearly designed it for someone with half the width of his shoulders. When he turns to the full-length mirror in the hallway, the image returned is a cognitive shock. He does not recognize himself completely. It is still him there — the same upright posture, the same piercing violet gaze, the same tense jaw —, but the businessman has been swallowed up, wrapped in a fairy tale caricature.

"I am a legal predator," he says to the reflection, trying to inject some authority into his own voice. "I close contracts that change entire markets. Executives break into a cold sweat when they read my name on an initial petition."

The puffy shirt makes a ridiculous sound, a swish-swish of cheap fabric, when he puffs out his chest.

"I am not… this."

The cell phone vibrates.

He does not look.

Vibrates again.

And again.

And again, in a crescendo that threatens to scratch the quartz counter.

"Fine!" he growls, walking back and picking up the phone with a brusque movement. "What do you want, you sadist?"

Silence on the other end of the line for a millisecond. Then, Cassian's voice sounds, deep and vibrating with genuine joy:

"I want the picture."

Rhys closes his eyes.

"No."

"Just one, little brother."

"No. I have my limits."

"With a pout."

"Cassian."

"Flynn Rider does the 'smolder', Rhys. It is historical. It is canonical. Do the seductive pout."

"I will block you. I will delete your number. I will burn your employee file in HR."

"You will not, because I am the one who has the party's address. And if you do not show up, Nesta kills me, and I will come haunt your office forever. Now send the picture."

Rhys looks at the mirror on the other side of the room. Looks at himself. At the pirate shirt. At the blue vest that looks like a corset. At the belt with a golden plastic buckle. At the relentless reality of his defeat.

"I hate you. More than words can express."

"Mutual feeling, High Lord of the Courts. Now send it."

He hangs up the call in his friend's face.

Stays there for one second. Two. Three. Hating his own Illyrian honor that prevents him from simply going to sleep.

Then, he raises the cell phone. Adjusts the angle — fast, nervous, as if a paparazzo could jump from the fortieth-floor window and catch him in the act — and takes a picture.

He does not pout. He merely displays the greatest look of lethal hatred he can muster.

He sends it anyway.

The cell phone vibrates instantly.

Cassian: "This is gold."

Cassian: "I will print this on a billboard on the main avenue."

Cassian: "You look like a prince who just found out he is allergic to peasants. Go with God, Flynn."

Rhys throws the cell phone into the backpack that has a "Flynn" embroidered in golden sequins, and then throws it on the sofa.

Maximus almost falls.

"Do not even think about it," he warns the horse, pointing a threatening finger.

The Bentley V8 engine purrs too softly for someone dressed that way.

He grips the perforated leather-wrapped steering wheel with a calculated firmness, his knuckles white. His eyes are fixed on the road, trying — desperately — to recover his sense of reality. The city of Velaris moves around him as always: neon lights reflecting on the damp asphalt, fluid movement, people in suits and evening gowns walking along the sidewalks, living lives that make sense. Lives where no one carries giant plush toys.

And he, the founding partner of Night Court & Associates, is going to a children's party dressed as a fictional criminal he barely knows. In the passenger seat, with the seatbelt properly buckled (because Rhysand never commits traffic violations), the hobby horse accompanies the trip bobbing its head at every pothole.

"It is temporary," he murmurs to himself, turning on the radio. A soft Miles Davis jazz fills the cabin, brutally contrasting with his puffy pants.

The GPS, with its impeccable British voice, announces the next turn in eight hundred meters.

"This is a strategy," he continues, trying to use logic to calm his tachycardia of embarrassment. "It can be considered indirect networking. Interpersonal relationship. Corporate diplomacy. The family of my partner's girlfriend needs to be pleased."

A pause. A red traffic light forces him to stop. A driver in the car next to him looks at the Bentley, widens his eyes upon seeing Rhys's blue vest and period shirt, and starts laughing, nudging the passenger. Rhys rolls up the tinted windows instantly.

"I was blackmailed. That is it. I am a victim of circumstances."

The light turns green. He turns right.

The urban landscape changes drastically. The mirrored skyscrapers of the financial district give way to wide tree-lined avenues, and then to winding residential streets. The houses become broader, more alive, less… clinical. The gardens do not look like they have been measured by obsessive landscapers; there are warm lights in the windows, flowering vines climbing porches, children's bicycles forgotten on the lawns. There are real plants growing where they want to, not where they were calculated to grow.

He arrives at the indicated street. House number four.

He parks the Bentley close to the curb.

Turns off the engine. The music stops.

Stays there. His hands fall from the steering wheel to his lap.

The silence of the car, once his refuge, is no longer comfortable. It is the silence of a doctor's office waiting room before a bad diagnosis.

He looks through the tinted window at the house.

Balloons.

Dozens of them. Lilac, yellow, and golden. Tied to the railings, to the doorknobs, floating under the marquee and swaying gently in the afternoon wind.

"Of course," he murmurs, releasing his seatbelt. "Balloons. Why would there be dignity without balloons?"

He reaches to the passenger seat and grabs the hobby horse by its wooden neck. Grabs the glitter backpack — which has already left a sparkling trail on the immaculate leather of the seat — and opens the car door.

He exits the vehicle. The late afternoon air is light, surprisingly fresh, laden with something sweet. Confectioner's sugar, perhaps. Or vanilla. Or the pure childish expectation that permeates birthday parties.

He closes the heavy door of the Bentley with a push of his hip, adjusts the polyester vest that stubbornly rides up his abdomen, and takes the first step toward the garden's stone path.

And then, he stops.

His eyes narrow. His posture relaxes.

The lanterns.

They are hanging from every branch of the large oak tree in the front garden. Dozens of yellow and orange paper lanterns, swaying like small artificial stars caught on invisible threads, reflecting the light of the setting sun. It is an almost magical sight, something that rips the peaceful street from its suburban reality and transports it into a book page.

And the banner.

Fastened above the porch, a huge canvas banner extends, reading: "The Best Day Ever! Happy Birthday, Hyacinth!"

It was not printed at a cheap print shop. It was hand-painted. The letters are not millimetrically perfect like those from a computer font; they have free calligraphy, filled with golden floral spirals and small constellations scattered along the edges. They have life.

Rhys observes for a second longer than he should, the cynical lawyer being briefly silenced by something pure.

Something tightens in his chest — fast, unexpected, a ghost of nostalgia for a childhood he did not have time to enjoy.

He blinks, shakes his head and ignores the feeling. Locks his heart again behind the bars of irony.

He moves forward.

Every step he takes toward the house makes the glitter from the damned "Flynn" bag fall behind him, shining on the concrete like an absurd trail left by a confused goblin.

"Perfect," he murmurs, looking over his shoulder at the sparkling ground. "Physical evidence of my mistake. If they commit a crime here, I will be arrested in five minutes."

He reaches the porch steps and, suddenly, the world around him ceases to be just a children's party.

The white clapboard walls of the house were partially covered with giant fabric panels, painted to simulate the base of a stone tower embraced by flowering vines. And, extending across almost the entire width of the porch, there is a mural depicting a sunset over a waterside kingdom.

Colors. Light. Shadow.

A sunset that should not exist there, on a cloudy afternoon in Velaris, but does — vibrant, deep, with layers of purple, orange, and gold that betray an extremely skillful hand.

He stops again, the hobby horse hanging uselessly at his side.

His analytical gaze sweeps over every detail of the painting. He collects art. He knows how to distinguish a cheap decoration piece from something that carries a soul. He sees the crossed brushstrokes, the clever use of perspective to give depth to the castle painted in the distance, the way the light of the painting seems to emit real heat.

That is not a child's craft project, nor an amateur attempt.

There is intention there. Impeccable technique. Emotion contained in pigment and oil.

He frowns slightly, tilting his head. The lawyer gives way to the admirer.

"Interesting."

For a long and silent second, everything else disappears.

The embarrassment dissolves. The prickling fabric on his skin is forgotten. There is no costume, there is no horse, there is no shadow of Cassian's mockery hovering over his head.

There is only that.

Art that does not try to impress a museum curatorship — art that exists solely to make a five-year-old child smile. There is something brutally beautiful in this surrender.

He only snaps out of the trance when he hears a child's shrill scream coming from inside the house, followed by the sound of something plastic hitting against wood.

Chaos calls him back to reality.

The glitter slides down his shoulder and falls onto the welcome mat (which reads "Only good vibes and clean shoes").

He ignores it.

He adjusts the suede vest one last time, puffing out his chest. He assumes the posture he uses when the judge says "You may be seated". The unshakable posture of Rhysand.

He takes a deep breath, the air smelling of frosting and fresh paint.

"It is just a courtroom," he murmurs to himself, tightening his fingers around Maximus. "Different, smaller, noisier, but just another courtroom. And I never lose."

He raises his hand and rings the doorbell.

A musical sound, similar to wind chimes, echoes inside.

Immediately, a confusion of sounds erupts.

Footsteps. Heavy, fast, dragged.

Someone shouts something intelligible.

Something metallic falls to the floor with a clatter that sounds exactly like a baking pan full of muffins rolling down the stairs.

A female voice, exasperated and very distant, yells:

"For Please, do not touch that,! The frosting is still soft!"

Another sound of quick footsteps. A grumble.

Silence.

The brass doorknob turns.

The door opens with a sharp pull, revealing the feverish twilight of the house's hallway.

And suddenly, Rhysand's world tilts on its own axis. The laws of gravity seem to fail for a millisecond.

She is there.

It is not a teenage babysitter with a recreation company badge. It is not a frowning aunt.

She is a woman who looks like the very incarnation of the art he was admiring outside. Her golden-blonde hair is tied in a long and thick fake braid — ridiculously long, the kind that drags on the floor —, intertwined with real small daisy flowers and tiny strands of LED lights that blink softly amidst the blonde chaos. Several of her real strands have escaped, sticking to her sweaty forehead and falling over her pale neck.

She wears a purple dress with a braided bodice that rivals his outfit in tackiness, but somehow, on her, it looks like the haute couture of a forgotten kingdom.

She has a bright turquoise paint smudge right on the tip of her nose.

Another smaller smudge, vibrant pink, on the wrist holding a vanilla-stained frosting spatula.

Her breath is short, a little accelerated, her chest rising and falling against the tight fabric of the bodice.

And then, her eyes stop on him. And stay.

Rhysand, the man who has a sarcastic and quick answer for everything, the man whose smooth talk costs a thousand dollars an hour, simply cannot move. His legal brain collapses.

For a whole second — a second too short to be comfortable and too long to be politely ignored —, something electric and heavy passes between them. A current of invisible static in the air.

Her eyes — of a stunning shade of blue-gray, like a summer storm over the sea — widen slightly.

She looks at the hobby horse in his hand.

The frosting spatula trembles slightly in her paint-stained fingers.

The gaze descends to the puffy pants. Rises to the synthetic suede vest that threatens to burst at his shoulders. Slides up the white shirt, until it stops on his face. On the sculpted jaw, on the mouth slightly parted in confusion, and finally... meets Rhys's dark violet eyes.

They stare at each other. The silence on the threshold of the door is deafening, contrasting with the noise boiling inside the house.

Her eyes are a storm trying to comprehend a riddle.

And something fundamental in Rhysand's universe simply changes place. It is almost imperceptible, like the change in pressure before a torrential rain, but it is there.

"You…" she begins, her voice slightly breathless, melodious even in exhaustion.

The word gets lost in the air. She seems so stunned by his image — the paradox of the handsome man dressed in such an absurdly ridiculous way — that her brain also seems to fail.

Her verbal interruption is the anchor Rhys needed to return to the surface. His survival instinct takes control. He cannot look like an idiot drooling on a client's porch.

He straightens his shoulders. Activates the mask of smooth arrogance and dangerous charm he has used for years as a shield. The voice comes out perfect, velvety, without a single trace of hesitation.

"I am Flynn."

The hobby horse bobs pathetically beside him. Wooden traitor.

"I came for the tower," he completes, trying his best not to look at the adorable paint smudge on her nose.

Silence.

One second.

Two.

Feyre Archeron, the artist, the single mother who is on the verge of a nervous breakdown, the woman dressed as Rapunzel, blinks slowly.

And then—

She laughs.

It is not a delicate or polite laugh. It is not the contained laughter of the socialites he usually dines with in Velaris.

It is a short, unexpected, loose, and slightly chaotic laugh. It comes from her throat like something that escaped its cage, as if she herself had not planned to be amused by that. She brings her left hand (the one without the spatula) to her mouth, trying uselessly to contain the sound, but she fails gracefully.

The blue-gray eyes shine with tears of contained humor. The tiny LED lights in the gigantic braid seem to blink in synchrony with her smile.

Rhys does not know what to do with this. His world loses its coordinates. He is accustomed to cold and calculated reactions. Accustomed to dealing with clients who measure words before dropping them like stones on a chessboard. And she measures nothing. She just reacts. With her whole body. With her soul.

And this…disarms him completely for half a second. Enough time for him to realize that, suddenly, he does not care so much about the humiliation. Enough time to adjust his armor and smile back. A crooked, almost honest smile.

"I imagine the tower is…" Rhys stretches his neck and looks over her shoulder, into the house, as if he expected to see a medieval structure of stone and mortar sprouting in the middle of the living room, "...available for rescues?"

She gradually stops laughing, but the smile still dances at the corners of her mouth. She lowers her hand, tilts her head and observes him.

Evaluating. Analyzing.

Like a painter measuring the light on a blank canvas. And, beneath all the paint and the sparkling dress, there is something very sharp and intelligent in the way she reads him.

"It depends," she replies, her voice now loaded with a playful challenge that ignites a spark in Rhys's competitive mind.

"On?" he fires back, crossing his free arm over his puffy chest, feigning casualness.

"On you surviving the entrance. There are hordes of five-year-old barbarians in there armed with water balloons."

Before Rhys can formulate a response to match the flirtation disguised as a threat, a shrill and euphoric scream tears through the interior of the house, echoing down the wooden hallway.

"HE IS HERE?! FLYNN IS HERE?!"

The sound of running footsteps — and not normal footsteps, but the thundering march of plastic shoes hitting the floor — approaches rapidly. Many footsteps.

Rhys stares at the woman in front of him, his violet eyes widening in a flash of genuine panic. He hears the noise of a plastic frying pan dragging on the floor.

"Dramatic entrance," he murmurs, swallowing hard and gripping Maximus's handle tighter. "Just like in my profession."

She smiles sideways, and it is the most lethal smile he has ever seen in his life. She takes a step to the side, opening the door entirely and pointing to the colorful chaos inside.

"Good luck, Flynn. You are going to need it."

The sound of the plastic shoes hitting against the wooden floor approached like an avalanche, but, before the horde of five-year-old barbarians could reach the door, a massive figure blocked the hallway.

Rhysand knew that silhouette. He knew the broad shoulders that blocked the light of the hallway and, unfortunately, he knew very well the sound of what came next.

A burst of laughter.

Not a contained laugh, but a volcanic, thunderous sound that made the walls of the white clapboard house vibrate. Cassian was in the middle of the hallway, his head thrown back, laughing so hard that his face was already turning red.

"Oh, man, I thought the picture was good, but live…" Cassian tried to speak, pointing at Rhys with his free hand, while wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. "The horse! He brought the damn horse!"

Nestled in the giant man's other arm, as if he were an extremely comfortable human sofa, was a little girl. She had blonde hair, tied in two messy braids, and big green eyes that observed Rhys with a fierce curiosity. She wore a shiny green costume with hand-drawn scales — an adorable and confusing Pascal chameleon.

Behind Cassian, emerging with the lethal grace of a queen walking through a battlefield, was Nesta Archeron. She wore an impeccable tailored suit in a shade of lead-gray, which screamed "I can destroy you in two sentences".

Nesta stopped next to Cassian. Her sharp eyes swept Rhys from top to bottom. Her expression did not change, but the slight raise of her eyebrow was a much more devastating blow than her boyfriend's laughter.

"Well," said Nesta, her voice cold and calculated. "I see you found your adequate level of dignity, Rhysand."

Rhysand gripped the wooden handle of the hobby horse.

"I am going to fire you from your own relationship with him, Nesta. It is a contractual promise."

The woman next to Rhys — the woman covered in paint and frosting — crossed her arms and looked from Cassian to Rhysand.

"You know each other?" she asked, her melodious voice sounding genuinely confused.

Rhys's brain took two steps back and, finally, made the obvious mathematical connection.

Nesta's house. The niece's party. The useless boyfriend. The stressed single mother.

Rhys's violet eyes widened slightly as he turned to her.

"Feyre…" he whispered the name, not as a question, but as a realization that the universe had a very cruel and, at the same time, very generous sense of humor.

She was the mother. The artist that Cassian had mentioned. The woman he expected to be a housewife on the verge of a nervous breakdown, but who was in fact the most intriguing woman he had laid eyes on that day.

"The very one," confirmed Cassian, still trying to catch his breath. He adjusted the little girl in his lap. "Feyre, this is my boss and supposed best friend. Rhysand, the terror of the courts, today in the suede version. Rhys, this is little Hyacinth."

The little girl with green eyes tilted her head to the side.

"You have Flynn's face," decreed Hyacinth, with her high-pitched voice full of authority. "But the real Flynn is not so clean. Aunt Nesta said so."

Rhys blinked, caught by surprise by the brutal evaluation of a five-year-old child.

"I promise to get dirty in the grass later, Your Highness," he replied, offering a half-bow that made the plastic sword on his belt hit his own thigh.

Hyacinth giggled, hiding her face in Cassian's shoulder.

It was then that Nesta raised her hand, holding a cell phone with a paint-splattered case.

"Feyre, your phone beeped on the kitchen counter," said the older sister, her tone of voice losing a bit of its acidity and gaining a trace of caution.

Feyre froze.

"Who is it? Is it the bounce house guy? Tell me he is turning the corner."

"No," Nesta looked at the screen. "It is from Dreams & Dust. The agency."

A tense silence descended upon the hallway, muffling even Cassian's sporadic bursts of laughter. Rhysand, instinctively, took a step closer to Feyre, as if he could protect her from bad news with his tight vest.

"Can you read it?" asked Feyre, her voice a thread of tension.

"'Dear Ms. Archeron,'" read Nesta, expressionless. "'We regret to inform you that the entertainer scheduled for the role of Rapunzel had severe food poisoning after lunch and will not be able to attend. We have already issued a full refund for the princess amount. We apologize for the inconvenience.'"

The frosting spatula slipped from Feyre's hand and fell to the floor with a dull thud, spreading vanilla frosting on the clean rug.

She did not scream. She did not cry. She merely closed her blue-gray eyes, and Rhys saw the exact definition of defeat cover her shoulders. She had put on that ridiculous purple dress and the braid full of little lights earlier just to calm Hyacinth down when the first Flynn actor had canceled. It was a mom joke, a quick fix. But now...

Now there was no official princess.

"No Rapunzel," Feyre whispered, her voice choked. "It is the only thing she asked for the entire year. Flynn and Rapunzel together."

Hyacinth, who was absorbing Nesta's words from high up in Cassian's lap, widened her green eyes. The girl's lips began to tremble. That universal little pout that precedes a category five storm of tears.

"Mommy..." the girl's high-pitched voice broke. "Is Rapunzel not coming to my tower?"

Feyre opened her eyes, maternal panic replacing exhaustion. She tried to force a smile, but she looked like she was about to collapse in the middle of her own living room.

Before Feyre could invent a lame excuse, Hyacinth pointed a small, chubby finger directly at her mother's purple dress.

"But... you are dressed as Rapunzel, Mommy!" the girl's green eyes lit up, and the crying was immediately canceled. She stretched out in Cassian's lap. "You already have the huge braid and the little flowers! Can you be my Rapunzel?"

Feyre swallowed hard, looking at her own clothes.

"My love, Mommy needs to serve the cake, organize the games, take care of the other kids... I am not an actress."

"Please!" Hyacinth pressed her little hands together. "Flynn is already here! He needs you to show him where the kingdom is!"

Feyre looked at Cassian for help, but the big guy just shrugged. She looked at Nesta, who looked away (which, for Nesta, was the equivalent of saying "figure it out").

Finally, Feyre's gaze crossed with Rhys's.

There was a silent plea there. A "please, do not laugh at me".

Rhysand, the man who never missed an opportunity to use leverage in a negotiation, looked at the woman who seemed to carry the weight of the world in a two-meter fake braid. He saw the fear of disappointing her daughter. He saw the purple dress. He saw the paint on her nose.

He dropped the glitter backpack on the floor.

With a quick and fluid movement, Rhysand took a step forward, spun the hobby horse in his hand as if it were a real sword, and bowed in an exaggerated, theatrical, and perfectly calculated reverence directly to Feyre.

When he lifted his face, his violet eyes locked onto hers. And, for the first time that day, Rhysand did not try to be a lawyer. He let the character take over.

He tilted his head slightly. He narrowed his eyes in an intense, charming, and dangerously focused gaze. He thrust out his lower lip in a sideways smile that Cassian had begged all day to see.

The famous smolder. And, gods, this time it did not look like stomach cramps. It looked lethal.

"The little majesty is right," said Rhys, his voice hoarse, reverberating in the hallway and making Feyre blink twice. "I crossed miles fleeing the royal guard, faced terrible traffic, and escaped an interrogation by my horse. I would not partner up with just any princess."

Rhys extended his hand to her.

"So, Rapunzel... do you have a frying pan to threaten me with, or are we going to start this party?" he remembered seeing the scene of Rapunzel hitting poor Flynn on the head with the frying pan and checking his teeth before entering, on his cell phone.

Silence reigned for two seconds. Cassian's jaw had dropped. Hyacinth gave a little squeal of joy, clapping her hands in her honorary uncle's lap.

Feyre looked at his extended hand. An arrogant lawyer in a three-thousand-dollar suit, wearing cheap suede, offering her a lifeline in the middle of her personal shipwreck.

The smile that crossed Feyre Archeron's lips was so bright that Rhys almost forgot where he was.

She lifted her chin, reached into the pocket of the apron she still wore over the purple dress, and pulled out a hot pink plastic spatula, pointing it directly at Rhysand's nose.

"It is not a frying pan," she warned, her eyes sparking with a sudden complicity. "But if you try to steal the sweets from the table before it is time to sing happy birthday, I guarantee it hurts just the same."

Rhysand smiled, and for the first time on that bizarre day, he realized that Cassian was absolutely right to make him lose that bet. 

"You sing? Uncle Cass said you sing." Hyacinth smiled, and then Rhysand remembered that he still wanted to kill Cassian. 

. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁.

"What am I doing with my life?"

He thinks she must be asking herself in her thoughts, or at the very least, that is exactly what the desperate, wide-eyed look screams while her short breaths bounce against the cold marble countertop. Chaos shatters the muffled background music—small feet running like heavy cavalry over the wooden floor, while fingers sticky with icing try, unsuccessfully, to anchor a strand of the gargantuan fake braid back to the scalp. Cassian and her sister have already retreated to the living room, cowards in their military essence, abandoning the front line. The pressure cooker about to explode goes by the name of twenty five-year-olds.

He tightens his grip on the wooden handle of the hobbyhorse. The texture is rough. The synthetic vest prickles the back of his neck.

"I need to be honest," he says, his baritone voice vibrating low, breaking the locked silence of the kitchen. "My knowledge of Tangled lore is summarized in a five-minute briefing that Cassian shouted at me while I was trying to park the Bentley. I know there is a tower, a chameleon, a frying pan, and that I am a thief misunderstood by the judicial system. Is that enough for the jury?"

Feyre lets out a breathless laugh. The sound scrapes her throat, almost hysterical, and she releases the LED braid, letting the heavy mass of artificial strands fall over the shoulder of her purple dress.

"The jury is five years old, Flynn. They smell fear and feed on it." She swallows hard, leaning both hands on the edge of the sink. "Try to be charming. Cocky. That should be easy for a lawyer, right?"

Rhysand tilts his body minimally backward, maintaining a safe and clinical distance. No flirting. No loss of focus. Just the cold assessment of a survival partnership. That was what he should resort to here, even if Nesta's sister was beautiful.

"I usually charge a thousand dollars an hour to be charming. You are getting a bargain today."

She only nods, her tense shoulders sagging. She grabs a neon plastic frying pan from the table and pushes through the swinging kitchen door.

The garden is a war zone bathed in the golden light of the afternoon. The air smells of crushed grass, sugar, and anarchy. As soon as the two step onto the lawn under the imposing tree covered in hand-painted paper lanterns, the attention of two dozen miniature predators turns toward them.

Feyre tries to take the lead. She puffs out her chest, raises the toy frying pan, and flashes a smile that is more of a panicked grimace.

"Children!" Her voice comes out shrill, forced, the tone of a mother who is far too used to giving orders and terrible at acting. "Look! The tower intruder has arrived! Flynn Rider!"

Absolute silence. A little girl with a face dirty with chocolate blinks slowly. A boy dressed in cardboard armor throws a water balloon onto the grass, which bursts and soaks the hem of Feyre’s purple dress. She flinches her feet back.

"Come on, everyone!" Feyre tries again, gesturing with a pastry spatula in one hand and the frying pan in the other, tripping over her own braid. "He came to steal the crown! What do we do?"

"I want to go on the bouncy house!" screams the boy in armor, turning his back.

In seconds, the group threatens to disperse. Feyre freezes, humiliation reddening her cheeks. She is a brilliant artist, the mural on the porch proves that, but as a children's entertainer, she is an absolute disaster. She lacks the expansive charisma; she has the pure exhaustion of someone who slept three hours the night before. The desperation in her eyes is almost palpable.

Rhysand assesses the scene. He analyzes hostile juries in court every week. He knows how to read a room, knows how to identify the key witness, and knows exactly how to capture the attention of an audience that wants to be anywhere else.

He tosses Maximus, the hobbyhorse, toward a planter. He adjusts his vest.

"Hit me with the frying pan," he whispers, stopping behind her shoulder.

Feyre freezes. "What?"

"The movie. The tower scene. Just hit me with the pan and tie me up. Follow the script. That was the only scene I saw, and it seemed interesting."

Before she can process the command, Rhysand takes three long strides toward the center of the garden, directly into the open space on the porch covered by fabrics painted like a tower. He turns his back to the crowd of children, drops the glitter backpack on the floor with a dramatic thud, and places his hands on his hips, looking up at the porch ceiling as if he were exhausted.

"Finally!" His voice echoes, projected perfectly, vibrant and full of theatrical weariness. "Alone. The coast is clear."

The boy in cardboard armor stops walking. Three other children turn their heads.

Rhysand turns slowly. Feyre is still standing on the lawn, the frying pan trembling in her hand. He widens his violet eyes at her and makes an imperceptible movement with his chin. Come.

Feyre swallows hard. She creeps up the side of the steps, holding the lit-up braid with one hand and the plastic weapon with the other. Rhysand pretends he is inspecting the texture of the wood on the wall, whistling a loose, confident melody, totally ignoring her presence. The entire garden goes silent. Twenty pairs of wide eyes follow the princess approaching the intruder from behind.

Feyre raises the neon frying pan. She hesitates.

Rhys whispers out of the corner of his mouth, "Hit it with conviction."

Feyre brings the pan down. The hollow plastic hits the side of Rhysand’s head with a thunderous WHACK! sound.

It is a harder impact than he anticipated. A sting of genuine pain blooms in his skull, but he masters the physical reaction. Rhysand spins on his heels, his eyes crossing comically, his hands groping the air as if trying to hold onto something invisible. He lets out an exaggerated groan, his knees buckle, and he collapses onto the porch floor like a sack of cement, his body sprawled and inert.

The children explode. High-pitched screams of shock and euphoric laughter tear through the garden. The boy in armor claps so hard the cardboard crumples.

"Tie him up!" screams a little girl. "The hair!"

Feyre blinks, realizing the audience's total attention has returned. The shock on her face gives way to fierce concentration. She drags a small wicker chair to the center of the porch. Rhysand, keeping his eyes closed and his breath heavy with fake unconsciousness, allows her to drag him by the armpits—the puffy fabric of his shirt nearly tearing—and position him in the chair.

He feels the thick, heavy, and slightly rough mass of the fake LED braid being wound tightly around his chest, arms, and the back of the chair. She ties a tight blind knot.

Rhysand moves his head, grunting, and opens his eyes slowly. He blinks, faking confusion, shaking his head.

"W... what..." he murmurs, trying to move and discovering that, ironically, she made a very efficient knot. He lifts his face.

Feyre is standing before him. The posture of defeat is gone. She holds the frying pan raised over her shoulder, her face bathed in the light of the garden’s own lanterns.

"Who are you, and how did you find me?" she demands, her voice finally finding the right tone of frightened authority.

"I know why you're doing this," Rhysand responds, forcing his voice to sound husky and dangerous. He does the *smolder*. The squinted gaze, the pressed lips, the rigid jaw. Not to seduce her, but to maintain the integrity of the scene for the pack of beasts around them.

"Oh, do you?" she retorts, circling the chair.

"I do. You want my hair." He throws his head back. "I'm sorry, but that isn't in the contract."

The children cackle.

"I don't want your hair!" Feyre points the frying pan at his nose. "You came to steal my magic!"

"I came fleeing from a police horse that does not respect due process!" Rhys shoots back.

An abrupt movement breaks the circle of children. Irregular steps cross the grass and climb the wooden steps.

It is Hyacinth. The little birthday girl is wearing a bright green one-piece outfit with painted scales and a hood with chameleon eyes. She stops right in front of Rhysand, her large green eyes overflowing with pure concern.

Rhysand lowers his gaze. The green costume rises slightly above her left ankle. In place of a human leg, there is an incredibly well-designed pediatric prosthesis. The carbon fiber and titanium structure is not hidden; on the contrary, it is proudly exposed. The material was painted a vibrant shade of violet, and dozens of small golden suns and flowers—the same symbols from Tangled—were hand-drawn around the socket, with a level of detail only her mother could have achieved.

Rhysand’s eyes register the mechanical information, process the impeccable aesthetics, and return to the girl’s face without a single millisecond of hesitation or change in expression. No pity. No startle. It is just a fact.

"Did you really hurt your head, Flynn-man?" Hyacinth asks, her sweet, high voice breaking the script. She reaches out her tiny fingers, touching the sleeve of his shirt with extreme caution.

Rhysand softens his theatrical expression, relaxing his shoulders against the tied chair.

"My head is very hard, Your Majesty," he replies, his tone level and casual, treating her with the same seriousness he would afford a judge. "And I deserved it. Trespassing on private property without a search warrant usually ends in assaults with kitchen utensils."

Hyacinth doesn't understand half the words, but she gives a little giggle, covering her mouth with both small hands.

"Mommy is strong."

"Abnormally so," he agrees. "Now, if you could ask the princess to loosen this knot, I would be grateful. My arms are losing circulation."

Feyre undoes the loop of fake hair, her fingers brushing against the suede vest. Rhysand stands up, shakes out his arms, and walks to the large cushions tossed on the lawn, pulling the glitter backpack with him.

"Sit down," he orders. It is not a request. It is the imposition of a courtroom predator. The children, surprisingly, obey en masse, dropping onto the cushions. Hyacinth sits right in front of him, hugging her own knees, her prosthetic leg resting on the grass.

"Tell the story!" demands the boy in armor.

Rhysand crosses his legs on the ground, ignoring how absurd he must look. Feyre remains standing by the tree, arms crossed, her breathing finally stabilized, watching the scene like someone watching a miracle performed by a stranger.

"Alright. The story." Rhysand clears his throat, adopting a deep storyteller’s tone. "Once upon a time, there was an old woman named Gothel. She found a magic flower that glowed, and instead of patenting the intellectual property and starting a lucrative pharmaceutical company, she decided to hide the flower in the brush and monopolize the anti-aging effects for herself. Pure commercial infringement, but the ethics committee wasn't there to judge."

Hyacinth wrinkles her nose, shaking her head violently. "No! It wasn't! She sang to the flower to stay young!"

"Exactly," Rhysand points to the girl. "She sang. Without paying royalties. Regardless, the queen got sick, they confiscated the flower through state expropriation, and the princess was born with glowing hair. Gothel, offended by the loss of the asset, committed the crime of kidnapping and false imprisonment for eighteen years."

"Rapunzel wanted to see the floating lights!" Hyacinth interrupts again, crawling until she is next to Rhysand, tapping her small hand on his knee to get attention. "On her birthday! And you stole the crown from the castle!"

"I wouldn't call it stealing. It was a relocation of assets without prior authorization," Rhys corrects calmly, adjusting his puffy collar. "And then the royal guard horse, Maximus, initiated a pursuit outside of his jurisdiction..."

"Maximus bit your boot!" Hyacinth laughs out loud, leaning against Rhysand’s shoulder, completely enchanted by his crooked narrative.

He lets her take over. For the next twenty minutes, Rhysand functions as the cynical co-narrator to a five-year-old girl who knows every line of dialogue from the movie. Every time he injects bureaucratic jargon or describes the bar thugs as "victims of the system in need of legal representation," Hyacinth laughs and corrects him with relentless sweetness. Rhysand doesn't look at Feyre. He doesn't need to. The focus is strictly on keeping the children entertained and the integrity of his skull intact.

When the story finally reaches its climax, the wild energy of the group has been drained into silent attention.

"Lantern workshop!" Feyre announces, taking advantage of the calm mood. She points to the large wooden tables set up under the tree, covered with protective plastic, jars of washable paint, thick brushes, and dozens of small, blank yellow paper lanterns.

The stampede to the tables is orderly.

Rhysand sighs, gets up from the floor, and brushes invisible dust from his pants. He walks to the farthest table, stopping next to a little boy who immediately dips his brush into the blue jar and threatens to smear it on his own face.

"Statistically, blue paint has the worst flavor," Rhys murmurs, holding the boy's wrist firmly, redirecting the brush to the lantern paper. "Try here. It will yield a better painting."

On the other side of the tables, Feyre works. Her posture has completely changed. Away from the obligation of being a loud actress, she returns to her natural element. She glides among the children with the same precise grace of someone wielding a sword, but her weapons are paint jars and damp cloths. She holds small hands, guiding shaky brushstrokes, teaching how to mix red and yellow to create fire. She wipes dirty noses and calms fights over brushes without raising her voice a single time.

Rhysand observes Feyre’s tactical operation to try and plagiarize it, and dips his hand into the yellow paint jar upon noticing that the little boy next to him spilled everything on the table, staining the sleeves of his white shirt. He doesn't flinch. If getting dirty is part of the verbal contract he signed in his mind when he entered the gates, he will fulfill it to the last clause because he doesn't want Cassian bothering him.

And then the glass back door of the house slides along the metal track with a soft sound, cutting through the concentrated murmur of the children. The golden late-afternoon light hits her directly. A young woman appears on the porch like the personification of a spring fairy untouched by battle. She wears a light floral dress, her brown hair impeccably loose. But it is not she who attracts the stunned silence of two dozen children. It is what she carries with both hands.

The structure rests on a wide silver tray. The cake is not just food as it should be and was to him; it is civil engineering bathed in sugar. A cylindrical tower rises in three massive tiers, sculpted in fondant to mimic stones weathered by time. Tiny flowers, hand-sculpted in sugar paste with an absurd level of realism, spiral up the base. The roof is covered with dark chocolate tiles, and, hanging from one of the tiny royal icing windows, there is a rope ladder made entirely of braided caramel strands, shining like glass under the setting sun.

"The cake is here!" The voice of the woman holding it is melodious, sweet, and devoid of Nesta's natural acidity or Feyre's contained panic.

The effect is instant. Brushes are dropped onto the plastic. Chairs drag across the grass. Twenty children stand up in unison, faces stained with paint and eyes wide, marching in a trance toward the main table in the center of the garden.

Rhysand releases the little boy’s hand and uses a damp cloth forgotten on the table to clean his own fingers. He adjusts his stained synthetic vest, deeply breathes in the nauseating aroma of burnt sugar and vanilla that the cake carries, and considers the mission nearly over. Feyre walks from the other end of the table, stopping beside him. She no longer has the frying pan. Her chest rises and falls in a regular rhythm. She looks at Hyacinth, with her green eyes shining in wonder at the perfect cake while the woman lights a sparkler candle at the top of the tower.

She tilts her head minimally in his direction, her light-filled braid trembling.

"The 'Smolder' finally worked, Flynn."

The children’s chorus begins, a shrill and out-of-sync cacophony. Hands clap in a broken rhythm. Happy birthday to you... The candle releases a fountain of silver sparks, illuminating the faces around the table.

Rhysand takes a deep breath, ready to step back half a pace and let the family enjoy the climax of the event. He fulfilled his role. The contract is over.

But the air doesn't reach his lungs.

An absurd and sudden pressure blooms in the side of his skull, exactly at the spot where the hollow plastic of the frying pan collided with his temple twenty minutes ago. He blinks, but his eyelids feel like they are made of lead. The sunset-bathed garden suddenly seems submerged in muddy water. The edges of his vision darken in a heartbeat, the gold being violently swallowed by a gray and static fog.

The sound of the singing distorts. The children’s voices turn into a low, continuous, and deafening hum, like a failing airplane engine. He tries to take a step back, to focus on stabilizing his posture, but the lawn under his boots seems to melt.

He tries to focus on the woman in the purple dress a few meters away, but the colors bleed into one another. The world spins on a violent axis. Gravity pulls him by the shoulders, relentless.

The last thing Rhysand registers is not the sharp pain throbbing in the bone, but the pure and revolting indignation that his body—molded by years of relentless discipline—is simply shutting down in the middle of a children's party.

And then, the impact of the ground. And absolute blackness.

The smell of vanilla and burnt sugar evaporates, replaced by the aggressive acidity of antiseptic alcohol and iodine.

A beep. Rhythmic. Annoying. Hollow.

The light is no longer the golden softness of late afternoon; it is a sterile, chemical, and blinding white that pierces his retinas even before he can open his eyes. Rhysand tries to move his right hand, but a cold tug on the back of it makes him stop. An IV access.

He draws in air, and the breath itself makes his head throb in time with his heart.

"Don't try to get up, you idiot."

The voice is gravelly, laden with a thick relief that tries to disguise itself as irritation. Rhysand opens his eyes slowly. The fluorescent light from the ceiling blinds him for an agonizing second, until the massive silhouette blocks the glare.

Cassian has his arms crossed, leaning against the metal rail of the gurney. The environment is a standard emergency bay: faded blue curtains, the constant hum of the air conditioning, white tile walls that reflect the desperation of those passing through.

Rhysand swallows hard. His throat feels lined with crushed glass.

"Where is the jury?" is the first thing his clouded mind can formulate. His voice comes out raspy, a weak whisper that wounds his pride.

Cassian lets out a heavy sigh, rubbing his face with both large hands, dissipating the general's posture.

"The jury is eating caramel cake at Nesta’s house," Cassian replies, lowering his arms and leaning over the gurney. His dark eyes search his friend's face with a rare seriousness. "You blacked out, Rhys. Fell flat on the lawn like a felled tree. Exactly at the moment the girl blew out the candle. It was the most dramatic fall I’ve ever seen, and I’ve known you for almost twenty years."

The memory hits Rhysand’s skull, bringing the pain along with the images. The garden. The music. The force of the frying pan impact.

He brings his free hand to the side of his head. His fingers touch a square, thick bandage, and the skin around it pulses with a dull, feverish sting.

"What happened?"

"Mild traumatic brain injury. A concussion," Cassian informs, his tone losing any trace of joking. "Apparently, the neon frying pan Feyre grabbed wasn't entirely plastic. It had a heavy metal disk in the internal base for 'realistic weight,' some fifth-rate imported toy. She hit you exactly at a tensional point. That, mixed with the fact that you live on black coffee, didn't sleep yesterday, and were overheating in that synthetic costume... the system collapsed."

Rhysand closes his eyes. Humiliation slides down his spine like freezing water. The senior partner of one of the largest law firms in Velaris, taken down by a toy kitchen utensil in a suburb.

"Tell me there are no video records. No one filmed it."

Cassian lets out a short laugh, the sound scratching his throat.

"No one filmed your fall. But Hyacinth thought it was part of the show. She thinks you spent all your thief magic to light the cake candle. To her, you're the greatest hero of the century."

Rhysand opens his eyes, focusing on his own chest. He is still wearing the puffy shirt, though now it is unbuttoned to his abdomen, exposing the cold ECG stickers stuck to his skin. The vest is gone. So is the dignity.

"Are you okay, brother?" Cassian’s question drops in tone, stripped of any sarcasm, raw and direct.

"I am lying on an emergency gurney dressed like a failed theater extra," Rhys murmurs, staring at the ceiling stained with water damage. "I was knocked out by a woman with a seven-foot fake braid. Physically, my brain is still inside my skull. But my pride has signed its own death certificate."

Cassian gives the mattress a light slap, a crooked smile, almost cruel in its amusement, breaking the tension in his face.

"I’ll save the condolences for later," Cassian murmurs, pointing his chin toward the crack in the blue curtain separating the bay from the hallway. "Because Feyre is out there. She came in the ambulance with you. And she looks ready to either commit a murder or cry. And I really don't know which of the two is more dangerous."

And so the bluish plastic curtain creaked on the metal tracks, a harsh sound that made Rhysand’s head throb in protest. Cassian didn't even need to say goodbye; he just retreated into the shadows of the neighboring bay with a silent nod, leaving the space suddenly too small for the figure crossing through the gap.

Feyre was a mess.

The purple Rapunzel dress was crumpled, the hem stained with grass and grape juice splashes. The gargantuan LED braid had been removed, but her hair still carried withered flowers and impossible-to-untangle knots. She still had that turquoise paint smudge on the tip of her nose and traces of dried icing on her wrist. The panic in her eyes was raw, a blue-gray storm that seemed ready to flood the sterile floor of the ER.

She stopped at the foot of the gurney, her hands squeezing the edge of the cheap dress fabric so hard her knuckles were white.

"Did I kill you?" Her voice came out small, unstable, laden with a guilt so dense that Rhys almost felt the physical weight of it on his own chest.

He forced a smile, though the movement made the bandage on his temple tug. He still felt like he was floating, the concussion leaving the world slightly out of focus, but the sight of her there, undone because of him, cut through the fog better than any intravenous medication.

"Technically, I am still processing the data," he murmured, his voice husky. "But since I am seeing a fairy-tale princess in a public hospital, either I died and went to a very confusing place, or your aim is truly worthy of an Olympic medal."

Feyre let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-stifled sob. She took two quick steps to the side of the gurney, the smell of vanilla and fresh paint fighting against the hospital’s ether odor.

"Rhysand, I am so sorry. I am so sorry. I didn't know that piece of junk frying pan had a metal disk inside. I just... the script said to hit, and I was so nervous about the party, about Hyacinth..."

She gestured toward him, to the man lying there with his puffy shirt open, surrounded by heart monitors.

"A lawyer I just turned into a neurological patient. Nesta will hate me forever. I ruined everything. The party, your head, your Saturday."

Rhysand watched her breathing, the way her shoulders trembled under the purple bodice. He couldn't stand the despair. In court, he used others' despair as fuel; here, in the vibrating silence of the emergency room, Feyre’s despair seemed like a glitch in the universe's matrix.

"Hey," he said softly, forcing her to meet his eyes. "Hyacinth thinks I’m a hero who lights candles with impact magic. The kids had the best show of the decade. And me? I got a fantastic story to tell in partner meetings when they want to annoy me."

"You are being too kind," she whispered, her voice cracking. "And I hit your head with metal."

Rhys let out a short sigh, humor returning to shine in his violet eyes despite the throbbing pain. He decided it was time to break that tension before she collapsed right there.

"Alright, you caught me. I'm not kind. I am a businessman, Feyre. And since you caused considerable physical damage to my primary asset"—he pointed to his own head—"I demand extrajudicial compensation."

Feyre blinked, the tears trapped in her lashes hesitating. "Compensation? You want to sue me?"

"Suing would be too much work and I’m too lazy to draft the petition." He gave a lopsided smile, the infamous smolder, now softened by real fatigue. "I think you owe me a dinner. A real dinner where, preferably, there isn't a single kitchen utensil within your reach."

He expected a quick denial. Or a joke back. Maybe a "not in a million years." He tossed the sentence into the air like a sarcastic life jacket, just to ease the weight of her guilt, to give her a humorous way out.

Feyre was silent for a second too long. Her gaze traveled over his face.

"Yes," she said.

Rhysand froze. The beep of the heart monitor next to the gurney gave a sudden jump, accelerating the rhythm.

"What?"

"I accept," Feyre repeated, her voice gaining a firmness he hadn't anticipated. She didn't look away. "I owe you. And I want to go."

The silence that followed was filled only by the muffled hospital sounds.

"I... I was joking, Feyre," he admitted, his voice losing its professional cadence, sounding vulnerable for the first time.

Feyre took a final step, becoming so close he could see the variations of blue in her irises.

"I wasn't," she replied. "It’s my way of apologizing."

The beep of the monitor next to Rhysand was now a rhythmic and rapid line of mechanical betrayal, exposing to the entire ER how much the heart of the most feared lawyer in Velaris was, at that exact moment, out of control. The heart monitor beep was a rhythmic traitor, exposing every inch of the agitation Rhysand tried to mask under the facade of an imperturbable lawyer. The sound was sharp, too fast, echoing in the emergency cubicle like an involuntary confession.

Feyre didn't retreat. She didn't look away, even with her cheeks flushed under the turquoise paint stain.

"You're having tachycardia, Flynn," she observed, a soft and almost imperceptible smile curving her lips. "Should I call the doctor, or is it just the effect of the concussion?"

Rhysand forced his breathing to calm, closing his eyes for a second to try and regain the reins of his own biology.

"It's the effect of an unexpected proposal," he replied, his voice recovering its velvety cadence, although the monitor still gave sporadic jumps. "I'm not usually caught by surprise. I'm generally the one who drafts the clauses."

"Consider this a last-minute amendment," Feyre said, moving away just enough for him to breathe, but not enough to break the electrical connection hanging between them. "You saved me from a nervous breakdown in front of twenty children. Dinner is the least I can do to ensure you don't sue me for brain damage."

The blue curtain was pulled back with unnecessary violence, and a middle-aged nurse with a badge that said Madja entered with a clipboard. She looked at the monitor, then at Rhysand—still dressed in the ruffled shirt with his chest partially exposed—and then at Feyre, who looked like a Disney princess who had survived an explosion in a glitter factory.

"Heart rate is up," the nurse declared, her voice dry and professional. "Any discomfort, Mr. Rhysand? Chest pain? Dizziness?"

Rhysand felt his face heat up, a sensation he hadn't experienced since his first year of law school.

"Just a bit of... external stimulus," he replied, casting a sidelong glance at Feyre.

The nurse arched an eyebrow, noted something on the clipboard, and began checking Rhys’s pupil reflexes with a penlight.

"Well, Dr. Helion reviewed your exams. The concussion is mild, but you need absolute rest for the next forty-eight hours. No screens, no work, and preferably, no strong emotions." She looked significantly at Feyre. "I’ll prepare the discharge papers. Someone has to sign as the responsible party."

"I'll sign," Feyre said promptly.

"I'll sign," Cassian’s voice came from the other side of the curtain, followed by the sound of his muffled laughter.

Fifteen minutes later, Rhysand was being escorted out of the emergency room. He refused to use the wheelchair, insisting on walking, although the world still gave sudden tilts to the left. Cassian followed right behind, carrying the glitter backpack and the hobbyhorse like they were war trophies.

The night air was fresh, the smell of damp asphalt and a night breeze clearing Rhysand’s lungs of the hospital scent. The parking lot was silent, the lampposts creating circles of silver on the ground.

Feyre stopped in front of an old Opala, covered in "Baby on Board" stickers and fingerprints on the windows. She turned to Rhysand, the moonlight softening the tired features of her face.

"Hyacinth is with Elain and Nesta," she said, fumbling with the keys. "They're taking her home. I... I wanted to make sure you were okay before I left."

Rhysand stopped just inches from her. Without the monitor’s beep, he felt safer, although the proximity made his pulse hammer against the bandage on his temple.

"I'll be fine, Feyre."

He felt in his trouser pocket, touching the texture of his brushed-metal business card. He handed it to her.

"My personal number is on the back. Handwritten." He tilted his head, violet eyes fixed on hers. "When you aren't covered in paint and I'm not under neurological observation, call me. You can pick the place. But... no frying pans."

Feyre took the card, her fingers brushing against his for a deliberate second. She looked at the name "Rhysand" embossed in relief and then looked back at him, a spark of defiance and something deeper appearing in her expression.

"I don't promise anything about the paint," she warned, with a smile that made Rhysand’s stomach give a jolt that no doctor could explain. "But I will call."

She got into the car, and Rhysand stood there, wearing his ridiculous prince shirt, watching the Opala's taillights disappear into the night.

"Man," Cassian said, approaching and tapping the hobbyhorse on Rhys's shoulder. "That was the most pathetic and impressive thing I've ever seen in my whole life. You literally used a head injury to get a date."

Rhysand did not look away from the empty road. He felt the throbbing in his head, the humiliation of the costume, and absolute exhaustion. But, above all, he felt the weight of the business card she now carried.

"It was worth every penny of that bet, Cassian. Every penny."

"Wipe that smile off your face, Rhys. You look like a maniac with a concussion," Cassian’s voice cut through the silence of the parking lot, heavy with a protective irritation he rarely showed.

Rhysand didn't even bother looking away from the point where Feyre's Opala's had turned the corner. He still felt the trace of her touch on the palm of his hand, a warmth that contrasted with the metallic cold of the hospital.

"I'm not smiling," Rhys lied, his voice soft, even though the corners of his mouth betrayed him. "I'm just processing the terms of the agreement."

Cassian took a step forward, blocking Rhys's view with his six-foot-three muscular frame, still holding the hobbyhorse like a war club. His gaze was fixed, arms crossed over his chest, the amusement of minutes ago replaced by a territorial seriousness.

"Listen here, 'Flynn'," Cassian began, pointing his free finger at Rhys's chest. "I let the little theater in the garden pass because Hyacinth needed a hero and Feyre needed a miracle. But let's establish a limit here."

Rhys arched an eyebrow, the throbbing in his temple gaining a new rhythm.

"A limit?"

"Yeah. A geographical and familial limit," Cassian growled, though there was a trace of exhaustion in his voice. "Feyre is Nesta's sister. Nesta is the woman I... well, you know. That makes Feyre, technically, my family. My sister-in-law."

Rhysand let out a short sigh, feeling the weight of exhaustion finally take its toll.

"Where are you going with this, Cassian?"

"I'm getting at the fact that you're a shark, Rhys. You devour cases, devour opponents, and devour women for breakfast and forget them before lunch." Cassian stepped closer, his voice dropping to a tone of real warning. "Don't do that to her. Don't start hitting on my sister-in-law like she's just another bar conquest in Velaris. She already has enough problems, a wonderful daughter to raise, and an ex I'd love to run over with my Jeep. She doesn't need a charming lawyer playing house for a week before going back to the penthouse and the Vogue models."

Rhysand stiffened his posture. The concussion fog seemed to evaporate, replaced by a cold and sharp clarity. He looked at his best friend, the man who had been by his side in every trench of life, and saw that Cassian was not joking. It was a warning of loyalty.

"You think I'm that superficial?" Rhys asked, his voice devoid of any humor.

"I think you're doped up on adrenaline and hospital medicine," Cassian countered. "And I think Feyre is beautiful in a way that makes men like you lose your minds. But she is forbidden territory for your games, man. If you want fun, I'll take you to The Red Room tomorrow. But stop hitting on Feyre. Leave her in peace."

Rhysand was silent for a long moment. He thought of the paint smudge on her nose. Of the way she held the frying pan. Of the way she looked at her daughter as if the rest of the world were just background noise. And, especially, the way she said "I wasn't joking" in the emergency bay.

"It's not a game, Cassian," Rhys said, and the sincerity in his voice was so sharp that even Cassian blinked, surprised. "I don't know what it is yet. But it's not a game."

Cassian snorted, shaking his head and tossing the hobbyhorse into the back seat of Rhys's car, which was parked nearby. "That's what all the sharks say before they bite the bait. I'm just warning you: if you break her heart, Nesta kills me. And before she kills me, I kill you. And I won't use a plastic frying pan."

Rhysand gave a tired smile, opening the passenger door. "Fair. But I think you should worry less about me and more about the fact that you're still holding a pink glitter backpack."

Cassian looked at his hand, muttered a low curse, and threw the backpack onto the seat.

"Get in the car, idiot. You need ice and silence. And I need a drink that doesn't taste like juice boxes so I don't think about the stupid thing I did by making you the Tangled guy here."

The ride back to Rhysand's penthouse was filled with a tense silence, broken only by the hum of the tires against the wet asphalt. Cassian drove the Bentley with aggressive caution, as if he were transporting a cargo of nitroglycerin ready to detonate at any bump. Rhys rested his head against the cold glass of the window, closing his eyes. With every heartbeat, a sharp sting reverberated at the site of the impact, reminding him that reality had a metallic and merciless sense of humor.

"I'm serious, Rhys," Cassian murmured, eyes fixed on the road, hands tightening on the leather of the steering wheel. "Feyre... she went through a hell you can't even imagine to get that house and keep Hyacinth smiling. Her ex was the kind of trash that makes you lose faith in humanity. If you enter her life, you can't be like a tourist."

"I heard you the first time, Cassian," Rhys replied, his voice slurred by fatigue, without opening his eyes. "And, for your information, I am not a tourist. I'm the guy who took a frying pan to the temple to save the birthday of a child I didn't even know. I think that gives me a few credit points in your family ethics tribunal."

Cassian snorted, but did not snap back. He knew that Rhysand, despite his reputation for being ruthless, possessed a code of honor that was rarely broken. The problem was that when Rhys was interested in something, he didn't just observe; he besieged.

When they finally arrived at the glass and steel building that housed Rhys's sanctuary, Cassian helped him up the private elevator. The apartment was plunged into twilight, the Velaris horizon shining outside like a diamond necklace thrown over black velvet.

"Ice. Forty-eight hours of rest. And if I find out you opened a case file before Monday, I'll tell the nurse you tried to bribe the heart monitor," Cassian ordered, tossing Rhys's keys onto the marble coffee table.

"Go home, Cassian. Nesta must be missing someone to insult. I'now what I'm stepping into".