XXVII.

H I G H  F I D E L I T Y

—aka, it's tough being out here with a womb

INT— A RESTAURANT.

PARIS, FRANCE — NIGHT.

SCENE II.

Days leading to the event had become noiseless.

The closer we got, the more I felt like a soldier awaiting the war in the throngs of it. Kristoff had become even busier, bringing Archie and KC alongside him.

As much as I grew bored, unable to leave the hotel unless it was planned beforehand in extensive detail by Angelo— who I found out is my new lead guard, tall, big built Italian man who is more nods and pointed stares than he is words, mostly living in my own shadows than my actual face — I didn't press nor let my antsy foot allow myself to indulge whimsy and leave.

With the crazy bitch in town, I'd like to keep my head where it is— visa vi, on my shoulders, thank you very much.

With all the rage she possessed when I mentioned I might be pregnant, you would think she'd be happy, being a first time aunt and all. It was her idea in the first place.

Father to be himself laughed, nearly choking on his steak when I told him at dinner. After the brisk walk in the Louvre, I pivoted to one of my favourite restaurants, just off 1 Rue Perrault. For a day like ours, with Kristoff more than melting with agreement, we needed the good steak and the long wine list.

"Bless you," I said, amused, offering him his napkin. "Try not to die before I give birth, will you?"

His gaze was amused, lips twisted into a smirk. "Wouldn't dare leave the future mother of my children all by herself."

"Children is plural."

He took his wine glass to his lips. "I'm aware."

My eyes narrowed. "I'll have you know the chances of twins in my family are rare, Mr. Park. No one in the last five generations have produced them at least."

He met my gaze over his glass, and I could tell he was making fun of me, smirk dancing between the red and crystal. But it was also his eyes. His demeanour held that hint of teasing, that ease of laughter and looser shoulders, a version of him I quite like, if not surprised by its appearance.

But his gaze was different— this one familiar. It promised whispers in the dark, and my lips felt a ghost of a tingle as I remembered our kiss not long ago.

"Neither does mine."

That set a fire to my blood I hadn't known possible. I knew it was all just banter, a common place of comfort in an otherwise wild ride we'd found ourselves in, and okay, sure, maybe flirting.

Oh, who am I kidding, definitely flirting.

And it was nice. It felt like a reprieve. The last bits of bright clouds before the dark greys brought tumultuous streaks of violet and light.

But I didn't miss the way he looked at me, nor did I miss the strong urge to throw the goddamn towel and tease him long enough where he'd have the urge to pin me against the wall.

For the lack of better words to explain the fire that he set across my skin, to my belly.

Heinous. Alive. A consumption where it swallows me whole.

Kristoff cleared his throat, moving back to his plate. The tension doesn't snap as much as it dissipates, the filled restaurant, the murmur from the streets, coming back in full force.

"However, if anybody else asks, dance around the subject. Don't give them a clear answer."

"About the pregnancy? Do you want them to believe I'm pregnant?"

"I want them to be wary of how they deal with you. You would be a woman possibly carrying my child. Lesser people would think thrice, lest they incur my wrath. Or worse. My grandfather's."

"Huh." I didn't want to feel bitter about it, but I plucked out my own wine glass and drank deep.

His gaze deepened, inquiring. "You're angry."

"I'm not."

"Upset. tell me."

I pursed my lips. "Just. A woman's value really just depends on her womb, isn't it? Either she's for pleasure or for stocking up on children, and both of those you can figure with just her lower half." I smiled darkly, feeling the cool air touch my skin and the coil and twist of my own stomach. It was not hunger that moved, much less the ghost phantom of a child, but the ugliness of my own gender rearing its head to face me.

"In a world where power has to be obtained, hers will always come from what she can do, not by her own merit of smarts or virtue, but what her body can give. The ability of her production. The depths of her stands on that sole fact." I picked up the glass and swallowed half of my glass down my gullet. "This is why I don't want children."

Great, I thought belatedly. The ability of ruining a good evening is one of your many virtues. Very fun at parties.

To his credit, Kristoff listened well to my entire charade until I noticed his smile had twisted into a bitter, almost comedic mirror of my own.

"Neither do I. We may have more in common than you think."

I raised an eyebrow. "You don't want kids either?"

"What is that surprised for?" He raised a hand, quietly asking for the desserts.

I rearranged my utensils in anticipation. I had ordered a choquette drenched in cherry jubilee while he ordered a boring coffee. I told him I was going to teach him how to properly enjoy sweets when I pressed for two spoons, and he had only given me a look.

"From all your talks about wanting heirs and pregnancy, isn't it natural to assume you'd want them?"

"Duty is not want. Desire does not beget duty. Those are the very polar of each other." He leaned back against his seat. "I am not the eldest grandson of the eldest child of my grandfather. That, in my culture, is just as an important advantage as my mother being the favourite child. It is still important to them that she should've been a man. That fact alone will haunt her for the rest of her life, as you say. Of course, this was made worse when she had married a man everyone knew she only married because of the child growing in her womb."

He tilted his head, smile tainted in an ugly fashion that disturbed his naturally handsome face. It looked menacing.

"There is a pity in a daughter that should have been a son. There is none in a woman who bears a bastard. No matter all of her accomplishments, all of the feats she's made and she can still do— a woman who labours a child without a father is nothing more than a whore in the eyes of tradition as old as ours. And my grandfather, with his love for her, would rather kill her and the child than let it ruin everything he had built. That is his sole mercy."

"Very ugly mercy, I must say," I whispered against my glass and he nodded, hand resting on the table. I watch as his forefinger started tapping on the white linen, a hypnotic action contrast to his somber words and devilishly uncomfortable look. A quirk of his I noticed when he got into his head, the reminder of his own burden. Of his primary desires that could bring that darkened look in his gaze, that calculative, cold set of his eyes.

Whenever he was like this, he always looked less than human.

The devil in marble, just as pretty, just as biblical.

I never want to be the trophy that he wants with that gaze. The lack of warmth, the harsh vow that promised to fight tooth and nail including selling his own wife and son if he had to— it was a dark look that I could only interpret came from his own upbringing.

It was obsession, clothed in the hunger of family, pinned by their so called tradition.

"To get what is owed to me," he continued, voice softer, almost detached. "I have to play by my advantages. I am a boy borne from my grandfather's favourite child, his daughter. I am the eldest. He is a traditional man, and in his age, would like to see his line flourish after his death. A wife from me with a child on the way— a son, as preferred — will cement my position." His forefinger stopped. His gaze thickened, like they could see me again but through a lense, lips drawn to a hollow smile. "I would get what is owed to me, and in return, he would get what he has always desired. The peek that the tradition follows, long after he's passed."

The dessert came, cherry red dripped choux pastry. He took my silence and my new focus on the plate as answer enough. I speared a piece and beckoned him with a tilt of my head. He raised an eyebrow but leaned forward when I didn't budge.

"But of course, watching ya'll have a fun time tearing each other apart first." I offered the fork bite to his lips. "Ahh."

His lips folded over, taking the bite cleanly.

"How's that?"

He hummed, keeping my stare between his musings. "Sweet."

It was a nice way to end an otherwise darkening dinner. I smiled at him and we left it at that. We came back to the hotel with Archie already waiting for Kristoff, and settling me with a look that spoke too much as much as it discerned. But we both knew he wasn't going to say anything. The only acknowledgement from me was a nod before I bid them goodnight.

The days that soon followed like a ticks to a clock, awaiting the ghost hour, were nothing more than a build up of anxiety. All I had to do was reserved for the very day itself, so I kept a dutiful guard right inside the hotel room while everyone else disappeared to prepare. I memorised Kristoff's family from my own personal research and the wee bit that Archie was willing to give.

I got down to those who would be in attendance the most, the nits and grits of the same bunch of people who coveted the seat their grandfather owned.

Every last one of them, watching our fanfare like a hedonist play.

I carded through each one, nailing everything I could use like a cards to a deck until I felt sick at reciting the name Park.

When the day of the party came, it was Angelo who escorted me to Natasha's apartments, neither of my usual trio in sight. When I asked, he only said they were 'preparing'. I didn't want to press as I already felt like I was going to vomit all over his very nice suit, or argued playfully like the back and forth and we'd been doing when it's just us in the last few days (I make him talk, he becomes a statue), so instead I let myself be led.

The hour still early, with dusk barely settling when I came back to the vainglorious display of minimalistic rococo-styled wealth of Natasha Kim's apartments. I was ushered by people I didn't know into the living room, where it had been transformed as some sort of prepping station, bright lights and buzzed of chatter talking from colour consistency to shoes, and plopped to a seat next to the freshly powdered owner.

Her dark hair in roll ups, one hand being painted with a fresh coat of shiny black, whilst her other hand was busy on her phone.

Natasha didn't look up at my arrival.

"Es-tu enceinte?"

I half choked on air as people started prodding and checking me. One attendant was contrasting palettes against my hair. "Well, hello to you too. How have you been in?"

Her chin tilted up, amusement swimming in her half-lidded eyes. "Hello. I had a cup of tea with Yuna a few days back. It was all she ranted about."

"Did she look murderous?"

"I would keep my doors locked."

I laughed weakly. "Noted."

She hummed as she finally looked at me, amused. "It doesn't matter to me either way. I'm sure you already know the dangers of your job better than I do." My eyes flickered to her attendants. She waved her hand away. "Ne pense pas à eux. Have you seen the final adjustments to your dress?"

"No, not yet," I closed my eyes and mouth as the makeup artist pulled a wipe and Natasha called for someone. The wet cotton felt cool across my face.

"Honestly, I would prefer if we lessened a bit more of the appliqué, but Kristoff was very stubborn about the original design," Natasha spoke. "The designer and Archie argued for a while, but of course no one wins against the hound dog. There's a certain charm to it, of course, but I still would've liked a cleaner look."

When I opened my eyes, the dress I had tried on days before had looked just the same— elegant as it is a little bit on the older design. Pale as the softest blue, like the edges of angel's wings, with pearls and lace appliqués of blossomed flowers are detailed here and there. It starts from a sweetheart neckline, trailing in a soft flounce of tulle across the shoulders where it lands loose, before dropping into a tight bodice and a flared, wide bottom from the hip with a short slit to one side. It was really more modest, even with the definite hourglass it portrayed.

"I think it looks gorgeous as it is." I would personally say it looked more classic, but Natasha clearly had a vision in mind when she clicked her tongue, disappointed.

"We could've gone with less flowers and fabric."

I shrugged before closing my eyes again as the attendant doing my face finished finding the right foundation for my skin while I felt someone start going through my hair, dividing them and brushing. It wasn't my first time to get prepped up by all means; occasionally I did enjoy going to the salon just to get fully fixed up.

With my eyelids closed, I could hear the buzz of the room in fuller force when I heard a door swing and soon enough, the familiar deadpan of Natasha's secretary and personal envoy spoke just loud enough for me to hear, in Japanese.

I couldn't understand of course, there are only a handful of languages I know, and outside of the three that I could speak fluently, I only know tourist conversationalist, but I did note the long sigh that Natasha exhaled, a quiet reply, before I heard her scuffle out of her chair. I briefly wondered if it was something I was to be concerned about, but decided against fighting an unknown and let myself sink on the chair.

"You'll be wearing a pearls choker with this, no?" a voice asked behind me. From the way the hands stilled against my hair, I was going to assume it was the hairdresser.

"Oh, I think so?" If I could remember from the fitting, Natasha did say something about a choker to complete the look but they didn't have it then so I didn't know if plans changed.

I felt my attendants hesitate.

"... It's going to be too mother of pearly, isn't it?" I said. They paused before laughing.

"I'll keep your makeup just right."

"And your hair up," the hairdresser piped up. "A clean, low bun would do the trick."

"Thank you."

Last thing I wanted was to push through the doors and look like a horror-fest that made Ursula sick to her stomach.

Through the calm dust and powder, I picked a voice, different from the young faces that I garnered filled the room, croaked through in a weak but frustrated tone.

The only reason I could pick it up was that she spoke in English, a soft, crackling voice. I couldn't pick out the words, but I could feel the insistence, and Natasha's voice following through with a soothed tone.

I tried to remember Natasha's file, her relatives, but couldn't put a precise pin on who it was.

Honestly, that was a weak ending but with a solid 2.7k words, I didn't know how else to end it. Will get back in the second draft. Hope you enjoyed!

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Translations.

Es-tu enceinte? = Are you pregnant? 

Ne pense pas à eux. = Don't think of them.