In his arms, he whispered her name—Lo. Lee. Ta. Each deliberate syllable sealed her tighter in his grip. His embrace wasn't a sanctuary, but confinement. He branded her sin his own, calling himself "weak" because of her. Weak? His hands were shackles, clamped tight around her soul. She wasn't his seductress—she was his captive, haunted by midnight visits that left her weeping into damp pillows. Desmond profited from her torment, pocketing gold for her misery, while James paid to "protect" her during his absences at far-flung political summits. Leslie, Ethan's mother, refused to watch her, scorning Lolita as the family's black sheep, born of James's affair with Charlotte, a stain too wild for her rigid decorum.
Ethan was pampered with ski resorts and room service. Lolita was left with Desmond in a locked bedroom. Leslie considered both children "looked after." Lolita hated Ethan coming home smiling, sun-kissed and breathless with stories of snowboarding and ski lifts, while she sat silent, unable to speak about what happened when they were gone. He got souvenirs; she got scars. Even when Ethan was old enough to fend for himself, Leslie insisted he needed a vacation—and Lolita, she claimed, was safe with Desmond. Lolita was as safe as a mouse in a snake's care.
At Leslie's funeral, Lolita didn't shed a tear—too bitter for mourning. Ethan wept until he passed out in his bed, the golden boy grieving for the mother who never once looked back at the girl she left behind.
James, blind to the terror she endured, chided her for coldness, forcing her to turn to secret online transfers. Posing as a sponsor for a "children's education fund," she siphoned gold crowns from the Intermarium treasury—her father's coffers—into a hidden account to buy the sangria that numbed her nights. In each forged ledger line, she reclaimed a shard of power.
"Lolita—you're the fire of my loins," Desmond murmured, his voice a velvet trap that sent shivers down her spine. But she wasn't fire; she was prey, fed to lions she couldn't outrun.
Her only escape from remembering Desmond was getting wasted. The political gathering in the ballroom had been suffocating, especially when Jacob Kennedy insisted that her half-brother Ethan would make a magnificent ruler of Intermarium, despite the mining riots in the northern provinces.
Worse, James had announced to Renee—standing by side the crystal-laden buffet—that Lolita was fond of Desmond. She would rather taste arsenic than endure Desmond's serpentine tongue again.
Why, she wouldn't allow her brother to be the ruler of girls' scout cookies, let alone a country!
When she retreated to her bedroom, she kicked off her red strapped high-heels, pinching her toes. She couldn't wait for James to "kick the can," especially when he treated her like a child, and she had to hide her stash of alcohol in her closet. For fuck's sake, she'd been drinking alcohol since the age of twelve! You would think by now she would know her limits.
With determination, she drained her glass of sangria, the sweet red liquid filling her stomach. She grabbed the gem-encrusted bottle resting on the polished mahogany table. As she poured another glass, a chill swept through the air, and a shadow flickered at the edge of her vision.
Lolita paused, her heart racing. Her grip tightened on the glass as she swayed, her vision blurring. "What the—?" she murmured, her words slurring.
A figure materialized above the white lynx fur carpet, coalescing from the ether like spilled ink on parchment. He wore a waist-length, wine-coloured coat—deep burgundy, like aged Merlot—its hem trailing smoke-like shadows that curled around his boots. The fabric shimmered faintly, as if woven from regret and velvet. His hands, pale and bony, looked like they belonged to someone who annotated margins with fury. The faint scent of old paper lingered in the air—dry, brittle, and nostalgic. His eyes were deep-set hollows, flickering with literary disdain—like candlelight behind cracked glass. He'd tousled hair streaked with grey at the temples, as if time had edited him.
"Who... who are you?" Lolita stammered, her voice barely above a whisper.
His head tilted, and his voice was cold. "Intermarium is a geo-political fantasy."
"Liar," she slurred, her words heavy with defiance. "Intermarium is real. I'm not delusional." The ghost's smirk seemed to bore into her soul.
"Intermarium never became a unified country," the figure intoned, its voice echoing in the room. "Ossory has been dust since the twelfth century. The war between Intermarium and Ossory? Inspired by Quebec's separatist threats," the ghost said, as if Canadian politics were common knowledge in haunted castles.
"Canadian? Sounds like fantasy!" Lolita scoffed.
The ghost snorts. "Canadian? Fantasy? Darling, you've clearly never tried to navigate their healthcare system. That's a level of bureaucratic fantasy Tolkien himself couldn't dream up. Too much sangria, darling, and you won't be able to tell the difference between truth and the fiction I've written for you?"
"There's no such thing as too much," She spat.
"Oh, yes, there is. I know how Desmond trapped you like a caged bird, unable to sing her name."
Lolita's mouth dropped. "How the fuck do you know Desmond?"
"I'm the one weaving your tale," the ghost stated calmly, a hint of pride underlying his words.
"Shut up!" she shouted. "I exist beyond your pages."
The ghost sighed. "Your name carries a shadow, Lolita—etched in shame by that novel of Vladimir's. Not that I'm like his Humbert, chasing nymphets. Lolita—it's a sharper title than Confessions of a White Widowed Male, don't you think?"
"Absurd!" Lolita exclaimed, pressing her back against the wall, leaving sangria-slick fingerprints on the pink wallpaper. "Lolita is a rose entwined in thorns sharp enough to draw blood if stolen."
"You can always count on a murder for fancy prose." The ghost replied, a sly smile creeping across its featureless face. "Honestly? I'm glad you're fiction! You're one of my least favourite characters!"
"Get. Out."
Her arm shook. She hurled her champagne glass. It shattered against the pink wallpaper. Crimson liquid bled down, staining the carpet. He vanished, sensing this wasn't the right moment to break the news to her.
Stumbling, she approached the loud knock on her door, the alcohol making her movements clumsy, her heart racing as anxiety coursed through her.
"Why are you yelling?" Ethan asked, his voice tight, arms crossed over his white dress shirt. He hadn't changed out of his formal clothes from the party that Lolita had ditched hours ago.
"It's called none of your business," Lolita snapped, swaying slightly.
"Really?" Ethan raised an eyebrow, his gaze sharp and unwavering. "Because I can hear you from the other side of the hall, and the entire castle can probably hear you. How much have you been drinking?"
"Screw off, Ethan!" Lolita's cheeks were flushed, her eyes glassy and unfocused, fighting against the dizziness swirling in her mind.
"That's no way to talk to your brother-"
"Ethan!" James snapped. Ethan turned to face James' cold eyes. "Leave her alone. She wants her space."
"She's not allowed to be disrespectful towards me—not when I'm about to inherit a country." Ethan furrowed his eyebrows.
"Ethan," James said calmly, "I have more pressing matters. The Intermarium-Ossory conflict isn't going to resolve itself."
Ethan muttered under his breath but stepped away. Lolita slammed the door shut.
She leaned against the door, her heart pounding, legs unsteady. Maybe the sangria had blurred her vision—but some truths cut sharper than glass, even through the haze of alcohol.