Chapter 91: The Frail Fillaunete

The Bank of Aurion’s reputation was crumbling. Even if most of the aristocracy remained unaware of its conflict with House Brimstone, the constant assassinations of its executives left a stain that couldn’t be scrubbed clean.

Which was precisely why they were hosting an extravagant party on the coast of Skald, one of Leonis’s finest ocean retreats. The Bank had rented the most expensive resort on the shoreline, opening its doors to nearly every noble with a title and a coin to spare.

That included the Brimstones.

And Trish.

"I didn’t expect to see you here, Lord Brimstone."

"A good excuse to socialize. Why wouldn’t I be here, Lord Cerulean?"

Duke Cain Brimstone had been locked in conversation with the patriarch of House Historia for the better part of an hour. To any observer, it was simply two dukes exchanging pleasantries.

It was anything but.

Trish had arranged the entire exchange. Two of the most powerful men in the kingdom, standing in plain sight, sharing words, a spectacle too tempting for the nobility to ignore. Every eye in the resort was on them, every ear straining to catch fragments of whatever political maneuvering was unfolding.

No one was watching the quiet, unassuming daughter of a vassalized house.

At least, no one smart.

"Lady Fillaunete, am I correct?"

Someone had approached her. A noble boy, barely a foot taller than her, with the kind of soft, unremarkable features that suggested he’d never had to fight for anything in his life.

One of the new executives. Promoted because of the sudden, convenient deaths of his superiors.

Even if he’d been told about House Fillaunete’s role in his older cousin’s downfall, the naivety in him made him question the story entirely.

After all, how could a beautiful, cute woman his age be capable of such horrendous actions?

He didn’t believe it.

And some of his peers didn’t either.

"I-Is that you, Lord Marcel? I didn’t expect a new executive of the Bank of Aurion would approach such an unknown woman like me. There are multiple other women here more worth your time..."

Trish played the role of the naive, shy noblewoman perfectly, the kind who couldn’t fathom being spoken to by anyone of consequence, let alone an executive of the Bank.

"Don’t be ridiculous. Your house’s downfall doesn’t change the fact that you’re still a once-in-a-lifetime beauty."

Marcel’s smile widened, emboldened by her stammered protest. He stepped closer, lowering his voice as though they were sharing a secret.

"You sell yourself short, Lady Fillaunete. Half the men in this room would trip over themselves for a single dance with you. I merely had the courage to act first."

Trish ducked her head, letting a strand of silver hair fall across her face to hide the smile that wasn’t shy at all. He was making this almost too easy.

"You flatter me, my lord. Truly. But surely there are worthier conversations for a man of your station."

"Worthier than beauty?"

Marcel gestured vaguely toward the balcony, where the sea wind stirred the lantern light.

"Come. Walk with me. The view from the eastern terrace is worth a dozen dull conversations about contracts and interest rates."

Trish’s smile thinned behind her hair. He’d said the words with such contempt, as if the very foundation of his family’s power were a bore.

The men who’d built the Bank of Aurion, the men who’d marked Reyn’s name with a circled W and "no expense spared," would have wept to hear their heir dismiss it so casually.

"Would that be proper, my lord? Alone, with so many eyes watching?"

"Then we won’t be alone. A few of my colleagues are on the terrace. Properly chaperoned." He offered his arm, his confidence unshaken. "You’ll find them far more agreeable than the rumors make them out to be. We’re not monsters, whatever House Fillaunete has been told."

Trish placed her hand on his sleeve, her touch light, hesitant, exactly as a nervous young noblewoman’s should be.

"Then I’d be honored, Lord Marcel."

He led her toward the glass doors that opened onto the eastern terrace, past clusters of nobles who paid them no mind. Two dukes were arguing about tariffs on the far side of the room, far more interesting than a boy escorting a girl.

Trish noted each of them anyway. The positions. The sightlines. Which windows were open, which doors were unlocked, and where the bank’s newly promoted executives had gathered, drinks in hand, laughing too loudly.

Four of them. Young. Nervous behind their bravado. Exactly where her information had said they’d be.

"Gentlemen," Marcel announced, sweeping onto the terrace with Trish on his arm, "may I present Lady Trish Fillaunete. I believe her family’s misfortune has been much discussed among our circles."

A red-haired woman near the railing turned first. Her smile was pleasant enough, but her eyes moved over Trish the way a merchant appraised goods.

Quick, calculating, and not entirely convinced.

She was one of the few new executives who actually had the skill of her predecessor.

"Lady Fillaunete. We’ve heard quite a lot about your house." A pause. "And about the company you’ve been keeping lately."

The terrace went quiet. Even the sea wind seemed to pause.

There it was. The hook beneath the pleasantries.

"Company?" Trish let her brow furrow in genuine confusion, one hand rising to her chest as if the implication had struck her. "I’m afraid I don’t understand, my lady."

"Come now. Everyone’s heard that you’ve become a servant in the Brimstone household. After Duke Cain refused your family’s plea countless times, no less."

The red-haired woman tilted her head.

"And now the Bank is suffering a rather... unfortunate string of accidents. One might think a woman with a grudge and a position inside a ducal house had made some interesting friends."

Marcel’s confident expression flickered. This wasn’t the direction he’d expected his evening to take.

"Lady Sera, that’s—"

"An observation." Sera’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. "The Bank’s enemies are the Bank’s enemies, Marcel. Even the pretty ones."

Trish let the silence stretch before she laughed. It was a soft laugh, the kind that was half embarrassed relief and half disbelief.

"Oh, I see! You thought I was somehow involved?"

She pressed a hand to her cheek, color rising in it.

"My lady, if I had the power to topple the Bank of Aurion, do you think I’d be standing here being interrogated on a terrace? I’d be sailing home to my restored estate."

Trish swayed on her feet, the motion small and deliberate, her expression wavering between composure and something frailer beneath it.

"I can’t even imagine that. I’m only a maid of House Brimstone, assigned to Lord Reyn."

The mention of the name changed the air on the terrace. Eyes that had been sharp with suspicion softened into something else entirely: sympathy, the way people looked at a soldier’s widow or a child left at an orphanage door.

Being assigned to a lecherous lord, no matter how celebrated his redemption had become, would be its own kind of hell. Power didn’t make a man good. It only made him harder to refuse.

They knew she was a maid, but they didn’t know she had a special assignment.

"So the rumors weren’t wrong."

Sera’s voice had lost its edge, replaced by a careful gentleness.

"You weren’t just assigned as a maid. You were assigned as Lord Reyn’s personal one..."