Lolita and Axel wandered through the Royal Mall in Gem City, its marble corridors veined with gold and lined with boutiques catering to diplomats and heiresses. Crystal chandeliers hung like frozen fireworks, casting fractured light across velvet storefronts. The air buzzed with wealth and whispers—every step a performance, every glance a transaction.
They paused at the Concord Fountain, its turquoise tiles shimmering under cascading water, the scent of chlorine mingling with jasmine from overhead planters. Lolita perched on the edge, fingers clutching her sparkly golden purse, voice unsteady. "We should go our separate ways?"
Axel leaned closer, his breath carrying the crisp scent of mint. "Why?"
She kept her eyes fixed on the rippling water. "I said too much that night, I wasn't myself."
"Lolita," he said, grinning faintly, "you can't scare me off with a little wine on my shirt."
He reached for her hand—light, steady. She pulled back.
"What if I needed you to do something that could ruin us both?"
His gaze held hers, unwavering. "Then we'd be ruined together."
"Even if it meant crossing lines we can't uncross?"
Sharp edge to her voice. Testing him.
"I'd burn every tabloid in this city for you," Axel replied.
"How can I trust you?" Her eyes darkened with doubt. "You don't even know me."
"I decked your brother." Axel countered, voice low. "Your secrets are safe with me."
Lolita's breath hitched. "You say you love me. Is that real?"
He leaned in, his voice a quiet vow. "I felt it the moment I saw you."
She hesitated, then closed the distance, her lips brushing his, cherry lipstick leaving a faint sweetness. The kiss lingered, a fragile escape from the world's prying eyes.
Click.
Lolita's head snapped up. A man with a camera stood nearby, his lens glinting like a vulture's eye. His badge screamed Flashline Media, the tabloid that thrived on royal slip-ups. His matte-black camera, gold lens ring gleaming, looked like it belonged in a museum, not her nightmares.
Her face burned with rage. "You've got to be kidding," she snarled, leaping up. "I partied till dawn, overslept, skipped my makeup, and you're snapping me looking like death warmed over?"
"This shot will make me rich, princess," the paparazzo said, firing off another shot. The flash seared her eyes.
Lolita glared at the Concord Fountain, famous for granting wishes. If I had a coin, I'd wish that camera dragged you straight to hell, she thought, her fingers twitching toward her purse. "I'm used to you vultures," she spat, "but catching me hungover? That's a new low."
Axel surged forward, grabbing the man's collar. "Say cheese," he quipped, landing a sharp jab to the paparazzo's jaw. The man stumbled, swinging back, but Axel dodged, yanking the camera free and smashing it onto the marble floor. Shards skittered across the tiles.
"You bastard!" the paparazzo yelped, wiping blood from his nose. "That camera's worth more than your entire suit!"
"Send me the tab," Axel said, crushing a lens fragment under his heel with a smirk. "And stay away from her."
Lolita tugged at Axel's sleeve. "Let's go before he frames his bloody nose as art."
They hurried from the mall. Her heart was pounding.
More cameras were out there—lurking. By morning, her hungover, barefaced disaster would be tabloid fodder. Her stolen kiss twisted into Intermarium's next spectacle.