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Chapter Text

I Put a Spell on You - Nina Simone ‧ Juni 1965

The hall shimmered as if someone had gathered all the stars of London beneath its ceiling. Crystal chandeliers glimmered in the mirrors, glasses clinked, laughter rippled through the air, and conversations murmured softly—an endless, dense current in which every guest drifted in their own direction. On the stage, a band played a light, unhurried blues, the kind that fit perfectly as a backdrop for evening intrigues, quiet deals, and eloquent toasts.

Emma stood by the bar, a little apart from the center of attention, a martini glass in her hand. The clear liquid caught the light, while an ice cube turned lazily inside it, measuring time. She took a small sip, tasting the familiar bitterness, and let her gaze wander across the room.

Everything looked far too deliberate—men in flawless tuxedos, women draped in silk, diamonds flashing, smiles that held not joy but calculation. Emma sighed. All of it was familiar—too familiar. These receptions were part of the life she led now, part of the role she had to play—the head of a company she was determined to keep.

She would have gladly stayed in her hotel room, far from all this glitter, but she knew her presence wasn’t a matter of courtesy. It was a statement of power. Swan was here, and her family name carried weight. She represented more than herself—she represented legacy.

Tilting her head slightly, Emma watched the movement of people—and then her gaze caught on something. Near the far window, surrounded by three ladies, stood a young woman.

At first, Emma couldn’t tell what had drawn her attention—perhaps the way the woman laughed. It was such a bright, unguarded laugh, as if she didn’t realize how it drew eyes toward her. In a room full of practiced politeness and artificial smiles, her joy seemed almost defiantly alive.

The woman wore a black evening gown—classic, understated, yet perfectly fitted. Her bare shoulders were slender, long gloves reached nearly to her elbows, her skin had a warm tone, her dark hair gathered into an elegant updo that caught the light with a soft gleam. Only her lipstick—deep, wine-red, like blood on a white handkerchief—added a touch of daring to the image.

Emma couldn’t look away.

She didn’t know how many seconds passed—perhaps only a heartbeat, perhaps a minute. Everything around her seemed to dissolve: the voices turned muffled, the music faded to a distant hum. There was only this face, only her.

Then the woman turned, and their eyes met.

Emma felt as if the air between them grew denser, charged, as though something in the very atmosphere had shifted. The brunette’s smile quivered slightly—not from shyness, but with a hint of curiosity, as if she had felt someone’s gaze and wanted to see who it belonged to.

Without breaking eye contact, Emma lifted her glass and inclined her head just a little, the faintest of smiles on her lips. The stranger held her gaze for a moment, then smiled back—a dazzling, effortless smile that warmed something deep in Emma’s chest.

And yet—just a breath later—the woman turned back to her companions. Emma remained where she was. Her lips curved into a faintly ironic smile, but her eyes still glimmered with intrigue.

She could go over. Say something neutral—about the music, the drinks, the evening. But… no. The woman wasn’t alone; she was surrounded by young socialites, their laughter light and meaningless. That wasn’t Emma’s world, nor her kind of conversation. She knew she would feel like a stranger among them, as she did in this entire hall.

She finished her martini, set the glass down, and nodded to the bartender.

“Another one, please.”

When the fresh glass was in her hand, Emma made her way slowly toward the terrace.

Outside, the air was cooler. She took a deep breath, leaned against the railing, and looked out at the lights of London.

Her thoughts drifted to the upcoming negotiations, to the deals, to her father—but somewhere deep within her mind, the image lingered: a black dress, red lips, and eyes that had met hers for only a moment, yet somehow left a mark.

Emma smiled faintly.

“Welcome to London, Emma Swan,” she whispered to herself, raising her glass.

***

Almost Blue - Chet Baker

Regina Mills entered the ballroom on the arm of Thomas Harrington. His smile was the same as always—polished, restrained, the kind of smile that belonged to a man conducting invisible negotiations even in casual conversation.

They descended the staircase, and for a brief moment, the room seemed to pause—not because of her, nor because of him, but because everything about the picture was flawless: the black gown, the black tuxedo, the perfect pair.

They exchanged only a few polite phrases before Thomas, with a dry apology and a courteous tilt of the head, excused himself and strode toward a group of men gathered in the far corner. His partners were already waiting—important, self-assured men, accustomed to discussing numbers, deals, and profit margins.

Regina remained standing in the center of the room, an elegant detail of the décor—necessary for appearances, but not for purpose. She took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and, spotting a familiar face, made her way toward her friend.

“Elizabeth.”

“Regina,” her friend greeted her with a smile.

They clinked glasses, and Regina took several quick sips, as if trying to wash away the accumulated tension of the day—her mother’s lectures, the forced pleasantries, the looming thoughts of her engagement.

“Well,” Elizabeth drawled, raising an eyebrow, “I see you’re taking this evening quite seriously.”

Regina smiled—too brightly.

“Very seriously, Lizzy.”

She laughed, the sound clear and a little nervous, swallowed by the hum of the ballroom. The waiter appeared again, and without hesitation, Regina took another glass.

“Thank you,” she murmured without looking at him.

Elizabeth tilted her head slightly, studying her friend with gentle, almost sisterly concern.

“So,” she said, nodding toward the group of men, “which one of them is your… future husband?”

Without turning her head, Regina replied quietly, “The tall one, standing in the center. Black suit.”

Elizabeth followed her gaze and nodded approvingly.

“He’s not bad at all, Regina. Quite distinguished, actually.”

Regina gave a dry little laugh, raising her glass.

“Yes, lucky me,” she said, her voice soft and tinged with irony.

“Why aren’t you with him?” Elizabeth asked. “I thought he was supposed to be your escort tonight.”

“Escort, yes. Entertain, no.” Regina smirked. “We arrived together, but as you can see, he quickly found where he truly belongs. To him, I’m nothing more than part of the contract—a signature beneath a profitable agreement.”

“Regina, don’t say that.”

“But it’s true. He’s far more interested in the business end of the evening than in his bride-to-be. I doubt he’ll even notice me until it’s time to kneel and present the ring.”

Elizabeth arched an eyebrow.

“So… you’ve made your peace with this?”

“Do I have a choice, Lizzy?” Regina replied with a soft, humorless smile. “If I’m being honest, maybe it’s for the best. He doesn’t show much interest in me, and that might just leave me a little freedom.”

She laughed quietly, taking another sip.

“You can’t argue with fate, Lizzy. Maybe this will work out well for both of us. For him, I’m a smart investment. For me, a way to finally leave my parents’ house. I’d say that’s a fair trade.”

Elizabeth shook her head.

“Don’t say that. You know it’s not true. You deserve more.”

“It’s fine,” Regina said calmly. “I’m not happy, but I’m not miserable either. I’m just trading one prison for another. But as I said, the new one might have a bit more air. At least in this marriage, there won’t be Eleanor Mills reading into my every word and step. That alone makes Harrington almost appealing.”

Elizabeth laughed softly.

“Well then, a toast—to the bride-to-be. May your new prison be roomier than the last.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Regina said, smiling faintly as their glasses chimed again.

Soon, two more women—old university acquaintances—joined them, and light chatter filled the space around them. They talked about fashion, new books, and music. Regina managed to appear lively, and for a while, she even convinced herself she was. Her laughter rang true again, her smile seemed genuine.

Until she felt it—a gaze.

It was barely perceptible, like a brush of wind or a fleeting touch, but it made her turn. She tilted her head slightly—and saw her.

The blonde by the bar. In a room where every woman shimmered in silk and jewels, she looked as though she belonged to another world entirely. Regina recognized her at once.

Emma Swan.

The very woman Elizabeth had mentioned—the name from that newspaper article that had lingered in Regina’s mind. She remembered that conversation perfectly:

“So it’s really happening,” Elizabeth had said quietly, folding the newspaper. “You’re getting married?”

Regina had stepped away from the door, crossed the room, and sat down on the edge of her bed. The silk coverlet was cool beneath her hands.

“Yes,” she’d said, trying to smile, though the attempt faltered. “I’m getting married.”

Elizabeth had sighed, her head tilting with gentle affection.

“Should I congratulate you… or not?”

Regina had shrugged.

“I don’t know, Lizzy. It was bound to happen sooner or later.”

“At least tell me he’s handsome?” Elizabeth had said, with a faint, teasing smile, trying to lighten the air.

“Perhaps,” Regina had murmured absently.

“Describe him.”

“Tall. Dark hair. Overconfident. And… older.”

“Older?”

“He’s thirty-five.”

“And still unmarried?”

“He was. Once.”

Elizabeth had lifted a brow.

“Oh. So, a man of experience.”

Regina had let out a dry, joyless laugh.

“Do you even like him a little?” Elizabeth had asked softly.

“I don’t know what you expect me to say,” Regina had snapped, more at the situation than at her friend.

“I just realized I’ve never heard you talk about liking anyone,” Elizabeth had said calmly. “I don’t even know your type. I’m just curious—do you think you could ever love him?”

Regina had turned toward the mirror, running a hand through her dark hair, adjusting a strand that didn’t need adjusting. The reflection showed a flawless young woman—the daughter her mother wanted. Only her eyes betrayed her weariness.

She was twenty-one then, newly graduated from university, where she had studied literature. Books, poetry, philosophy—those were her refuge from the suffocating control of her mother, Eleanor Mills, a woman of iron will who had spent years grooming her daughter for an advantageous marriage. Regina’s beauty and intellect were her weapons in that game, and every introduction, every “chance” meeting, was orchestrated.

Her father, Charles Mills, a successful trader, barely paid her any mind. With no son to inherit the business, Regina was the family’s key—her dowry a prize, her future a transaction.

“I don’t know him at all,” she had whispered.

“When I met my husband,” Elizabeth had said gently, “I didn’t know him either. But I noticed he was kind. And handsome.”

“It’s not the same.”

“Maybe not. But someone can still interest you, can’t they? Hasn’t anyone ever caught your attention?”

Regina had paused. She couldn’t recall a single face that had made her heart quicken, not once. She shook her head.

“No. Never.”

Elizabeth had chuckled softly.

“Well, then you’ll just have to give your future husband a chance.”

Regina had met her eyes in the mirror.

“As if I have a choice.”

“Don’t you?” Elizabeth had pressed gently. “If you truly didn’t want to—couldn’t you refuse?”

Regina had turned, her expression sharp.

“Lizzy, you know my parents. I don’t have that right.”

“And if you could choose? Would you even want to marry?”

Regina had sat back down on the bed, hugging her knees.

“I don’t know. Maybe. But honestly, I’d just want the choice to be mine. Why must a woman marry at all? Why is that the only path?”

Elizabeth had lifted her hands in resignation.

“That’s just how it is.”

“Yes,” Regina had murmured bitterly. “Those are the rules.”

Elizabeth had unfolded the newspaper again, tapping the page.

“Well, not always. Look at this.”

In the center of the article was a photograph: a stern-looking man in a suit, another man beside him, and a young blonde woman in a tailored business suit, gaze steady and assured.

“Who are they?” Regina had asked.

“The Swans,” Elizabeth had said. “Richard Swan, head of Swan Shipping & Trade Co. His son Edward was supposed to be the heir—he died last month. And this,” she’d pointed to the blonde, “is Emma Swan. His daughter. She runs the company now.”

Regina had frowned.

“You’re joking.”

“Not at all. She’d already been helping manage it for years. Her father’s just made it official. Imagine it—a woman leading a trading empire. And by the way, she's 27 years old, but she's not married, and she clearly doesn't plan to be.”

Regina had studied the photo for a long while.

“That’s… impressive.”

“Exactly,” Elizabeth had said, smiling. “I showed you this because I wanted you to remember—you could choose differently, if you wanted to. The world is changing, Regina.”

Regina’s gaze had drifted back to the image.

“And what kind of life would that be?”

“I don’t know,” Elizabeth had said, smiling softly. “What kind would you want?”

Regina had looked again at Emma Swan’s confident expression in the photograph.

“Maybe I’d like to be a little like her,” she’d whispered. “To have independence. To make my own decisions. To work. To live on my own terms. And to stay unmarried—if that’s what I want.”

Elizabeth had laughed quietly.

“Then maybe someday you’ll ask her for advice.”

“I doubt it,” Regina had replied with a faint smirk. “It’s not as if I’ll ever meet her by chance over tea or at a hat shop. I doubt she even wears hats.”

“You never know what tomorrow might bring,” Elizabeth had said with a knowing smile.

Regina smiled in return, though her smile carried a trace of melancholy.

“In any case, she’s lucky,” she said quietly. “Lucky that her family supports her. If my mother ever found out I wanted to work… she’d lose her mind.”

She looked back at the photograph—and for the first time, she felt something unfamiliar. It was like envy, but softer, almost tender, not destructive. Something deep inside her—something that had long been dormant—stirred.

And now Emma Swan was here.

Standing just across the room, with a martini in her hand and a gaze that made Regina’s throat go dry.

Those eyes.

Cold, clear, yet lit with something else—something magnetic. Regina couldn’t look away. She didn’t even notice that she’d stopped listening to her friends.

Emma stood at the bar, leaning casually against the counter, a martini glass glinting in her hand. She wore a dark pinstriped suit and a crisp white shirt buttoned up to the collar—no jewelry, no adornments. Her pale hair was tied back in a simple ponytail, so effortlessly elegant it seemed almost deliberate.

She wasn’t trying to impress anyone—and that, paradoxically, made her the most striking woman in the room. Regina felt her heartbeat falter, then quicken.

Emma was looking directly at her. Without shyness, without hesitation—openly, confidently. Her blue eyes glowed with something that couldn’t be called mere curiosity.

Regina couldn’t tear her gaze away. For the first time in a very long while, she didn’t feel like a hostess, or a daughter, or someone’s future bride—she felt simply like a woman being seen.

For a heartbeat, her smile faded. She felt heat rise to her cheeks. And then Emma raised her glass slightly and smiled—calmly, almost innocently.

Regina’s own smile returned, wide and genuine. She even caught herself thinking that she wanted to go over. To say something—anything. To hear the sound of that woman’s voice. And then, as if on cue, a voice beside her broke the spell.

“Regina? Were you even listening to me?”

Regina turned to Elizabeth, momentarily disoriented.

“Sorry… what were you saying?”

“The concert next month,” Elizabeth repeated, squinting playfully. “I said I have two tickets, and I thought maybe you’d like to— Are you all right?”

Regina nodded slightly, trying to gather herself.

“Yes, I’m fine. Just… thinking.”

“About your future husband, I suppose?” Elizabeth teased.

“Perhaps,” Regina exhaled, glancing over her shoulder—toward the bar.

But the blonde was gone. Her gaze dropped for a moment, fingers tightening around the stem of her glass. She couldn’t have explained why, but she suddenly felt… unsettled. As if something important—something she couldn’t yet name—had just slipped quietly past her.

When Elizabeth began talking again, animated and cheerful, Regina interrupted her gently:

“Excuse me, Lizzy. I think I need a bit of fresh air.”

“Do you want me to come with you?” Elizabeth offered immediately.

Regina shook her head.

“No, it’s all right. I won’t be long.”

Elizabeth gave her a knowing, sympathetic look but didn’t press.

***

The Last Man - Clint Mansell ‧ 2006

Regina crossed the hall, offering polite smiles to everyone who stopped her along the way—but the smiles were empty, practiced. Only when she stepped outside did she finally let herself exhale, slow and free, as though shaking off a mask.

The terrace was wrapped in a soft half-darkness. A few lamps cast a muted glow across the stone floor, and beyond the balustrade, London shimmered—a city of distant lights and restless pulse. The music drifted faintly from inside, the low murmur of a saxophone marking the rhythm of the night still alive behind the walls.

She saw her immediately. A lone figure stood by the railing, her back turned. The dark suit outlined her silhouette sharply against the gleam of the city. Even if Regina hadn’t known who it was, she would have guessed. It could only be her.

Emma Swan.

Regina hesitated for a heartbeat. Should she go to her? What would she even say? Why was she going at all? But curiosity—or that same strange, unsettling pull she’d felt back in the hall—proved stronger.

She took one step, then another. Her heels clicked softly against the stone, breaking the fragile stillness of the night.

“Beautiful view,” she said at last, stopping beside her and casually resting her hands on the railing.

Emma turned her head slightly. The corners of her lips curved upward—softly, with a hint of amusement.

“Yes,” she said. “Especially when there’s someone to share it with.”

Regina smiled faintly, eyes still on the city below.

“I doubt you’re lacking company.”

“Sometimes the right company matters more than the numerous kind,” Emma replied evenly.

Silence followed—not awkward, but thick, charged, almost intimate. Regina found her gaze drawn to the blonde again and again. She should have left—Emma seemed cool, distant, untouchable—but something kept her there. She didn’t want to break whatever this was.

Emma, outwardly calm, was doing her own quiet battle. Every thought she had was about the woman beside her—the brunette with eyes too expressive, lips too soft, movements too composed to be accidental. She tried to look ahead, but each second only deepened the gravity pulling her back toward Regina.

When she felt Regina’s gaze on her again, Emma smiled slightly—and finally turned to face her. Regina faltered. Their eyes met, and for a moment the air seemed to shift, charged and alive. She looked away, flustered. Emma’s smile deepened.

From her jacket, Emma drew a silver cigarette case, flipped it open with a soft click, and held one out.

“Smoke?”

Regina looked up from under her lashes, one eyebrow raised.

“Usually not.”

“But tonight seems to be an exception?”

A pause. Then Regina took the cigarette, their fingers brushing—barely, but enough for a spark to race up her skin.

“Perhaps,” she said, allowing Emma to light it for her.

The flame flared between them, catching their faces in its glow for an instant. Light slid over Emma’s cheekbones, over Regina’s lips, lingered in the thin veil of smoke where their eyes met.

“And how does your exception feel?” Emma asked, her tone playful.

Regina inhaled, a bit clumsy, coughed once, then smiled.

“Bitter,” she exhaled.

“You have a way with words,” Emma murmured, amused. “Not every woman at these parties speaks like that.”

“I’m not every woman.”

Emma tilted her head, eyes glinting.

“That, I’ve already gathered. Everyone here knows you, don’t they?”

“Perhaps,” Regina said vaguely. “And you… clearly don’t belong to this circle.”

“Just arrived,” Emma answered. “Getting my bearings.”

“And what do you think so far?”

A smile ghosted across Emma’s lips.

“Until this moment? Dull.”

Regina couldn’t help a quiet laugh.

“Is that a compliment?”

“Perhaps,” Emma said, meeting her gaze.

Regina bit her lip, heart stumbling in her chest. Normally so composed, so proper, she suddenly felt as though she were standing on the edge of something she didn’t quite understand—but didn’t want to step away from.

“You speak in riddles,” she said softly, teasingly.

“Sometimes riddles have a purpose.” Emma leaned in slightly. “They make you come back for the answer.”

Regina stilled. The closeness of her—her voice, her scent, fresh with a faint trace of wood and warmth—was dizzying. Perhaps it was the champagne, she told herself.

Emma’s eyes dropped briefly to Regina’s lips—too soft, too tempting—and for a heartbeat there was the unmistakable flicker of desire. But instead of closing the distance, she met Regina’s gaze again and stepped back.

Regina exhaled quietly. For a fleeting second, she could have sworn Emma had almost kissed her. Madness, she thought, and quickly changed the subject.

“May I ask what brought you to this event? Who is your escort?”

Emma smiled.

“Does one need an escort to attend?”

Regina flushed slightly. A foolish question—of course this woman needed no one.

“I only meant—”

Emma laughed softly.

“I didn’t mean to tease. But to answer your question—I’m here on behalf of my father. His partners insisted I make an appearance.” She stubbed out her cigarette. “And you?”

Regina followed suit, though her cigarette was barely half gone.

“I’m… here with family friends. And some of my father’s business partners.”

Emma lifted a brow.

“Ah. I see. And why did you decide to escape them?” Emma asked, a hint of challenge in her tone.

Regina smiled.

“Why did you?”

“So you admit you escaped?”

“Let’s just say I needed fresh air.”

“I was beginning to think you were following me,” Emma said with mock seriousness.

Regina’s lips parted in surprise, but she quickly regained her composure.

“What makes you think I’d follow you?”

“Well… you were looking rather intently,” Emma said, her smile turning mischievous.

“I—?” Regina stumbled over the word. “Not at all. And besides, it was you who seemed to be looking.”

“Can you blame me?” Emma tilted her head slightly. “You do draw attention. And admit it—you know the effect you have.”

Regina smiled but didn’t deny it.  The strange flutter inside told her that it wasn’t the attention itself that thrilled her—it was who was paying it.

“Funny,” she murmured. “I could have sworn you were the one drawing all the attention tonight.”

“Me?” Emma arched a brow.

“Wasn’t it obvious?”

Emma’s laugh was low, soft. She glanced down at her own suit as though seeing it for the first time.

“I assure you, that wasn’t the intention. I just… don’t like dresses. I think they belong to those who know how to wear them.” Her voice softened. “Someone like you. Though, to be fair, I imagine you’d be exquisite in anything.”

Regina raised an eyebrow. Was Emma Swan flirting with her? The realization came quietly—and to her surprise, she found she didn’t mind at all.

“Thank you,” she said evenly.

Emma smiled.

“Black?” she asked, nodding at Regina’s gown.

“My color.”

“It suits you.”

Regina’s gaze swept over her in return.

“And yours suits you. Especially the confidence with which you wear it. You’re not like the others.”

Emma blinked, momentarily caught off guard. The compliment—especially from her—landed deeper than she expected.

“You flatter me,” she said softly, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

“Not at all,” Regina countered calmly. “I’m simply telling the truth. Don’t tell me you don’t know how to take a compliment?”

“Perhaps I just don’t get them very often.”

“That’s not true,” Regina said again, folding her arms across her chest. “Women like you don’t go unnoticed.”

Emma turned away briefly and laughed—low, unguarded, genuine—then bit her lip and looked back at her with that same piercing gaze.

“Are you laughing at me?” Regina asked, struggling not to smile herself. Emma’s laughter was contagious, alive; there was nothing mocking in it—only warmth and the kind of ease that disarmed.

“Not in the slightest,” Emma said softly. “It’s just that… you’re remarkably charming.”

Regina couldn’t help it—her lips curved in a small, helpless smile, and she crossed her arms tighter, as if to shield herself from the sudden intimacy of the moment.

“Are you cold?” Emma asked, her tone gentle, almost caring.

“A little. I suppose I should go back inside,” Regina murmured, avoiding her gaze.

“Then go,” Emma said quietly. “I wouldn’t want to keep you. I’m sure someone’s waiting.”

Regina looked up at her again.

“And you? Aren’t you going back?”

Emma shook her head.

“Honestly? I prefer it out here. Especially right now.” Her voice was slow, deliberate, and she didn’t look away.

“Is it the company you dislike, or the evening itself?” Regina asked carefully.

“I’m not exactly in the mood for celebration tonight,” Emma replied, her tone low and even. “Then again, I suspect most of the people in there aren’t either.” A faint smile tugged at her lips. “They just try a little harder to prove otherwise.”

Regina smiled faintly, tilting her head.

“Perhaps. But isn’t that the whole point of such parties? To look content, even when you’re dying of boredom.”

Emma stepped closer, and once again their eyes met.

“And you,” she said quietly, “seem to pretend particularly well.”

Regina arched a brow.

“What makes you think that?”

“Your laughter,” Emma said simply. “It’s too beautiful to be real.”

Regina lowered her gaze, though a small, reluctant smile played on her lips.

“You’re far too observant for an ordinary guest.”

“Maybe that’s because I’m not quite the ordinary kind,” Emma replied.

“You’re… very direct,” Regina whispered, feeling her pulse quicken.

“Sometimes it’s the only way to be understood.”

Silence stretched between them. The music inside was just a distant echo now. The cool night air brushed against their hair. Emma stood close enough that Regina could feel her warmth, the subtle rhythm of her breath.

Regina wanted to speak—something witty, light, anything to break the unbearable tension—but she didn’t have time.

Emma took half a step closer—and stopped pretending she could resist. Her gaze flicked briefly to Regina’s lips before she leaned in and kissed her.

The kiss was short, almost tentative, but there was nothing uncertain in its intent. It carried the heat of something inevitable, restrained for too long. Regina froze, stunned by the shock of it, then—almost as if her mind slipped away—she responded. Her lips moved softly against Emma’s, unsure but genuine.

Emma didn’t know why she’d done it. She knew she shouldn’t have. She knew this woman wasn’t one to surrender easily, not to anyone, least of all to something like this. But in that moment, logic meant nothing. When she felt Regina’s answering touch—barely there, but real—it was enough to make the world disappear. Emma deepened the kiss, just slightly, afraid that if she let go, the moment would dissolve. Her fingers brushed Regina’s waist, drawing her closer by an inch. The kiss grew warmer, steadier—not demanding, but full of promise, as if Emma were afraid to frighten away something fragile and new.

When she finally broke the kiss, their breaths mingled in the chill air. For a few long seconds, neither of them moved. Regina’s dark eyes flickered with confusion, surprise, and something unspoken that Emma couldn’t name. Seeing it, Emma immediately stepped back.

“I’m sorry,” she said hoarsely, though the words didn’t sound entirely sincere.

Regina exhaled, lowering her gaze.

“There’s no need,” she whispered.

She took a step back, trying to gather her thoughts, drew a steadying breath, then added softly:

“I… I should go back.”

Emma nodded, making no move to stop her.

“Of course.”

Regina lingered for a heartbeat longer, her gaze tracing Emma’s face, that faintly mocking glint in her eyes she already feared she might remember too well. Then, slowly, she turned and walked toward the doors.

Chapter Text

We Move Lightly - Dustin O’Halloran ‧ 2011

Regina stepped into the dimly lit corridor and froze, as if afraid to take another step. She leaned against the nearest wall and brushed her fingers over her lips, still tingling from the kiss. Her chest felt tight, her breath uneven, her heart beating so violently it seemed ready to break free.

What was that? flashed through her mind.

Why had Emma Swan done it? Why hadn’t she pushed her away? Why hadn’t she been angry?

But the next thought frightened her even more.

Why did I… like it?

Regina wrapped her arms around herself, as though trying to contain the surge of emotion threatening to escape. Everything inside her seemed tangled—confusion, fear, trembling, and something else entirely, a feeling she had never known before, like a soft current under her skin.

Why did that kiss—so wrong, so unexpected—feel so natural, as if she had been waiting for it her whole life?

She looked around; the corridor was empty. Only distant laughter and the muffled notes of music reminded her the celebration went on. She didn’t want to return. She wanted to flee—to go home, close her eyes, and at least try to make sense of what was happening to her. But she knew she couldn’t. Straightening her back, she drew a deep breath, forcing herself to regain composure, and started down the hall, trying to steady her steps.

She had barely taken a few when Elizabeth appeared from around the corner.

“Regina?” Her friend quickened her pace, relief in her voice. “I was starting to worry! Where have you been?”

Regina startled, as if caught in the act.

“I… I told you, I just needed a bit of air, and—”

“Your mother’s looking for you,” Elizabeth interrupted. “I told her you stepped out for just a minute, but you’d better get back before she sends half the ballroom searching.”

“Yes, of course. Thank you, Lizzy.” Regina tried to smile, but the effort came out brittle.

“Are you all right?” Elizabeth asked, frowning. “You’re pale—and a bit… off.”

“I’m fine. Just a little lightheaded. It was too warm inside.” She tried to sound calm, but her voice betrayed her. “Shall we?”

Elizabeth nodded and started to follow, but stopped suddenly. The light from a nearby window fell across Regina’s face, and she gasped softly before catching Regina’s wrist.

“Wait, Regina.”

Regina turned, startled. “What is it?”

Elizabeth leaned closer, then slowly raised a hand.

“Your lipstick…” she said quietly. “It’s smudged.”

Regina froze. Instinctively, she touched her mouth. Her fingertips came away stained red.

“Oh…” she breathed, not knowing what to say. Elizabeth’s gaze was far too intent.

“Regina?” Elizabeth’s voice was soft now. “Where were you, really?”

“I told you—on the terrace,” Regina snapped, sharper than she intended.

“With whom?” Elizabeth stepped closer, lowering her voice to a whisper, as if afraid someone might hear. “Regina, tell me.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Regina said curtly, trying to move past her, but Elizabeth caught her arm again.

“What happened, Regina?”

A flash of anger crossed Regina’s eyes. “Nothing happened, Elizabeth!” she said sharply.

Elizabeth didn’t believe her, but seeing how tense Regina was, she chose not to press.

“All right.” She nodded gently. “You don’t have to tell me now. But promise me we’ll talk about it later.”

She pulled a handkerchief from her clutch, carefully wiped the smudge from the corner of Regina’s mouth, adjusted a strand of hair, and lightly touched her cheek.

“There. Better,” she said softly.

“Thank you,” Regina murmured, finally steadying her breath.

“Of course.” Elizabeth’s gaze lingered a little longer than usual. “You know, Regina… you don’t have to go through with this—”

“Lizzy, please. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I only mean—if you ever decide to walk away, just say the word.”

Regina gave a small nod, and together they returned toward the hall.

The moment Regina stepped back into the ballroom, the light struck her—gold and blinding. The chandeliers glittered, their reflections dancing in crystal glasses, sparkling in champagne and diamonds alike. The air was thick with perfume, expensive tobacco, and the hum of countless conversations. Yet it all seemed distant to her, as if she were watching the evening unfold from behind glass.

A waiter approached with a tray, and Regina absently took a glass of champagne. She drank deeply, hoping the bubbles might bring her back to reality.

“Regina, darling, where have you been?” The crisp, commanding voice of her mother made her flinch.

She turned. Eleanor Mills, immaculate in silver silk, was moving toward her with the brisk, precise stride of a woman addressing an employee, not a daughter.

“I stepped out for a moment—to collect myself,” Regina said steadily, forcing her chin up.

Eleanor’s gaze lingered, assessing—not the truth of her words, but the flawlessness of her appearance. At last, apparently satisfied, she gave a brief nod.

“Very well. But next time, don’t take so long.”

“Of course, Mother.”

“You must come with me at once,” Eleanor said briskly, taking her by the arm. “Your father is about to make his speech—he’ll announce the merger with Mr. Harrington’s company. And afterward, he’ll make the engagement official. Mr. Harrington will present you with the ring.”

The words hit Regina like the toll of a bell. She instinctively looked toward Elizabeth, standing a few feet away. Her friend’s expression changed the moment she saw hers—there was confusion there, maybe even alarm. But within seconds, Regina straightened, lifted her chin, and nodded.

“And for heaven’s sake, Regina,” Eleanor hissed under her breath, leaning closer, “smile. This is a celebration, not a funeral.”

Regina fixed the perfect smile—the practiced one, the one that felt nothing—and stepped forward with poise.

The music faded. On the dais, Charles Mills appeared. He tapped his glass for attention, and the crowd instantly fell silent.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began with the effortless charm of a man used to commanding rooms, “thank you for joining us this evening. Tonight, we celebrate not only success—but the beginning of a new chapter.”

A murmur of approval rippled through the crowd.

“I am pleased to announce that as of today, Mills Group and Harrington Industries will unite. Together, we’ll strengthen our standing in the market and open new horizons for growth and prosperity.”

Applause swelled—perfect, rehearsed, polite. Charles smiled broadly, letting it fade before turning his gaze to his daughter.

Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood - Nina ‧ 1964

“However,” Charles continued, his voice smooth and confident, “there is yet another piece of news—no less joyous.” He smiled and took a step forward.

“Mr. Harrington has been kind enough to ask for my daughter’s hand in marriage. Regina, my dear, would you come here, please?”

The words hung in the air. Everything seemed to freeze around her. Regina moved forward slowly, hardly believing her own body obeyed her. She could feel the sharp, curious gazes upon her, yet all of it faded into the background, drowned by a single, overwhelming thought: It’s over.

Charles stepped aside, making room for Thomas Harrington.

“Regina,” he began, his tone practiced and steady, “I want you to know how deeply happy I am that you’ve agreed to become my wife.”

He reached into his pocket, retrieved a small velvet box, and opened it. The ring gleamed under the light.

“Please accept this ring as a token of our engagement. I hope our marriage will be a happy one.”

He spoke the words like a statement prepared in advance, his voice carrying the rhythm of a press release. Regina watched as his fingers—firm, businesslike—touched hers. The gold burned against her skin.

She lifted her eyes to Thomas, then to her father, and finally to the crowd, forcing a wide smile—the very one she had been trained to wear. And then, amidst the sea of faces, she saw her.

Emma stood by the far wall, a glass in her hand. Their eyes met.

Regina stopped breathing. Her smile vanished.

Emma, sensing she was on the verge of breaking, offered a small, reassuring smile in return—gentle, quiet, supportive. Regina didn’t have time to respond before Thomas’s hand tightened around hers, pulling her back to the present.

“Regina,” he repeated softly.

She blinked and made herself smile again. The ring on her finger caught the light—bright, almost blinding, and utterly foreign.

“Thank you, Thomas,” she whispered.

He turned to the guests and raised his glass. Applause broke out. Laughter, the clinking of crystal, flashes of cameras—everything blended into a single, deafening hum.

Regina nodded automatically, accepted congratulations she didn’t hear, and found her gaze drifting once more to where the blonde had been standing.

The space was empty.

Eleanor appeared beside Thomas—graceful, composed, radiating that effortless authority that made everyone nearby straighten unconsciously. Her smile was flawless.

“Mr. Harrington,” she said, her tone perfectly measured, “my congratulations.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Mills,” he replied politely. “Though I suppose you may call me simply Thomas now.”

“Well then, Thomas,” she said smoothly, “you’ve made the right choice.”

Thomas inclined his head, his own smile stiffening slightly, just as Charles Mills joined them—glowing with pride and triumph.

“Eleanor, Regina,” Charles began, with the air of a man about to introduce someone of great importance, “I’d like you to meet Miss Emma Swan. She represents Swan Shipping. Miss Swan has just arrived from Los Angeles, and Mr. Harrington and I are very optimistic about the prospect of collaboration.”

The name struck Regina like an echo—sharp and undeniable.

Emma Swan.

She turned her head, and her heart seemed to stop. Emma stood beside her father, poised and calm—composed in a way Regina could only pretend to be. Emma nodded politely to Thomas, who returned the gesture with the measured interest of a man evaluating not a partner, but a rival.

“Miss Swan,” Charles continued, “you’ve already met Mr. Harrington, but allow me to introduce my wife, Eleanor, and my daughter, Regina.”

Emma inclined her head gracefully.

“Mrs. Mills,” she said respectfully, “a pleasure to meet you.”

Eleanor responded with the faintest nod—the kind she usually reserved for waiters who managed not to spill the wine.

Then Emma turned to Regina.

“Miss Mills.” Her voice dropped slightly, gaining a quiet depth. It was still perfectly formal, yet beneath the words there was something… intimate. “May I offer my congratulations?”

Regina’s fingers tightened involuntarily around her glass.

“Yes… thank you,” she managed. “I—”

“You arrived in London alone, Miss Swan?” Eleanor interjected, not taking her eyes off the blonde.

A pause followed, so subtle it could have gone unnoticed. Emma’s brows lifted just slightly. The interruption caught her off guard—and she didn’t like it—but she chose not to react.

“Yes,” she said evenly. “My brother was meant to join me, but… circumstances have changed. He’s no longer with us.”

“Yes, we heard,” Eleanor replied with studied sympathy. “A terrible tragedy. Please accept our deepest condolences.”

“Thank you,” Emma said quietly. “But let’s not dwell on it.”

Regina couldn’t look away. In those blue eyes, she saw not just grief—restrained and dignified—but strength. A kind of strength she herself lacked.

“Of course,” Eleanor nodded. “And your parents? They’re well, I hope?”

“They are, thank you.” A faint smile touched Emma’s lips. “My father doesn’t travel long distances anymore, and my mother decided to stay with him. Someone has to keep the household in order, after all.”

Eleanor’s brow twitched at the subtle hint of irony, but she inclined her head.

“I’ve recently taken over my brother’s position,” Emma went on, “and, truth be told, it was unexpected. There’s still a great deal for me to learn. But I’m grateful to have a family that supports me.”

“Quite right,” Charles said approvingly. “Family is the foundation of everything.”

“And if I may ask,” Eleanor added, voice smooth but probing, “you’re not married, Miss Swan?”

“No, I’m not.”

“How curious.” Eleanor tilted her head. “A beautiful, intelligent woman like you—no one has managed to capture your heart?”

Emma’s smile widened faintly.

“I’ve chosen to dedicate myself to my family and to the company. They need me more than ever right now.”

“How noble,” Charles remarked. “Running such an enterprise must be a tremendous responsibility. Your father must be incredibly proud of you.”

“I hope so,” Emma said softly.

“I’m certain he is,” Eleanor added. “Tell me, how long do you plan to stay in London?”

“It’s hard to say,” Emma replied. “It depends on how the negotiations progress. There’s still much for me to acquaint myself with.”

“I’m sure we’ll find common ground quickly,” Charles said with confidence.

“I expect we will,” Emma replied lightly.

“This is your first time in London, isn’t it?”

“It is. I’m hoping to see a bit of the city in the coming days.”

“Then allow me to offer you a guide,” Charles said with a knowing smile.

Emma raised an eyebrow. “You, Mr. Mills?”

He laughed. “Oh, I’m afraid I’d be dreadful company. But I think my daughter could show you the city far better than I could. Regina knows all its hidden charms.”

Regina felt the heat rise to her cheeks. She turned toward her father, her eyes pleading silently. But Emma’s expression softened into genuine delight.

“I’d be most grateful—if, of course, Miss Mills doesn’t mind.”

“What a question!” Charles chuckled. “Regina would be delighted to accompany you. Wouldn’t you, dear?”

Regina drew a slow breath, straightened, and said evenly, “Of course.”

“Excellent,” Charles said. “Then it’s settled.”

Emma didn’t take her eyes off Regina.

“Tell me, Miss Mills—do you have plans for tomorrow?”

“No, I don’t believe I do.”

“Perfect. I was planning a walk after lunch. I’d be happy if you joined me.”

“With pleasure, Miss Swan.”

“Then I’ll send a car for you,” Emma said.

Before she turned away, her gaze flicked briefly to Regina’s lips—so quick it might have gone unnoticed, but enough to make Regina’s heart stutter. Emma caught the change in her expression, and smiled. God, how I want to taste those lips again, she thought fleetingly.

But before anyone could see the thought behind her eyes, Emma turned sharply back to Eleanor.

“It was a pleasure, Mrs. Mills. Forgive me, but I must take my leave. Thank you again for the invitation, Mr. Mills.”

“Thank you for coming, Miss Swan,” Charles replied.

“Mr. Harrington,” she added politely.

“Good evening, Miss Swan,” Thomas said stiffly.

Emma nodded, then allowed herself one last glance at Regina before disappearing into the crowd.

As soon as she was gone, Charles turned to Thomas.

“Thomas, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like a quick word with my wife and daughter. Regina will rejoin you shortly.”

“Of course, sir,” Thomas said smoothly, though his tone was tight. “Ladies.” He inclined his head and walked toward the bar.

Once he was out of earshot, Eleanor turned sharply on her husband, her eyes flashing.

“I don’t understand you, Charles,” she hissed. “Why on earth did you insist that Regina accompany that… Miss Swan?”

“Why not?” Charles replied evenly, adjusting his cufflinks. “Miss Swan is a remarkable woman. I think it would do Regina good to spend time with her. Perhaps they might even become… friends.”

Regina said nothing, though her stomach turned at the word. Her father was right—Emma was fascinating. Under any other circumstances, she would have been thrilled at the chance to know her better. But now? After what had happened on the terrace? The thought unsettled her deeply.

“Friends?” Eleanor scoffed, gripping her glass tightly. “Nonsense. Regina doesn’t need acquaintances of that sort.” She paused, her voice sharpening. “What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking of what’s advantageous,” Charles said evenly but firmly. “Emma Swan is one of the key figures in maritime trade. Since her father handed her control, every major contract has gone through her. She’s young, yes, perhaps still learning—but her word carries weight. If we can secure her favor, it will strengthen our position. It could shape our future, Eleanor.”

Laughter and music filled the air around them, but within their small circle, tension settled like ice. Eleanor took a slow sip of champagne, struggling to mask her irritation.

“So yes,” Charles continued in a lower tone, “I thought it wise to offer Regina as Miss Swan’s companion while she’s in London. I trust you understand how important this is, my dear?”

“Of course, Father,” Regina said quietly, meeting his eyes with practiced respect.

“Good.” He nodded approvingly. “Miss Swan hasn’t shown much inclination toward partnership yet, so we must demonstrate that we’re the kind of people one can do business with—reliable, personable, sincere.”

“I still don’t like it, Charles,” Eleanor muttered through clenched teeth. “That woman—she has something about her. Something… defiant. Imagine what sort of influence she might have on our daughter.”

Charles sighed, patience waning.

“Whatever she is, we need her on our side. And we’ll do whatever it takes. Including you, Eleanor.”

Her eyes narrowed. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”

“I expect you to be gracious,” he said sharply. “Not a trace of disdain, not even a hint of it. I saw how you looked at her tonight. I understand you don’t like her—but that’s irrelevant.”

Eleanor huffed and turned back toward the hall, taking another sip.

“If it’s truly necessary,” she said coldly.

“It is,” Charles replied. Then, turning to Regina: “I trust tomorrow’s outing will go well. Invite Miss Swan to dinner afterward—but make it seem spontaneous, your idea entirely. Tell her it will be informal, just you, me, and your mother.”

Regina blinked, startled. Eleanor’s protest came instantly.

“Why not just invite her to move in with us while you’re at it?”

“Perhaps I would,” Charles snapped. “If it ensured our partnership. Do I make myself clear, Regina?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Good. Now—go back to your fiancé. I’m sure he’s missing you already.”

Regina allowed herself a faint, humorless smile. Thomas likely hadn’t even noticed her absence. But she said nothing, only nodded and turned away.

She knew she was beautiful—and that beauty never went unnoticed. Her skin was warm and smooth, her dark hair thick and lustrous, her eyes deep and expressive. Not tall, but perfectly proportioned, she had long since grown used to the way men’s eyes followed her. Some courted her father more than her, seeking not love but an alliance.

She had always known marriage would come one day—but none of the suitors had ever seemed “good enough,” at least not by her mother’s impossible standards. Eleanor had dismissed them all, one after another, until the decision was made for her.

Regina’s thoughts drifted back to that day—the day she learned the choice had already been made.

That day began like any other—cold, gray, with a faint mist drifting over the streets. Regina was returning home after a walk through Hyde Park with her friend, Elizabeth Moore. The two young women shared an umbrella, laughing as their shoes slapped softly against the damp pavement, chatting about books and the latest gossip. Elizabeth was cheerful and naïve, even a little dreamy. Unlike Regina, she found it easy to talk to people—especially men—and to make friends wherever she went. Bold and outspoken, she was the one person who had always understood Regina better than anyone else. With her, Regina could speak freely, about almost anything, without fear of judgment.

They entered the house, brushing raindrops from their coats. Warm air met them—a mix of tea, polished wood, and faint smoke from the hearth. Removing her gloves, Regina turned to the maid.

“Maria, please bring some tea to my room.”

“Of course, miss,” the maid replied and hurried toward the kitchen.

Regina and Elizabeth were about to go upstairs when a familiar, commanding voice called from the drawing room.

“Regina!”

She turned. Eleanor Mills stood in the doorway, immaculate as always in a cream-colored dress, every hair perfectly in place, her eyes gleaming. But this time, there was something more than disapproval in her gaze—something triumphant, almost excited.

“Regina, darling, where have you been?”

“I was in the park, with Elizabeth,” Regina answered calmly, though she already sensed where this conversation was heading.

“Why so long?” Eleanor sighed, a touch of irritation creeping into her tone. “I asked you not to be late today. Why do you never listen?”

“But Mother, I—”

“I don’t want to hear excuses,” Eleanor cut her off. Then, noticing Elizabeth shifting awkwardly beside her friend, she abruptly changed her tone to one of false brightness. “We have a guest, Regina. A very important guest. You must come greet him. Go and tidy yourself, then join us—it won’t take long.”

She turned to Elizabeth, smiling with polite constraint.

“I trust Mrs. Moore won’t mind waiting a few minutes?”

“Of course not, Mrs. Mills,” Elizabeth said quickly.

“Splendid.” Eleanor’s gaze snapped back to her daughter. “Do hurry, Regina. It’s quite rude to keep Mr. Harrington waiting.”

Regina went pale. Eleanor didn’t wait for a reply; she was already gone, back into the drawing room.

“Who is Mr. Harrington?” Elizabeth whispered as they started up the stairs.

Regina glanced at her friend, her eyes uneasy.

“I can’t say that I know,” she murmured, though her voice trembled slightly.

“You think it’s…?” Elizabeth trailed off.

Regina clenched her jaw and nodded.

“I hope not,” she whispered—but deep down, she already knew. Yes. It was exactly that.

She remembered how, over the past few weeks, her mother had increasingly spoken of “opportunities” and “fortunate matches.” She had heard the name in passing—Thomas Harrington. It often surfaced in her father’s conversations with business associates. A man with the reputation of a perfect gentleman—and a predator in the world of commerce. His wife had died several years ago, leaving no heirs. Ambitious, influential, accustomed to success, and, by all accounts, to getting everything he wanted.

Regina descended the stairs slowly, her composure carefully measured. The soft silk of her skirt brushed her knees, and the faint scent of jasmine clung to her like armor. She paused at the bottom step, drawing a steadying breath. From the drawing room came muffled voices—her mother’s laughter, her father’s lower timbre, and an unfamiliar, assured male baritone.

The Mills drawing room looked as though it had stepped out of an interior magazine—high ceilings, tall windows draped with heavy curtains, a grand fireplace, elegant antique furniture polished to a shine. Eleanor sat upright, hands folded on her lap, her eyes lighting with satisfaction as she saw her daughter. Beside her was Charles Mills; opposite them, their guest—Thomas Harrington.

He rose when Regina entered. Tall, broad-shouldered, his dark hair trimmed close, touched with silver at the temples. His suit was perfectly tailored, his tie subtle, his watch gleaming gold. His gaze swept over Regina, quick and assessing—not like a man looking at a woman, but like a buyer appraising something already his.

“Miss Mills,” he said with a faint smile, stepping closer. “It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”

He took her hand, holding it a heartbeat longer than courtesy required, and brushed it with his lips. Regina smiled faintly.

“Mr. Harrington,” she replied politely. “The pleasure is mine.”

His eyes flickered with quiet satisfaction.

“You look lovely,” he added. It sounded less like a compliment and more like a statement of fact.

“Thank you,” Regina murmured, lowering her gaze, determined to show neither discomfort nor irritation.

The maid entered silently with a tray of tea. China cups clinked softly as she set them down. Eleanor’s approving glance made it clear everything was proceeding precisely as she had planned.

“We were just discussing the future, darling,” Eleanor said, turning toward her daughter. “Mr. Harrington has been kind enough to share his thoughts on certain upcoming ventures.”

Charles nodded, lifting his cup.

“Yes, it’s time you knew, Regina,” he said, the tone of a man discussing a contract. “We’ve decided to unite our businesses. I believe it will be profitable for both parties.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” said Thomas, his attention fixed on Charles though his smile seemed directed at them all. “I’m very pleased to have found such a promising partner.”

Regina took a sip of tea, exhaling quietly. A wave of relief washed through her. So that was all—business. No talk of marriage. She even smiled faintly.

“Congratulations, Father. That’s wonderful news.”

But then she caught her mother’s expression—that smile. Not merely pleased. Triumphant. Dangerous. Eleanor’s eyes shifted from her daughter to Thomas, and Regina’s heart tightened.

“Next Saturday,” Charles went on, “there’s a reception to mark the opening of the new trading season—at Lord Bromley’s London residence. The Admiralty will be represented, a few foreign partners as well, and, of course, the heads of the major shipping companies. We’ve been invited.” He smiled. “It’ll be the perfect occasion to announce our partnership with Mr. Harrington.”

Thomas set his cup down, turning toward her with practiced grace.

“Miss Mills,” he said evenly, “would you do me the honor of accompanying me to the reception?”

The words were calm—too calm. Not a request, not an invitation, but a declaration. Regina blinked, searching for an answer, but her mother was faster.

“Of course she will,” Eleanor said sweetly, her tone lined with steel.

Thomas nodded in satisfaction, not even glancing at Regina.

“Excellent.”

Her throat felt dry. She hadn’t spoken, yet no one seemed to notice—or care.

“My apologies, but I really must be going,” Thomas said, rising. “Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. Mills.” He bowed slightly to Eleanor. “And to you, Charles.”

He shook Charles’s hand, then turned back to Regina.

“Good evening, Miss Mills.”

She rose as well, her movements smooth, composed.

“Good evening, Mr. Harrington.”

His lips curved in a hint of a smirk.

“Please—Thomas.”

She hesitated. “Of course… Thomas.”

He looked her over one last time—long, deliberate—and without another word, strode toward the door.

When it closed behind him, silence descended. Heavy. Tangible. Filled with something Regina couldn’t name—perhaps dread. Perhaps inevitability.

Eleanor leaned back in her chair, satisfied, as though she’d just secured a long-awaited victory.

Regina turned to leave, desperate to retreat upstairs, but her mother’s voice cut through the air—sharp, commanding.

“Regina. Sit down, please.”

It wasn’t a request. Regina froze, her fingers gripping the fold of her skirt. She sat across from her mother, obediently. Eleanor gave a small nod. Charles, avoiding his wife’s eyes, lit his pipe. The scent of tobacco and sandalwood filled the air—a smell Regina usually found comforting. Tonight, it made her stomach twist.

“As I said,” Charles began, his tone even, “this partnership is important—for us and for Mr. Harrington. It’s a sound deal. It’ll strengthen our standing, attract new investors, build trust in the market.” He spoke as though she were a colleague rather than a daughter. “I trust you understand that, my dear?”

“Of course, Father,” Regina said quietly.

He nodded, sending a perfect ring of smoke into the air.

“I haven’t known Mr. Harrington long,” he continued, “but I’ve already had the pleasure of working with him. He’s intelligent, composed, and knows his trade. With him, our business will thrive. In fact, I’m certain his future will be brilliant.”

That smile again—Eleanor’s sharp, knowing smile. Regina’s pulse quickened. Charles paused, then fixed his gaze on her.

“So, when he mentioned his intention to ask for your hand…” He drew on his pipe, then exhaled slowly. “I had no reason to hesitate.”

There it was. The words she had dreaded.

Eleanor clapped her hands softly, her voice bright with triumph.

“Isn’t it wonderful, Regina? Such a charming man—many young ladies would envy you. And rightly so! A brilliant match. You’re a lucky girl, my dear. He chose you.”

Regina swallowed hard, forcing a smile that felt like glass. The words sounded like praise—but they fell like a sentence.

Charles peered at her over his glasses.

“You’re not pleased?”

“I… I just didn’t expect it,” she managed.

“Of course she’s pleased,” Eleanor interjected smoothly. “Don’t be silly, darling. What do you mean, you didn’t expect it? You’re long overdue for marriage. If not for the university, you’d already—”

“Eleanor,” Charles interrupted, gently but with weariness.

Eleanor exhaled through her nose, briefly losing her composure, then straightened again.

“Well,” she said crisply, “perhaps it’s for the best that we waited. Now you’ll marry a man truly worthy of you.”

Charles nodded in agreement.

“I expect Mr. Harrington will make his formal proposal at the reception,” he said. “I’m telling you now so you won’t be taken by surprise. I trust you’ll respond appropriately. I won’t tolerate any unpleasantness, Regina.”

“Proposal?” Regina’s voice faltered. “But Father… I hardly know him. Isn’t it too soon?”

Charles frowned.

“The decision is made, Regina. There’s no reason to delay. After all it’s only an engagement. You’ll have time to get acquainted before the wedding.”

“Your father’s right,” Eleanor added. “I don’t see what you’re hesitating about.”

“I just…” Regina trailed off, realizing anything she said would only make it worse.

“Regina,” her mother’s voice hardened, “you must understand—we want what’s best for you. You’re still young and inexperienced. In matters like these, it’s wiser to trust our judgment.”

Regina lowered her gaze. Her throat felt tight, as though she’d swallowed something sharp.

“Of course, Mother,” she whispered. “May I go now?”

“You may,” Eleanor said. “And I hope by tomorrow you’ll have found a bit more… enthusiasm. No one wants to see a gloomy face at such an important event.”

Chapter Text

Black Beauty - Lana Del Rey ‧ 2014

Emma returned to the hotel not very late that night, yet she made no move to go to bed — she couldn’t have slept even if she tried. For the first time in months, she didn’t want to close her eyes. Sleep felt far too pale compared to what she’d felt while awake.

She walked to the window and looked out at London — it truly was beautiful. Another elegant reception, another glittering city, another round of introductions. And yet, no light, no view of the night skyline could outshine her — Regina Mills.

Emma closed her eyes for a moment, and everything came rushing back with startling clarity. The terrace. The cool evening air. The faint scent of jasmine. That voice, poised and rich with quiet dignity. And those eyes — dark, deep, endless as the night sky. She remembered the sudden jolt in her chest, the way her heart had leapt as though trying to escape her ribcage, and how, for one fleeting instant, the whole world had fallen away when she stood so close to Regina.

A faint smile touched Emma’s lips. Never before had she met a woman who left such an impression. No one had ever made her feel such… unrest. There was something elusive about Regina — a rare balance of grace and strength, a restrained passion hidden beneath immaculate composure. She spoke simply, yet every word carried weight, every glance concealed a secret that demanded to be unraveled.

And yet, that wasn’t what had captivated Emma most. No, what truly disarmed her was the way Regina looked at her — as though seeing, for the first time, someone capable of shaking the foundation of her world. There had been no pretense in that gaze, only a flicker of wonder… and perhaps an interest that Emma had felt in every nerve, every breath.

She remembered the moment it happened — how her hand brushed Regina’s cheek, how their breaths mingled, and how, before she could think, she kissed her. God, it had felt so natural. Not a trace of hesitation, not a flicker of guilt — only warmth, only the strange, exhilarating sense that for once, everything in the world had fallen into place.

Then came confusion. Emma recalled the look in Regina’s eyes — wide, startled — the uneven breath, the trembling lips.

What was that? she wondered. Was she afraid someone might see us? Or was it just the surprise? What truly unsettled her — the kiss itself, or the fact that I acted without a word, without even asking her name? Perhaps I misinterpreted the moment? Perhaps I made a mistake?

Emma remembered stepping back, not daring to reach for her again. Of course she’d apologized — quietly, instinctively. And then Regina had gone — no, fled — and Emma had known it. She’d understood that her impulsive gesture had startled the brunette, but, oh God, how desperately she wanted to believe that what she’d felt had been real. That it hadn’t been one-sided. Emotion surged through her, fierce and unrelenting, and only after Regina disappeared beyond the door did Emma finally let herself smile again.

Who is she, she thought, this woman? Why did a single touch feel so right — more real than any memory, any joy, any loss? Why do I crave her voice again, her smile?

“Regina…” Emma whispered, savoring the name like something precious. 

She sighed, resting her hands on the windowsill, and looked once more at the glittering lights of the city. Somewhere out there, beyond the roofs and winding streets, Regina might also be awake — perhaps even thinking of her. The thought sent a strange flutter through Emma’s chest.

For the first time in a very long while — since the day she lost her brother, the day her life and her family’s had changed forever — she felt something alive.

A fragile spark of happiness. Emma allowed herself to smile — softly, but genuinely.

***

Emma sat quietly in the car as the city drifted past her window — palm trees sliding by like ghosts, an occasional passerby blurred by the heat and the light. Everything seemed unreal, as though she were watching an old film flicker on worn celluloid. Los Angeles, the city she had always called home, suddenly felt foreign.

Beside her sat Abigail. She held a pair of black gloves in her hands, twisting them nervously, unsure of what to say. She had known Emma since childhood, long enough to understand that silence was kinder than any attempt at comfort — at least for now. The car was driven by Frank, their family’s long-serving chauffeur, who had worked for the Swans longer than Emma could remember. He said nothing either, only glanced now and then into the rearview mirror, as though checking that Miss Swan was still there, that she hadn’t disappeared entirely into her thoughts.

“Almost home, Miss,” he said quietly.

Emma only nodded, her eyes still fixed on the passing scenery. In the distance, she could already see the familiar white facade, the tall columns, the perfect green of the front lawn — the house where everything would now be different.

The funeral had ended less than an hour ago. People still lingered by the cemetery gates, speaking in hushed tones, dabbing at red eyes, murmuring words that sounded hollow even in their sincerity. Everyone spoke of the man who had left the world far too soon.

Edward Swan had been five years older than Emma — only thirty-two. Charming, confident, admired by everyone who met or worked with him. He could share a joke with dockworkers in the morning and dine with a senator by night. People said his future was bright, that he would become not only the face of the family company but of a new generation of American businessmen.

And now he was gone. A sudden plane crash. Los Angeles to San Francisco. A flight meant to last just over an hour had become a headline, a tragedy.

Emma still couldn’t believe it. It felt like a mistake, a nightmare that couldn’t possibly be real. Any minute now, she told herself, the phone would ring, and she would hear his voice again. But the phone never rang. And with every passing day, it became clearer — Edward wasn’t coming back.

They turned into the long drive lined with evergreens. The house was already prepared for the wake; staff stood by the gates, ready to receive guests — friends, colleagues, and mourners.

Emma had always hated such gatherings — that polite grief, those well-dressed condolences, the way people clinked glasses of brandy and reminisced about the deceased as if he’d simply gone on a business trip.

She stepped out of the car. The sunlight hit her eyes, far too bright, too alive for a day like this. Abigail came around the car and reached for her hand.

“Em, do you want me to go in with you?”

“No,” Emma said quietly. “I need to be with them.”

The hall was crowded. Faces she’d known since childhood — family friends, business partners, neighbors — all looked at her with the same mix of sympathy and curiosity.

On the staircase stood Alice, Edward’s widow, in a black dress, her face pale and drawn. In her arms, little Christian clung to her shoulder, his small fingers curled into the fabric of her dress.

By the fireplace stood Richard Swan, the patriarch — once unshakable, now looking a decade older. His hands trembled slightly as he poured himself another glass of whiskey. Beside him, Marion Swan looked every inch the perfect hostess, composed and elegant. But Emma knew better — she could feel the quiet fracture behind her mother’s poise.

“Father. Mother,” Emma said softly, stopping beside them.

Marion turned, her tone sharp but not unkind. “Why so long, Emma? Everyone’s been asking for you.”

“I’m sorry, Mother,” Emma murmured, taking her mother’s hand. Marion’s grip was gentle but trembling.

“God forbid something should happen to you too…” Marion whispered.

“Mom, please, don’t,” Emma interrupted softly.

Marion sighed, but said nothing more. Emma’s gaze drifted across the room — over the mourners, over the photographs, over her brother’s portrait on the wall. She hadn’t cried much. She couldn’t. When the news came, something inside her had simply frozen.

Since Edward’s death, she’d felt the ground beneath her shift. He had been the heir, the one destined to carry the family name and lead the company. Emma had always been the younger sister — intelligent, ambitious, but still a woman in a man’s world.

She had studied economics and international relations at Columbia. She’d worked beside her father and brother, attended meetings, prepared reports, analyzed figures. She understood business as well as any man in their circle — perhaps better. But leadership had never been meant for her. That seat had always belonged to Edward.

Edward had been everything a father could want in a son — capable, charming, reliable. He had everything Emma longed for and could never claim: legacy, admiration, purpose. Her envy had never been bitter; it was quieter, gentler — the sorrow of someone who knows that life is unfair and accepts it anyway.

But now, all of that had changed.

The kitchen was warm, filled with the scent of coffee and cinnamon — life, stubborn and ordinary, went on even in grief. Emma walked through, ignoring the glances from the staff, pushed open the back door, and stepped outside.

On the porch stood an old ashtray, a few stools, and a metal bucket filled with sand. It was where the servants smoked — and sometimes Emma herself, whenever she needed to escape her parents and the endless expectations.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a pack of Chesterfields — the same kind Edward had always smoked. He’d sneak them from their father’s study when she was younger, hand her one with a grin, whispering, “Don’t tell Mom,” before striking a match.

Emma lit up and closed her eyes. The smoke was sharp, bitter — steeped in memory. She had always tried to be like her brother. In the way she spoke, the way she held a glass, the way she met someone’s eyes without flinching. Edward commanded respect effortlessly. Emma had studied that her whole life. Her father respected her mind, her mother praised her manners, but they both knew: a daughter could never replace a son.

Marion had spent years trying to shape her into a perfect lady. But Emma had always resisted — stubbornly, instinctively. Dresses never felt like her. She preferred tailored suits, crisp shirts, clean lines. Sometimes even a tie. Elegant, but unyielding. Her mother used to sigh and shake her head.

“Emma, you’re such a beautiful girl. Why hide it?”

Emma’s reply was always the same.

“I’m not hiding. I just don’t want to be someone I’m not.”

She finished her cigarette, flicked the ash into the tray, and shoved her hands into her pockets. She didn’t want to go back inside — not to the condolences, not to the pretense. She wanted to mourn in silence, to remember her brother, to listen to the faint sound of the ocean beyond the garden.

She stood there for a while, watching the children in the distance playing on the grass, blissfully unaware of loss, when she heard a familiar voice behind her.

“Emma?”

She turned. Abigail stood in the doorway — small, graceful, with soft features and warm brown eyes. Where Emma was sharp and self-contained, Abigail radiated calm and warmth.

Abigail was two years younger. Their parents had been friends for decades; the girls had grown up almost as sisters. But life had taken them in different directions. Abigail had married early — a good, respectable man from a prominent family. She didn’t work and had never seemed to want to. Her days were filled with teas, luncheons, and correspondence — yet there was no emptiness in her, no pretense. She lived as she was expected to — and did it effortlessly.

Still, beneath that softness, there was a quiet strength that Emma had always admired. Abigail knew everything about her — her anger, her fear, her dreams, the nights when she couldn’t sleep, consumed by thoughts of how unfair the world could be.

Abigail never judged. Never tried to fix her. She simply was there. And maybe that was why Emma trusted her more than anyone else.

“Abigail,” Emma said, a faint smile touching her lips. “You found me.”

“Didn’t have to look far,” Abigail replied gently, stepping down onto the porch. “I knew if you ran away, you’d come here.”

She reached out and laid a hand on Emma’s shoulder.

“How are you?” she asked softly.

Emma exhaled slowly, her eyes fixed on the horizon.

“I don’t know,” she said quietly. “I suppose… as well as I can be. It still doesn’t feel real.”

“I know,” Abigail nodded. “It doesn’t for me either.”

Emma frowned slightly, staring out toward the garden.

“Poor Alice.”

Abigail’s gaze softened as Emma went on.

“She and Edward — they were so happy. I’ve never seen two people love each other so openly, so easily. And now she’s alone. And Christian…” Emma’s voice faltered, but she steadied it. “He’ll never remember what a good man his father was. He’ll never know him.”

Abigail gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“But he still has a mother. And Alice still has family. What happened is cruel, but they have you, Emma. They have your parents. You won’t let Christian forget who his father was.”

Emma’s lips curved into a sad smile, but she said nothing.

“It’s just… unfair,” she whispered at last. “Edward always knew where he was going. He was everything to Father. And now… I don’t even know what happens next.”

Abigail looked away for a moment, thoughtful.

“We’ll just keep living, Emma. Somehow, things find their way back to balance.”

Emma turned to her, and in her eyes flickered something new — a quiet resolve.

“I hope so,” she said honestly. “Though I can’t imagine how.”

Abigail sighed and smiled faintly — sad, but steady.

“You’ll manage, Emma. You always do.”

Emma smiled back — small, genuine.

They stood in silence for a few moments. Then Abigail spoke again:

“Your mother was looking for you.”

“I’m sure she was,” Emma said with a faint smirk. “She wants everything to be perfect, as always.”

“That sounds about right.”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I thought you could use a few more minutes out here — away from everyone.”

Emma gave her a grateful look, straightened her shoulders, and turned toward the door.

“Thank you, Abby.”

“For what?”

“For everything.”

Abigail didn’t reply. She only nodded, her expression warm and knowing.

Hearing - Sleeping at Last ‧ 2019

The following evening was the exact opposite. The house felt utterly empty — so still, so dark, that it seemed almost abandoned. Only the soft ticking of the old grandfather clock by the staircase and the faint glow seeping through the half-open door of Richard Swan’s study gave the place any trace of life.

Emma knocked.

“Yes,” came the familiar voice.

Richard Swan sat behind his great walnut desk, spectacles perched on his nose, bent over a stack of papers. The lamp cast a warm amber light across his face, catching the silver strands in his hair. The air smelled of tobacco, leather, and aged whiskey — a scent Emma had always associated with her father and with power itself. It had filled her with awe and quiet fear since childhood.

When he looked up and saw her, he smiled faintly. Removing his glasses, he set them atop a folder and leaned back in his chair.

“Emma.”

“Father. You wanted to speak with me?”

“I did.” He gestured toward the chair across from him. “Sit down, please.”

Emma crossed the room and settled carefully into the leather seat. Richard rose, went to the small bar along the wall, and poured two glasses of whiskey from a crystal decanter. Returning, he set one before his daughter and kept the other for himself.

Emma turned the glass slowly in her hands, watching the liquid catch the lamplight, then took a small sip. The burn cleared her thoughts.

“Emma,” Richard began, his voice measured, “I’d like to discuss your future.”

“My future?” she repeated, raising an eyebrow.

“Exactly. Now that your brother is gone… things will change.”

Emma lowered her gaze. “Father, I understand, but perhaps this isn’t the right time for that kind of talk.”

He shook his head. “On the contrary, this is precisely the time. My first duty is to the family — to ensure that you are all cared for when I’m no longer able to be. And to the company. Our choices affect many lives, Emma; our responsibility extends far beyond ourselves. I always believed Edward would take my place. I was proud — so proud — and grateful for it. But circumstances have… shifted. Now I must decide who will step into his role, who will lead until young Christian comes of age. Unfortunately…” — he paused — “I fear I will not live to see that day.”

“Don’t say that,” Emma whispered sharply, lifting her eyes to his.

He raised a hand, silencing her.

“You know as well as I do that my health is failing. As long as I still have my wits about me, I must set things in order — especially for you.”

Emma sighed, irritation flickering beneath her grief. “And what exactly do you intend to do? Marry me off to someone suitable?”

A faint, tired smile touched his lips. He took a sip of whiskey, his eyes softening.

“Tell me, Emma — is that what you want?”

She let out a short, humorless laugh and looked away. “I think you already know the answer.”

“Yes,” he said with a small nod. “Your mother and I would both be glad if you ever chose that path. Though we long ago stopped pressing you, she still hopes someone will come along who can win your heart.”

Emma rolled her eyes.

Richard chuckled quietly, then grew serious again. “But we both know no one can make you do anything against your will. And I gave you my word, Emma — I will never try. What I meant to speak of tonight is something quite different.”

She straightened slightly. “What is it, Father?”

“The company.” He leaned forward, resting his hands on the desk. “I’ve made my decision. You are to take Edward’s place, Emma.”

For a moment, Emma could only stare at him. “What…?”

“You heard me,” he said calmly. “You’ve been involved in our operations for years. I know how much you helped Edward with key decisions lately. You understand the system, you have the mind for it — sharp, disciplined. Edward was an excellent leader, and I was proud of him. But now, it’s your turn.”

Emma struggled for words. “Are you certain? The partners, the board — they’ll never accept a woman at the head of the company.”

Richard’s mouth curved faintly. “Since when have you cared what others think? You’re my daughter — a Swan. No one will dare object. Our name is carved on the building’s stone, and our word still carries weight.”

She looked away, torn between pride and apprehension.

“You are my only hope now, Emma. When I’m gone, the future of both the company and our family will rest with you. Your mother will need you more than she can admit — she’s stubborn, just like you, but she’ll rely on you. And Alice and Christian… they’ll need someone to look after them too.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” Emma said quietly. “I’m not going anywhere. They’re my family.”

“I know.” He nodded. “And I trust you’ll prepare Christian when the time comes for him to take over.”

“Of course, Father.”

He hesitated for a moment. “Only—” 

“What is it?”

“If you ever have children of your own, the choice will be yours — whether to pass the company on or not. From now on, it’s all in your hands.”

Emma gave a wry smile. “That’s one concern you can probably cross off the list.”

“Still,” Richard said softly, “it needed to be said.”

“Christian is the heir, Father. He’s a boy. The company will be his by right. I’ll never have children.”

“Don’t be so certain.” His tone was firm but warm. “Whatever you believe, you and Edward were always equals to me. If I hadn’t believed that, I’d never have let you work beside him. Perhaps I once wished you a different life — but I love you, Emma. And I want you to be happy. I wouldn’t entrust you with this if I didn’t believe it’s what you were meant to do. You have every right to it — as much as your brother ever did.”

Emma looked at him — her strong, exacting father — and felt a surge of pride, gratitude, and something deeper still. 

“Thank you, Father,” she said quietly.

Richard nodded and allowed himself a faint smile. “Time is short, so you’ll need to begin immediately. Edward was meant to go to London to finalize the deal with our British partners. It’s an important one. I can’t make the trip myself, so you’ll go in his place.”

Emma frowned. “To London? Alone?”

“Not entirely. You’ll be accompanied by Mr. Holt, our legal counsel, and my secretary. But the negotiations will be yours to lead. The decisions will be yours to make — if you find it necessary to amend or even cancel the agreement, you’ll have full authority to do so.”

She set her glass down. “What if I fail? What if I misjudge the situation? I’ve never handled a negotiation of this scale on my own.”

“All the better,” Richard replied evenly. “Then it’s time you learned. You know how everything works, and you’re stronger than you think. Besides, it will be the perfect opportunity to prove yourself. If you succeed — and I have no doubt you will — no one will ever question your place again.”

Emma was silent for a moment, then drew a deep breath and nodded.

Richard’s eyes softened with approval. “Tomorrow we’ll go to the office and begin preparations. Your flight leaves in three weeks.” 

He slid his glasses back on and turned to his papers, while Emma sat motionless, a quiet tremor running through her — not of fear, but of something far more alive: anticipation.

Finally, she stood, finished her drink, and said softly, “I won’t fail you, Father.”

Richard looked up, meeting her gaze. “I know you won’t, Emma. I never doubted it for a moment.”

***

Emma knew exactly why she had come to London. There was only one purpose — negotiations, a contract, the strengthening of the family legacy. The weight of responsibility laid upon her after the tragedy had become both her armor and her burden. She knew her role well: to be strong, composed, and utterly unshakable.

And yet… now everything felt different.

For the first time in a long while, something had entered her life that had nothing to do with business or duty — something thrilling, unpredictable. Regina. The name itself played in her mind like a melody — soft, but impossibly piercing.

Emma smiled faintly at the thought, though the smile didn’t last. The memory came back in a flash — that moment when she had returned to the ballroom. The music, the applause, the low hum of conversation, the bright light of the chandeliers — and her. Regina stood in the center of the room, radiant, otherworldly, her eyes widening for the briefest second when Thomas Harrington slipped the ring onto her finger.

The world seemed to stop.

Emma remembered the sharp, painful thud of her heart, the way her breath caught. Everything she had felt only minutes before — the certainty, the warmth, the wild, fragile belief that something real had passed between them — all of it shattered.

If earlier she had been sure that Regina had returned her kiss, that her hesitation had sprung from surprise, not fear, she now couldn’t trust that certainty anymore. Perhaps she had misunderstood everything? Perhaps Regina’s reaction had been nothing but politeness — a flicker of confusion, a touch of pity for an awkward mistake?

But the more Emma replayed that moment, the more fiercely she rejected the thought.

No. She hadn’t imagined it.

What had happened between them had been real. That kiss had not been an accident.

Regina hadn’t pulled away — quite the opposite. She had responded. Hesitant, unsure, but she had responded.

And yet — that damned engagement.

Emma turned from the window and walked to the small table where a bottle of whiskey waited. The amber liquid gleamed softly under the lamplight as she poured herself a glass. She took a sip, then another. The contradiction inside her grew sharper with every swallow.

If Regina had agreed to marry him, did that mean what happened between them had meant nothing?

But then — that look.

The way her smile had vanished the moment their eyes met. What was that? Guilt? Fear? Or restraint?

One thing Emma knew for certain — there had been no joy in Regina’s expression when the ring slid onto her finger. Perhaps she hadn’t wanted this engagement at all. Perhaps it had been arranged, required of her — the will of her family, not her heart.

Emma could still see it so clearly — Regina’s face, pale and uncertain, her delicate fingers clasping together, her eyes clouded not with happiness, but with something else entirely. Emma had seen it. Felt it. Every instinct in her screamed it wasn’t consent — it was surrender.

“She doesn’t want this,” Emma whispered under her breath, as though afraid the sound itself might break the fragile truth.

A stubborn, desperate spark ignited inside her chest. She couldn’t let it end like this. Not now. Not after what she’d felt.

A fiancée is not yet a wife.

The thought flashed across her mind, and a faint, almost defiant smile curved her lips.

Maybe fate was giving her a chance — reckless, dangerous, but a chance nonetheless. And if there was even the slightest possibility of seeing those eyes again, hearing that voice, feeling once more the way the world seemed to come alive in her presence — she would not let it slip away.

Emma set the glass down, drew in a deep breath, and looked at her reflection in the mirror opposite her. In her eyes burned something new — determination, stubbornness, and a quiet, unmistakable promise.

Chapter Text

The Curse - Agnes Obel ‧ 2013

Regina barely slept that night. Lying awake in the dark, tangled in cool silk sheets, she kept turning from side to side, unable to find rest. Her thoughts, stubborn and insistent, kept returning to the terrace — to that moment when she met Emma Swan. To the warmth of her voice, the kind one could listen to endlessly. To the direct, almost burning look in her eyes. And to that one instant when everything changed.

To the kiss.

Just the memory of their lips touching sent a tremor down Regina’s spine. She closed her eyes, pressing her fingers to her mouth as if she could still feel Emma’s lingering warmth there.

What on earth am I doing?

She tried to convince herself it was nothing — a foolish impulse, a meaningless accident — yet her mind betrayed her, replaying every detail: the way Emma looked at her, the rush of her own heartbeat, the air between them turning dense, electric.

Her thoughts refused to quiet. Of course she’d wanted to meet Emma — long before that evening. The name had appeared in newspapers and business journals often enough: Emma Swan, new head of Swan Shipping — the heiress who took control of an empire. Young, confident, untouchable. In photographs, she always looked composed, almost aloof.

Regina couldn’t quite understand what had drawn her in. Perhaps it was because Emma wasn’t like the women Regina usually met — she was different. Free. A woman who seemed to live by her own rules, unburdened by society’s expectations. Or maybe it was the simple fact that Emma possessed what Regina herself had never been allowed to claim — recognition, authority, her own voice in a world that still expected women to stay silent.

Or maybe… it was much simpler than that?

Emma Swan was beautiful — devastatingly so. There was strength and composure in every movement, a quiet audacity that made her impossible to look away from.

Regina’s eyes flew open, as though she could scold herself back to reason. Stop it. Don’t be ridiculous. Was she really thinking… that she found Emma attractive?

No. Of course not. That couldn’t be.

…Could it?

But the moment she even thought it, something inside her ached in response. And if it’s true?

Her fingers clutched at the sheets as another shiver ran through her body. The scent of Emma’s skin, the sound of her laughter — everything returned with unnerving clarity.

“Oh God,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “What’s wrong with me?”

The memory struck again — Emma’s lips, their shared breath, that fleeting second when the world simply ceased to exist. Regina remembered the shock, the hesitation — and then, how natural it had felt to respond. To want it.

“No,” she murmured, burying her face in the pillow. “No, it was a mistake.”

But even she didn’t believe her own words.

Tomorrow she’d have to see Emma again — spend an entire day with her. And what will I say? Pretend nothing happened? But what if Emma mentions it? What could I possibly answer? Should I call it a misunderstanding?

Regina sighed and ran a hand over her face. She already knew she wouldn’t be able to pretend. Not after what she’d felt.

If only she could forget.

Her brow furrowed. Her breath came shallow. Could it be that the kiss hadn’t been an accident at all? That Emma had truly wanted to?

Her hand moved through her hair as a flush crept up her cheeks. From the very beginning, Regina had wanted to impress Emma — she could admit that much. But she’d told herself it was simple curiosity, an attempt to earn the favor of a powerful woman, to start a friendship. Now everything felt far less innocent.

Did Emma find me attractive too?

She liked the way Emma looked at her — intently, searchingly. She liked her calm voice, her quiet confidence. And God help her, she wanted Emma to find her beautiful.

Maybe she did. After all, Emma had kissed her.

But why? What did it mean? And what would happen now, when we met again?

Regina pressed a pillow to her chest, her pulse quickening.

What if we’re alone? What if she looks at me like that again?

“Oh, God…” she breathed, almost silently.

She hoped Emma wouldn’t remember. Or that she would pretend not to. And if she did — Regina would say it meant nothing, that it was best forgotten. Yes, that would be the sensible thing to do.

And yet, deep down, Regina knew the truth.

She would never forget.

Not ever.

***

The car sent for Regina suited Emma perfectly — a sleek, polished black Bentley Mark VI, gleaming like a midnight mirror. Chrome details glinted like silver; the leather interior carried a faint scent of tobacco and fine wax. Regina’s gaze traced the flawless stitching along the seats, the dark wood panels — she’d ridden in luxury cars before, but never had she felt such a strange, nervous anticipation.

Her heart was beating far too fast. Her gloved hands trembled slightly around the small gray clutch. She tried to sit straight, to compose herself — as though posture could replace confidence — but her thoughts only grew more tangled. What am I doing here? Why did I agree to this? What could I possibly say to the woman who, with a single kiss, managed to shatter and remake my entire world?

The car slowed to a smooth halt. The driver — an older man in a pressed uniform and white gloves — glanced back over his shoulder.

“We’ve arrived, Miss Mills,” he said politely.

Regina lifted her eyes to the window. They were on St. James’s Street, in the heart of old London — a place where time seemed to move more gracefully, and everything smelled faintly of oak and rain. Before her stood a stately stone building crowned with a gilded sign: The Beaumont Room — one of the city’s oldest restaurants, known since the late 19th century, where ministers, writers, and aristocrats had dined for generations.

The door was opened for her by a man in a black suit and cap. “Miss Mills,” he said with a courteous bow. “Welcome.”

Regina drew a deep breath and stepped out. She adjusted her glove and crossed the threshold. A tall maître d’, impeccably groomed with silver hair and a practiced smile, greeted her.

“Good afternoon, Miss Mills,” he said, inclining his head. “Miss Swan is already waiting for you.”

“Thank you,” she replied softly, her voice steady only by force of will.

The moment she stepped inside, a peculiar stillness met her. The restaurant was empty. Warm light filtered through the curtains, catching on polished wood and gleaming glass. Heavy crimson drapes framed the tall windows. The air was filled with quiet anticipation. And there, at a small table by the window, sat Emma Swan.

She wore a pale beige blouse with the sleeves casually rolled, light brown trousers pressed into perfect lines, and almost no jewelry. Her hair was tied back in a low ponytail, a few loose strands framing her face. In front of her lay a folded newspaper and a cup of coffee, steam still curling above it.

If Regina hadn’t known who she was looking at, she might have thought the woman before her was simply an employee taking a quiet break before opening time.

At first glance, there was nothing remarkable about her — and yet, Emma was too calm. Too sure of herself in her simplicity, and that very ease made her all the more dangerous. There was no telling what she might say or do next.

Regina drew a slow, steadying breath — and began to walk toward the table.

The Nearness of You - Julie London

“Miss Swan,” Regina said softly, stopping just a few steps away.

Emma looked up. The faintest, most genuine smile curved her lips as she folded the newspaper neatly and set it aside — though her eyes never left Regina.

Regina looked impeccable. She wore a light gray suit: a tailored jacket that defined her waist and a midi skirt that traced her hips before flaring ever so slightly toward the hem. On her feet — black heels, modest but elegant, and matching gloves. Her hair was swept into an exquisite chignon beneath a small hat, and pearls shimmered faintly at her neck and ears. Her lips — a perfect shade of red.

That red.

Emma’s gaze lingered — first on the graceful line of Regina’s neck, then on those lips. The memory of last night’s kiss returned with startling clarity, and for a heartbeat, her breath caught.

When their eyes met again, something flickered between them — something wordless, dangerous, magnetic.

God… you’re beautiful, Emma thought, her smile trembling for just an instant before she masked it with her usual quiet composure. Rising from her seat, she took a few steps forward.

“Regina. Hello,” she said, doing her best to sound casual.

“Good afternoon, Miss Swan,” Regina replied, her tone flawlessly polite, as if good manners could hide her unease.

“Please — just Emma,” she said with an easy smile, though she didn’t press the point when she sensed the brunette’s restraint. “Come, sit down.”

Emma pulled out a chair for her. Regina nodded gracefully, placing her small purse on the side table before removing her gloves and setting them down. Emma watched her every movement — how she smoothed her skirt, adjusted her jacket, bit her lip ever so slightly as if to steady herself. Every gesture was poised, precise, practiced.

In that moment, Emma knew with absolute certainty — meeting Regina hadn’t been chance. And it could never become something as trivial as a fleeting fascination. It already felt like something far deeper.

She had wanted to see her again — truly wanted it. And now, with Regina sitting before her — radiant, composed, almost unreal in her beauty — Emma wished this day would never end.

“You look stunning, Regina,” she said at last. Her voice was gentle, but there was something in her tone — a warmth that reached beyond mere politeness. 

“Thank you,” Regina replied, keeping her voice steady though her throat tightened.

Emma’s smile deepened, tender and unguarded. “Are you hungry?” she asked, resting one elbow lightly on the table.

“I… not particularly. I thought we were going for a walk,” Regina said, her composure returning by habit.

“And we are,” Emma nodded, glancing aside with a touch of embarrassment. “I just thought we might get something to eat first. I was running a bit late.”

“That’s quite reasonable,” Regina said, offering a polite smile.

“Still, I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”

“It’s all right,” Regina said, smiling faintly — that perfect social smile, though this time it softened at the edges.

Emma exhaled, a quiet hint of relief in her breath, and with a trace of nervous humor said, “I only hope it hasn’t changed your opinion of me.”

Regina arched an elegant brow, the corner of her lips curving ever so slightly. Is she joking? After what happened between us last night, what opinion could she possibly think I have?

“To be honest,” Regina said after a pause, “I thought perhaps you’d agreed to my father’s suggestion out of politeness… and then changed your mind.”

“I would never do that,” Emma said quietly, sincerity cutting through every word. She met Regina’s gaze — steady, open. “I’m truly glad you agreed to show me the city, Regina. And to be completely honest… I’m just glad to see you again.”

The words hung between them, suspended in stillness. Regina froze, her eyes locked with Emma’s — blue and unwavering, no trace of pretense, only quiet truth. She wanted to respond, but just then, a waiter approached and bowed slightly.

“Good afternoon, ladies. May I offer you the menu?”

“Thank you,” they said almost in unison.

“What would you like to drink?”

“Water for me, please,” Emma replied, then turned to Regina. “And for you?”

“Water as well, thank you,” Regina said, careful to keep her voice even.

Emma glanced briefly at the menu and closed it at once.

“I’ll trust the chef’s choice,” she said smoothly, handing it back. “Though I imagine Miss Mills might need a bit more time to decide.”

But before the waiter could nod, Regina set her menu aside as well.

“No need. I’ll trust the chef too.”

Emma cast her a quick, pleased look. “Excellent choice,” she murmured. The waiter bowed again and stepped away.

As he disappeared, Regina glanced around the vast golden-lit dining room. It was serene — too serene. The stillness made her uneasy.

Emma noticed at once. “Is something wrong?”

“No, it’s just… it’s never this empty here,” Regina said quietly.

“Really? You come here often?”

“Not too often,” she admitted. “But I’ve never seen the place deserted.”

Emma’s lips curved in a subtle, knowing smile.

Regina raised a brow. “You booked the whole restaurant, didn’t you?”

“Perhaps,” Emma replied, leaning back with effortless calm.

“Why?” There was amusement — and a hint of disbelief — in Regina’s tone.

Emma shrugged lightly. “Why not?” she said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Regina narrowed her eyes slightly.

“So that’s what I thought—you were rather modest, Miss Swan.”

“Modest?” Emma let out a quiet laugh.

“Well,” Regina continued, her tone light but sharp, “considering your position, your behavior is… somewhat contradictory. Your choice of clothing would suggest you prefer simplicity—perhaps even humility—but the fact that you’ve reserved the entire restaurant for a casual lunch says quite the opposite. You’re staying at one of the most luxurious hotels in London, which I understand… but what I don’t understand is why you chose this discreet little table in the corner, when you could have sat anywhere. I was almost convinced you disliked drawing attention to yourself. But…”

She tilted her head, eyes glinting.

“But what, Regina?” Emma asked, smiling faintly.

“But now,” Regina said slowly, “I’m quite certain it’s the opposite—you simply like attention. You just prefer it to be yours alone.”

“Believe me,” Emma replied evenly, meeting her gaze without flinching, “that’s not the case.”

“Isn’t it?” Regina murmured, holding her eyes.

“No,” Emma said with a soft, almost thoughtful smile.

“Then why all this?”

For a moment, Emma said nothing. She studied Regina with such focus that the brunette felt her pulse quicken beneath her skin. 

“To be honest,” Emma said at last, her voice quieter now, “perhaps I did want to draw attention. But only yours, Regina.”

The words hung between them like a spark that refused to fade. A faint blush colored Regina’s cheeks, but she didn’t look away. She simply watched Emma, willing herself to remain composed even as a sharp, restless warmth bloomed in her chest.

“And why would you want my attention, Miss Swan?” she asked, her voice low and steady.

Emma leaned back slightly, a small, knowing smile curving her lips.

“Because you’re not like anyone else, Regina. And I’d like to know you better. That’s all.”

Regina tilted her head, smiling faintly, half amusement, half challenge.

“I think I’m rather ordinary, Miss Swan.”

“I assure you, you’re not,” Emma said, her tone gentle but firm — a quiet certainty in her voice.

“I could say the same about you,” Regina replied, narrowing her eyes just a touch.

Emma’s smile widened, a spark of playfulness in it.

“You’d like to know me better, then?” she teased.

“That you’re not ordinary,” Regina answered evenly — her tone steadier than she’d expected.

Emma bit her lip, suppressing a grin, and nodded as if she’d won something far more valuable than a simple admission.

“And what is it,” she asked softly, “that makes me so unusual in your eyes?”

Regina glanced down, tracing the rim of her glass with one finger, searching for the right words.

“As if you don’t already know,” she said finally, lifting her gaze.

“Maybe,” Emma murmured, “but I’d rather hear it from you.”

Her eyes lingered on Regina’s face — intent, searching, but never invasive. There was curiosity in her expression, yes, but also something tender, almost fragile.

“I think,” Regina began slowly, “that you… think differently. You don’t fear what others might say or think of you. You speak your mind. You do what you want. And it seems no one can stop you — or judge you.”

A faint smile touched her lips, but in her eyes flickered a shadow of envy.

“Women of our circle aren’t usually like that,” she added quietly. “They rely on their fathers’ opinions… or their husbands’. But you — you stand on your own.”

Emma listened without interrupting, her expression soft, approving — but never proud.

“And you, Regina?” she asked after a brief pause. “Whose opinion do you rely on?”

Regina stilled, caught off guard by the simplicity — and the depth — of the question.

“I…” she began, then faltered. Of course she knew the answer. She had always listened to her parents — to her mother most of all. Her entire life had been an endless succession of rules, expectations, and carefully chosen silences. Soon, she would be bound by another set of them — her husband’s. But if obedience was so natural… why did the words suddenly feel so heavy?

“I trust my family,” she said quietly at last, staring at her reflection in the gleam of her spoon.

Emma nodded slowly, and something like sympathy flickered in her eyes. She knew Regina wasn’t being entirely truthful, but she didn’t press her.

“I trust my family too,” Emma said softly. “In the end, they’re the most important people we have.”

Regina looked up. Emma smiled — calm, a little wistful. And for the first time, Regina noticed a hint of uncertainty in her, as though behind that composure lay something personal, something almost vulnerable.

“But,” Emma added after a moment, “trusting them doesn’t always mean following the path they’ve chosen for us.”

Regina drew in a slow breath. There was something in those words she longed to understand, yet she didn’t dare ask. Still, as she looked at Emma, a thought surfaced — could her life have been different?

Silence settled between them. Regina wanted to speak, but the right words wouldn’t come. Thankfully, just then, the waiter appeared — his timing an unspoken mercy.

He placed before them two delicate plates, each an arrangement of color and fragrance, the scent of lemon and herbs rising like a whisper of summer.

“Allow me to present,” he said with a graceful bow, “fillet of halibut baked with Provençal herbs, served with a shallot and white wine reduction. Accompanied by buttered young vegetables and a touch of citrus oil for freshness.”

He adjusted their napkins, stepped back, and bowed once more.

“Bon appétit, ladies.”

“Thank you,” they replied in near unison.

Regina picked up her fork, cut a small piece, and smiled despite herself — the flavor was delicate, balanced, and exquisite. Emma noticed the expression at once, tilting her head slightly.

“Approval from Miss Mills?” she asked, a teasing warmth in her tone.

Regina gave a soft laugh.

“I admit,” she said, “the chef’s choice was flawless.”

“Good,” Emma murmured. “I couldn’t allow a poor meal to spoil your company.”

Regina met her gaze, and for a fleeting moment, the air between them changed — lighter, softer, full of possibility.

And Emma thought that perhaps this was how something truly important began.

After lunch, they stepped out of the restaurant at an unhurried pace. The air was warm and clear, touched with a hint of early spring freshness. Regina felt the tension that had been coiling in her chest since morning begin to ease, melting away with every breath. It surprised her — that morning, even the thought of seeing Emma had filled her with nervous energy, almost fear, and now everything seemed… simpler. Walking beside her felt unexpectedly easy. For the first time that day, she realized she was at peace.

Emma paused, turning toward her with a brief, apologetic smile. “Would you wait a moment? I just need to speak with my driver.”

Regina nodded, watching as the blonde walked toward the sleek black car parked nearby. Beside the driver stood another man — tall, slightly stooped, a leather briefcase in one hand. An assistant, perhaps. Emma spoke to him quickly and efficiently; he nodded, jotting down notes in a small book.

Regina found herself watching them longer than she meant to — or rather, watching her. The way Emma tilted her head slightly when explaining something; the confident sweep of her hands as she traced invisible shapes in the air. She didn’t just speak — she commanded softly, naturally, without effort. Power, in Emma Swan, wasn’t loud or forced; it simply was.

Then Emma turned, as if sensing the gaze upon her. Their eyes met. The corners of her lips curved upward — a knowing, almost playful smile. Regina quickly looked away, pretending to study a nearby shop window. Still, her pulse betrayed her, beating just a little too fast.

By the time Emma returned, Regina had barely managed to school her features back into composure.

“Ready?” Emma asked, resting a light hand on Regina’s shoulder.

The touch was barely there, yet it sent a ripple through her — warmth, surprise, and something dangerously close to longing.

“Yes,” Regina said softly. “If you’re finished, we can go.”

“I just had to leave a few instructions for my assistant,” Emma explained, her tone apologetic but light. “I’ve got a meeting with potential partners tomorrow. I suppose I should remind myself why I came to London in the first place.”

“We can cancel our plans,” Regina said quickly, trying to sound neutral. “I wouldn’t want to distract you from work.”

“You don’t distract me,” Emma replied with a gentle smile. Then, after a pause — “Actually, that’s not true. You’re very good at it.”

Regina blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean by that?”

Emma only smiled wider, offering no answer. “Never mind. Tell me — what’s the plan for the afternoon?”

Gathering herself, Regina straightened her back, her voice once again calm and poised.

“I thought we might walk along the Thames,” she said. “It’s beautiful this time of year. Afterwards, perhaps visit Somerset House — the view of Waterloo Bridge is quite striking from there. And if you’re not too tired, we could stop by Covent Garden. There are always small performances in the evenings.”

“That sounds…” Emma paused, smiling. “Intriguing. I’d say I’m in very capable hands.”

Regina’s lips curved into a soft smile — genuine this time.

They walked through the lively streets of London at a leisurely pace. Regina spoke with quiet passion about every place they passed — its history, its stories, the people who once walked those same cobblestones. She mentioned family anecdotes, a childhood memory or two, and once even laughed aloud at an old mischief she’d gotten away with as a girl.

Emma realized then how much she loved that sound. Regina’s laughter was light, clear, like glass catching sunlight.

She didn’t interrupt — she just watched: the way Regina’s lips shaped words, the gleam in her eyes when she spoke of something she loved, the way her dark hair glowed chestnut in the afternoon light. Emma found herself wishing she could stretch time, hold onto this day a little longer.

When they reached the Thames, Emma leaned against the railing, her gaze fixed on the slow, steady water. The breeze played gently with her hair, and in her eyes was something distant — a quiet thoughtfulness that made her seem even more unreachable.

Regina, mid-sentence, realized Emma wasn’t answering. Her words faltered, fading into the hum of the city and the whisper of the river.

“Are you bored?” she asked softly, trying to sound light, though there was a hint of uncertainty in her voice.

Emma turned sharply toward her. “What? Of course not. Why would you think that?”

“Well, you seemed… far away,” Regina said, lowering her eyes. “I was talking, and you just… drifted off. I thought perhaps I wasn’t being very interesting.”

“Regina, I promise you — I’m listening. Everything you’ve told me has been fascinating.”

But Regina didn’t seem convinced. She gave a small, embarrassed laugh. “God, you must think I’m a fool.”

“Regina—” Emma began, but she didn’t get the chance to finish.

“You probably expected something else,” Regina went on quickly, her words tumbling over each other. “A different kind of tour, maybe — not this dull sightseeing, not some girl rambling on about buildings and family stories. You probably thought I’d show you something livelier. Or unexpected. You must be regretting this already.”

Emma took a step closer, her tone firm but calm. “Stop. Don’t say that.”

Regina froze, eyes widening slightly.

“I’m not bored,” Emma said, voice softening. “In fact, this has been… one of the best days I’ve had in a long time.”

Regina blinked in surprise, color rising in her cheeks. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am,” Emma said simply. “The way you talk — I could listen to you for hours.”

Regina’s smile trembled, uncertain. “Really?”

“Really,”

“But you were quiet and… I thought maybe—”

“Hey,” Emma interrupted gently, stepping closer and resting her hand lightly on Regina’s shoulder. The touch was soft, almost cautious, yet it sent a shiver down Regina’s spine. For a moment, she glanced at Emma’s hand, then lifted her eyes again, meeting her gaze.

“I was quiet because I didn’t want to interrupt you, that’s all,” Emma said, her voice calm and warm. “You’re the best storyteller I’ve ever met.”

She smiled then — an unguarded, genuine smile — and it was so sincere that Regina couldn’t help but return it, her own lips curving into a wide, luminous smile.

“You have a beautiful smile,” Emma added softly.

Regina’s breath caught; a faint blush warmed her skin.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“And thank you,” Emma said quietly. “For today. I hope we can see each other again soon. I’d love for you to keep me company while I’m here — I hardly know anyone in London.”

“I’d… I’d like that,” Regina said, her voice barely above a breath.

“Good,” Emma smiled, stepping back a little. “We’re not far from my hotel. Let me have my driver take you home — I wouldn’t want your parents to worry.”

“That would be wonderful,” Regina said softly.

They had taken only a few steps when Regina suddenly stopped. A tightness gripped her chest — she remembered her father’s request. Her palms grew slightly cold, but she steadied herself and drew in a quiet breath.

“Emma, wait.”

Emma turned, curious. “What is it?”

Regina hesitated, nervously adjusting her glove. “I was just thinking… I’d like to thank you for lunch. And I thought, perhaps…”

“Regina, you don’t owe me anything—”

“But I insist,” she interrupted gently. “Would you consider joining my parents and me for dinner tonight?”

Emma’s brow lifted, her smile turning warm — and just a little playful. “Are you inviting me to dinner?”

“Yes,” Regina said firmly, though her heart raced.

“I’d love to,” Emma replied, tilting her head. “You’re sure your parents won’t mind?”

“Of course not,” Regina said quickly. “My friend often joins us for dinner.”

Emma’s eyes gleamed with quiet amusement. “So we’re friends now?”

“We could be,” Regina said, a small, genuine smile touching her lips.

Emma laughed — a soft, melodic sound that seemed to light up the evening air.

“Then it’s settled,” she said. “Let’s stop by the hotel — I’ll call my driver. And perhaps you can let your parents know to expect company.”

“Yes,” Regina nodded. “Of course.”

And as they continued down the street, side by side, the city seemed a little brighter — as though London itself was listening, quietly holding its breath.

Chapter Text

The Mills’ mansion seemed to embody both nobility and history. The moment Emma crossed the threshold, she couldn’t help but note how beautiful it truly was — a house that bore the mark of generations. Tall carved doors, polished marble floors, a crystal chandelier that caught the last rays of evening sunlight streaming through a stained-glass window. Beside the grand staircase stood a small table with an enormous vase of fresh flowers. Every detail around her spoke of refinement and taste.

They hadn’t taken more than a few steps before a maid hurried toward them — a young woman in a crisp uniform and spotless white apron, ready to take their coats.

“Good evening, Miss Mills, Miss Swan,” she greeted them politely, her tone calm and deferential. “Mr. and Mrs. Mills have not yet returned from their walk. Would the ladies prefer to wait in the sitting room or the library?”

“The library,” Regina replied, unfastening her jacket and revealing a pale silk blouse beneath.

“Of course, miss.” The maid inclined her head slightly. “May I bring you something to drink?”

“Water, please.” Regina turned to Emma with a courteous smile. “And you? Would you like anything else?”

Emma shook her head, smiling faintly. “Thank you, no.”

The maid gave a small nod and disappeared silently down the corridor. Regina led Emma deeper into the house, toward the heavy oak door of the library. She opened it and gestured for her guest to enter first.

The room was bathed in the warm light of green-shaded lamps, filled with the scent of aged wood and books. Tall shelves climbed all the way to the ceiling, lined with orderly rows of volumes that radiated an almost sacred sense of calm. Near the window, an open book rested on a massive desk — someone in the family had clearly been reading there not long ago.

“This is my favorite place in the house,” Regina said with a small, genuine smile.

Emma approached one of the shelves, tracing her fingers along the spines. “It’s beautiful,” she murmured, almost in awe. “You don’t often see libraries like this anymore. It must be wonderful to have a place like this to retreat to.”

“It is,” Regina agreed softly. “It’s always so peaceful here. I can think, read, just be alone with my thoughts…”

She trailed off, lost for a moment among the shelves. Emma, meanwhile, found herself watching the brunette more intently than the books.

“What do you usually read?” she asked.

“Oh, a bit of everything — from the classics to modern novels,” Regina said, glancing toward the tall shelves. “And you?”

“Lately I’ve had so many responsibilities that I barely have time to read anything at all,” Emma admitted with a quiet laugh. “After I finished university, I dove straight into work. These days, the only thing I read regularly are newspapers.”

“What did you study?”

“Economics and international relations.”

“Did you choose that yourself?”

Emma smiled faintly. “Well, there wasn’t much to choose from. When your family owns a company as large as ours, you’re inevitably drawn into it. But yes, it was my choice. I grew up watching my father work, and I wanted to be like him — like my brother. Most of my life revolves around the company now, but I love what I do.”

“It’s wonderful,” Regina said softly, “to be able to do something that truly brings you joy.” Her gaze met Emma’s and lingered there for a moment.

“And what about you?” Emma asked. “What do you see yourself doing?”

Regina gave a slight shrug. “I studied literature. Sometimes I think about continuing in that direction — perhaps one day I could teach.”

“If that’s what you want, then you should,” Emma said earnestly. “You’d make a remarkable professor.” She smiled, a spark of playfulness in her eyes. “We could even start with me.”

Regina blinked, slightly caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” Emma said lightly, “you could recommend one of your favorite books — or lend me one. Maybe you could even help me rediscover my love of reading.”

Regina’s lips curved in a quiet smile. “I’ll think about it, Miss Swan.”

Emma nodded approvingly, then glanced around the room again.

“My brother was usually the one buying new books and giving me suggestions,” she said after a pause. “Edward loved reading — much like you, I think. He would have adored this place.”

Regina’s voice softened. “What happened to your family… I’m truly sorry, Emma.”

Emma exhaled slowly. “That’s life,” she said simply. “But I’m grateful that he left someone behind — someone who reminds my mother and me of the kind, brilliant man he was. His son, Christian… he’s so much like him.” A faint smile touched her lips. “It’s my turn to look after him now.”

Regina smiled back, feeling the warmth — and the quiet sorrow — behind Emma’s words. They moved slowly along the shelves, their fingers brushing the spines of books lined in neat, endless rows.

After a brief silence, Regina asked softly, “And you, Emma… have you ever wanted a family of your own?”

Emma looked at her — calm, thoughtful, her expression unreadable.

“But I already have a family,” she said gently.

“Yes, but I mean your own,” Regina clarified, her tone shy but sincere. “Children, a husband…”

Emma smiled a bit sadly.

“Perhaps I once thought about children,” she said evenly. “But I don’t think that’s possible.”

Regina frowned. “May I ask why?”

Emma hesitated, searching for the right words. “Because I’ll never marry, Regina.”

“You don’t want to? Or…?” she began, but noticing the faint tension in Emma’s face, she stopped at once. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to answer. I’m probably being far too curious.”

“No,” Emma said softly, shaking her head. “You can ask me anything.”

Regina nodded, though her pulse quickened for reasons she couldn’t explain. Emma took a step closer, lowering her voice as if afraid the walls themselves might overhear.

“I can’t marry,” she said quietly, “and I can’t have children… because men don’t interest me, Regina.”

For a heartbeat, time itself seemed to stop. Regina stared at her, struggling to comprehend what she’d just heard.

“You mean…” she began carefully.

“Yes,” Emma said simply, meeting her gaze without hesitation. “I like women.”

Burning Desire - Lana Del Rey ‧ 2012

The silence between them stretched, but it carried neither judgment nor fear — only a quiet understanding, as though, all at once, everything had fallen into place.

Images flashed through Regina’s mind: Emma’s gaze at the reception, her smile, the teasing spark in her voice, that kiss…

Now it all made sense.

“So…” Regina whispered, her voice barely audible. “That’s why you… kissed me? Because you liked me?”

Emma’s lips curved slightly, and in her eyes flickered something raw and painfully honest.

“Yes,” she said after a brief pause. “I liked you.”

Regina swallowed, feeling the warmth rise to her cheeks.

“And how often do you do that?” she asked quietly. “Kiss strangers?”

Emma gave a soft laugh and shook her head.

“Usually, I don’t do anything like that. But when I saw you…” She hesitated, a small breath escaping her lips. “It was impossible not to.”

Regina felt her heartbeat quicken. Her voice trembled when she whispered,

“Did you… like it?”

Emma looked at her intently, her gaze open and sincere.

“Would you believe me,” she said softly, “if I told you it was the best kiss of my life?”

Regina parted her lips slightly, uncertain how to respond.

“No,” she breathed, though her eyes never left Emma’s.

“But it’s true,” Emma murmured. “And you? Did you like it?”

Regina turned her gaze away, her words barely above a whisper.

“It’s not as if… I had anything to compare it to.”

Emma blinked, frowning slightly.

“You mean you’ve never… kissed anyone before?”

Regina shook her head slowly.

“No.”

Emma froze. A sudden pang of guilt pierced her — the realization that, without knowing it, she had stolen Regina’s first kiss.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I shouldn’t have done that without asking.”

Regina lifted her eyes to her, steady and unflinching.

“I’m not,” she said firmly.

The words caught them both off guard. Emma felt her throat go dry. Regina looked at her — straight, unflinching. Her gaze slid to Emma’s lips and lingered there, just a moment longer than it should have. Then, almost unconsciously, she ran her tongue over her own lips, as if recalling the taste of last night’s kiss.

Emma exhaled softly, soundlessly. She wanted to speak, but the words stuck somewhere deep in her chest. She stood frozen, unable to move.

Regina took a slow step closer. Her breathing deepened. And before Emma could fully register what was happening, Regina rose slightly onto her toes and brushed her lips against Emma’s.

The kiss was hesitant, almost shy — but so achingly sincere that Emma’s knees went weak. For a heartbeat, she forgot where she was, forgot everything except the warmth of that touch. She hadn’t yet responded when Regina, realizing Emma hadn’t moved, pulled away abruptly, embarrassment flashing across her face.

But in that instant, Emma lifted a trembling hand and gently cupped Regina’s cheek.

“Regina…” she whispered, her voice barely audible — trembling with something between a plea, a fear, and a desperate longing.

The brunette froze, her breath catching in her throat. Emma watched her — confusion flickered across Regina’s face.

Then Regina lifted her eyes — and their gazes collided. In Emma’s blue eyes burned a fierce, impatient hunger, a desire that mirrored the ache now tightening in Regina’s chest. She could see it — the widening of Emma’s pupils, the tremor in her composure. And in that moment, Regina understood: Emma wanted her, just as much.

“Kiss me, Emma…” she whispered, her voice low but certain — so certain it made Emma’s heart stutter.

And then Emma couldn’t hold back any longer. The distance between them vanished — there was no air left, no hesitation. Her lips met Regina’s in a rush of need, a kiss that was deep, demanding, desperate.

Her arm slipped around the brunette’s narrow waist, pulling her closer, while the other traced the graceful line of her neck, feeling the wild pulse that beat beneath her skin.

Regina responded — at first gently, as if afraid to shatter the spell between them. But then her lips grew bolder. Her hand found Emma’s waist, feeling the quiet strength beneath her palm, and from that touch a trembling shiver ran down her spine.

Emma tilted her head slightly, deepening the kiss, and their breaths merged into a single rhythm. Regina’s tongue brushed against hers—cautious, exploring—and at that touch, Emma let out a quiet moan. She surrendered to the feeling, and, driven by instinct, pressed Regina back against the nearest bookshelf. A dull thud sounded behind them, but neither noticed anything beyond each other. The wood creaked softly, and a low, restrained moan escaped Regina’s chest—a sound that sent a jolt through Emma like electricity. A wave of desire coursed through her, compelling her to pull Regina even closer.

Emma’s hands slid along her waist, tracing the curves beneath the thin fabric of her blouse, then moved lower—to her hips. Regina arched toward her, losing control over her own body, her fingers clutching at the fabric on Emma’s shoulders.

She didn’t think, didn’t hold back. Now both her hands glided along Regina’s sides, wrapping around her as if afraid to let go. Regina, no longer resisting her own feelings, slipped her arms around Emma’s neck and drew her closer. Their breathing fell into a single, uneven rhythm. Emma broke away from her lips and trailed downward—hot kisses brushed her chin, then her neck, just below the collarbone. Regina could feel Emma’s breath searing her skin.

Her head fell back, eyes half-closed. She no longer tried to think; it was as if her body had taken over, surrendering to every caress, every touch.

“Em–ma… — the name slipped from her lips, barely audible, a sound between a moan and a sigh.

Hearing her name spoken in that voice, Emma’s grip on Regina’s waist tightened. She could feel the blood rushing in her temples, the wave of longing rising, threatening to drown her. For a fleeting second she froze — afraid of losing control completely.

When she finally lifted her gaze, she caught Regina at that unguarded moment — breathing unevenly, lips slightly swollen, eyes half-closed and shimmering with something between fear and wonder.

Emma brushed her fingers gently along Regina’s cheek, guiding her to meet her eyes again.

“God, Regina… you’re incredible,” she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath, before leaning in once more. 

But then — footsteps echoed just beyond the door, muffled voices following. They both froze. Their foreheads rested together, their breaths mingling in the narrow space between them. All Emma could hear was the frantic pounding of her own heart. She closed her eyes, steadying herself, while Regina pressed her palms lightly against Emma’s chest, still trying to understand what was happening.

Emma drew in a slow breath, her eyes finding Regina’s again — her lips, her gaze — and for a heartbeat, the world stood still.

And before stepping back, Emma kissed her once more — softly, almost weightlessly — a fleeting touch she simply couldn’t resist.

Then she drew away, slowly, as though waking from a dream. Regina still couldn’t move. The voices outside the door grew clearer.

“That must be your parents,” Emma whispered. She reached out and gently smoothed a stray lock of Regina’s hair. “If you’d like… we can talk about this later, all right?”

Regina gave a faint nod. And in that quiet, trembling moment, she knew — nothing would ever be the same again.

***

The Mills’ dining room was no less elegant than the other parts of the house Emma had already seen. Everything looked just as refined and immaculate. But what immediately drew her attention was the long oak table, draped with crisp white linens and napkins embroidered with the letter M, accompanied by gleaming silverware marked with the same insignia. Candles flickered softly in delicate holders, while the scent of roasted pheasant and freshly baked bread mingled faintly with the aroma of flowers arranged in small crystal vases.

At the head of the table sat Charles Mills — composed, confident, every inch a man accustomed to command. To his left were Regina and Emma; to his right, his wife, Eleanor — dazzlingly poised, immaculate, yet behind her courteous smile something sharp and calculating seemed to linger.

“I hope London has made a pleasant impression on you, Miss Swan,” Charles began as the maid filled their glasses with wine.

“Oh, absolutely,” Emma replied with a warm smile, glancing toward Regina. “Your city has completely charmed me, Mr. Mills. And if I may, I’d like to express my special gratitude to your daughter. Regina has been the perfect guide. Thanks to her, this day has been truly special.”

A faint blush rose to Regina’s cheeks.

“Thank you, Miss Swan,” she said softly.

Charles nodded approvingly. “I’m glad to hear you two have found common ground.”

“More than just common,” Emma said gently, a hint of mischief flickering in her smile.

Charles chuckled. “I must admit, I wondered if our old city might bore you. It’s not as lively as Los Angeles.”

“Not at all,” Emma shook her head. “London is remarkable. It has a soul — history, dignity… and perhaps, just a touch of loneliness.”

“How poetic,” Eleanor remarked with a smile too polished to be sincere. Her tone, however, carried a faint sting. “I wasn’t aware that maritime trade inspires such a fondness for poetry.”

Charles cast his wife a subtle, warning glance, which she, as always, pretended not to notice.

Emma, however, remained perfectly composed. “I’m afraid business and poetry are sometimes closer than they appear. To build something lasting, one must first be able to dream, don’t you think?”

Charles laughed heartily. “Now that’s a fine way to look at it! You’re right, Miss Swan — without dreams, there’s no progress.”

Eleanor lifted her glass, sipping delicately, her eyes never leaving Emma.

“Success in business is admirable,” she said smoothly. “But what of family, Miss Swan? From what I understand, your lineage has been devoted to commerce for generations. That kind of dedication requires certain sacrifices. Do you ever find time to think about your personal life amidst so many obligations?”

“Oh, my family has always been my greatest support,” Emma replied evenly, unbothered by the probing question. “We try to stay close, despite distance and duty. As for my personal life… perhaps it can wait. There are people who need me more right now.”

At that, Regina lifted her eyes. There was such warmth and sincerity in Emma’s voice that she couldn’t help but smile faintly. Emma caught her gaze and returned it with the softest of smiles.

Eleanor, ignoring the silent exchange, continued:

“How very noble. Of course, you’re right — duty comes before all. After all, not every woman is born for domestic comfort.”

Emma paused, tilting her head slightly.

“Perhaps. But I believe every woman should have the right to choose who she wants to be — to do what brings her joy. I made my choice freely, and I’ve never regretted it.”

Charles’s gaze sharpened as he looked at his wife again.

“Exactly,” he said. “And that, my dear, is what I consider one of Miss Swan’s finest qualities.”

Eleanor smiled — politely, but her fingers tightened around the stem of her glass.

“Of course, Charles,” she said coolly, lowering her eyes to her plate.

Emma, as if nothing had happened, turned back to Charles and continued the conversation with easy grace — about the city, the weather, the British fondness for tea. Her tone was calm, warm, occasionally playful. And every time she mentioned Regina, her gaze lingered on her for just a heartbeat longer.

Regina, meanwhile, heard little of the words. She sat straight as ever, her posture perfect, but inside she was trembling. Her thoughts kept drifting back to the library, to the taste of that forbidden moment, and every glance Emma cast her way made her heart beat faster. She tried not to look up — afraid someone might notice — but Emma noticed everything: the slight tremor of her hand as she held her glass, the faint parting of her lips, the way her gaze would find Emma’s and quickly dart away again.

Charles, clearly pleased with how the evening was unfolding, leaned back in his chair. Observing Emma — poised, confident, wine glass in hand — he decided the moment was right to take the next step.

“Miss Swan,” he began conversationally, “I must say, it’s a true pleasure to have you with us this evening. I hope you’re enjoying our company.”

Emma raised her glass with a smile.

“Very much so, Mr. Mills. Your family embodies the finest of English hospitality.”

“You’re too kind,” he replied with a small nod. “If you’d allow me, I’d like to invite you back to the drawing room to continue the evening. Perhaps a cup of tea? Or a digestif?”

“Yes, I’d like that very much,” Emma said warmly.

The drawing room was wonderfully inviting — the kind of room that seemed to hold warmth even in silence. A fire crackled softly in the marble fireplace, casting golden light on the paneled walls and the polished surface of the grand piano by the window. On a small side table stood a crystal decanter of brandy and a silver tea service, gleaming in the firelight.

Charles took a seat across from Emma, turning slightly toward her as though to lend their conversation a more confidential air.

“I must admit, Miss Swan,” he began warmly, “your visit is quite an event for our household. I’ve long admired your family. Your father has an impeccable reputation in business, and now that you’ve taken the helm…” — he paused, watching her reaction — “I believe the future of Swan Shipping will be even more remarkable.”

Emma smiled faintly — neither proud nor flattered, her expression measured.

“Thank you. It’s a great responsibility.”

“Undoubtedly.” Charles took a sip of coffee before continuing in a more amiable tone. “Still, I have no doubt you’ll succeed. I’ve heard you’re expanding into European markets?”

Emma tilted her head slightly. She suddenly felt that the evening had arrived at its true purpose. Across the room, Regina’s eyes flicked up — apologetic, uneasy — and in that single glance, Emma understood everything. Yes, this dinner had been arranged.

“We’re exploring various opportunities, Mr. Mills,” she said calmly. “But it’s too early to speak of anything definite.”

Charles smiled, clearly hoping she would elaborate, but Emma — with a graceful turn of tone — shifted the conversation.

“You have a magnificent home. The hotel I’m staying at is lovely, of course, but it hardly compares to this place.”

Charles chuckled softly. He understood her deflection, but couldn’t help admiring the elegance with which she delivered it.

“Well, if business brings you to London more often, you must visit us again. Perhaps next time you could stay here — there’s more than enough room.”

“Oh, Mr. Mills, that’s far too generous. You’ve already been most gracious. You have a wonderful family.”

Eleanor seized the pause, her tone honeyed, her smile sharp at the edges.

“Oh, like any family, we have our share of challenges, Miss Swan. But my husband manages the household beautifully. We do our best to maintain balance between work and home,” she added with the faintest trace of superiority, “don’t we, dear?”

Charles cast her a brief, reproachful look.

“Of course, my dear.” Then, turning to Emma again, he said, “Family is rather like business. Without mutual trust, everything falls apart.”

“Quite true,” Emma agreed evenly. “Although, I think family might be more difficult. Numbers are easier to manage than feelings.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Eleanor interjected, her tone cool and deliberate. “Especially when feelings get in the way of good judgment.”

There was a flicker of sharpness in her voice, but Emma’s composure didn’t waver.

“Perhaps,” she said softly. “But sometimes feelings lead us exactly where we’re meant to be.”

Her gaze slid to Regina. The brunette sat quietly, eyes lowered to her cup. She had barely spoken through the evening, offering only brief, careful glances at Emma when she thought no one noticed. But Emma noticed — every tremor of her hand, the faint parting of her lips, the quick dart of her eyes whenever Emma’s voice grew softer.

Until that dinner, Emma hadn’t been particularly inclined to strike a deal with Charles Mills. But now… the possibility of staying close to his daughter stirred something entirely different in her mind. She looked back to Charles and smiled.

“I must admit, Mr. Mills, you’ve certainly piqued my curiosity. I believe we might indeed have things to discuss — in due time.”

Charles’s expression brightened with quiet satisfaction.

“I’m very glad to hear that, Miss Swan. Perhaps, one day, our interests might align.”

“Perhaps,” Emma said smoothly. “In the meantime, I was thinking of attending the Royal Theatre this week — they’re performing Giselle, I believe.” She turned toward Regina. “Would you consider joining me, Miss Mills? I’d hate to go alone.”

Regina looked up, startled, but before she could reply, Eleanor spoke quickly, her voice sugary and just a shade too bright.

“Oh, I’m sure Regina would be delighted, Miss Swan. She adores the ballet.”

Emma’s brow furrowed — ever so slightly. She didn’t care for having the answer spoken for her.

“I’d rather hear it from Miss Mills herself,” she said politely, her voice calm but firm.

Regina hesitated only a moment before smiling softly.

“Yes, I’d love to,” she said, her voice quiet but sincere.

Emma’s expression warmed. “Perfect.”

Charles looked pleased — the evening had gone precisely as he’d hoped. Emma, though aware of the orchestration behind it, betrayed nothing.

Rising, she set down her glass and smiled faintly.

“Thank you for a lovely evening, Mr. and Mrs. Mills. I think it’s time I take my leave.”

Charles stood at once, his manner impeccable.

“The pleasure was ours, Miss Swan. I do hope this won’t be your last visit.”

“Thank you, Mr. Mills.”

“Regina, darling,” he said, softer now, “see Miss Swan to the door.”

“Of course,” Regina replied quietly, rising to her feet.

Eleanor also stood, her smile polished to perfection.

“It’s been a pleasure, Miss Swan. I trust London has treated you kindly.”

“More than kindly,” Emma said with composed politeness. “Thank you, Mrs. Mills.”

They exchanged brief nods, and Emma followed Regina into the hall. A maid hurried forward with Emma’s coat, bowed slightly, and disappeared.

Once her footsteps faded, silence settled around them. Emma remained by the door, not yet reaching for the handle. Regina stood across from her, looking uncertain.

“Well,” Emma said at last, tilting her head slightly, “it’s been a lovely evening, Regina. Thank you for inviting me.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Regina said, her smile small and nervous.

Emma met her eyes — steady, searching.

“It was your father’s idea, wasn’t it?”

Regina froze. She opened her mouth to speak, to explain, but the truth came first.

“Yes,” she admitted softly. “I’m sorry… I didn’t want it to seem as though—”

“It’s all right,” Emma interrupted gently. There was no reproach in her voice—only a trace of quiet weariness. “I suppose I should have expected it. And perhaps it was naïve of me to think you suddenly wanted to invite me on your own.”

“No,” Regina said quickly. “It’s true, Father asked me to. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t want to. I did. Today was… wonderful.”

Emma studied her face for a long moment, then smiled.

“Then I hope we’ll see each other again soon.”

“Of course,” Regina replied. “You invited me to the ballet, and if I recall correctly, I said yes.”

“Right,” Emma nodded. “But perhaps we won’t have to wait that long. Say, Wednesday? We could have lunch.”

“Wednesday is perfect,” Regina answered before she could stop herself.

“Good,” Emma said, smiling wider. “I’ll send a car for you.”

Regina didn’t answer, only smiled back — that quiet, uncertain smile that still carried a spark of daring. Between them, silence stretched once more — but now it was charged with something unspoken, fragile and electric.

Emma glanced toward the staircase, ensuring they were alone, then stepped closer.

“Until then,” she said softly — and before Regina could react, Emma leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek.

Regina’s breath caught; her eyes fluttered closed. And before she could think, before reason could return, she leaned forward herself and brushed her lips against Emma’s cheek in return.

“I did like it,” she whispered.

Emma exhaled shakily, her pulse drumming in her ears. She straightened, regaining her composure, though a bright, breathless smile betrayed her.

Regina stepped back, her voice barely steady.

“Good night, Miss Swan.”

“Good night, Miss Mills.”

Emma opened the door; a rush of cool evening air swept into the hall. For a few suspended seconds, she lingered on the threshold, her gaze still fixed on Regina — standing near the staircase, bathed in the golden light of the lamp.

Then Emma inclined her head with quiet grace and stepped out into the night. The soft click of the closing door echoed in both their chests.

Regina remained where she stood — motionless — and only after a long moment did she allow herself a smile that she could no longer hold back.