Sylvia took a deep breath and tried to drag her thoughts into something resembling a line. "You know I'm friends with Dean Fitzgeralt, right?"
Her mother raised a suspicious brow. "Yes. For three years now. What did you do?"
Sylvia let out a humorless laugh. "And you know he's getting married to the Crown Prince of Alamina?"
"Yes," her mother said, the brow climbing higher. "Do you have to attend another high-end party again?"
"Yeees, but not only that." Sylvia inhaled again, deeper this time, and then blurted everything in one reckless breath. "I may or may not have gotten a scholarship-slash-job-slash-transfer to Alamina, with housing and a salary, and the option to be hired under Dean as… God, I don't know! Some kind of modern court jester?"
Silence.
Her mother stared at her like Sylvia had just announced she'd joined a cult.
Then, very slowly, her mother set her mug down. "Say that again."
Sylvia blinked. "Which part."
"All of it."
Sylvia lifted both hands, as if surrendering. "Okay. So. Two weeks ago, Arion—yes, the seven-foot-five walking red flag—offered me an arrangement. If I go with Dean to Alamina, I get university accommodations, income, housing, and palace access when Dean allows it. And I can be hired by Dean if he wants."
Her mother's stare did not soften. "Why?"
Sylvia opened her mouth, then closed it. Tried again. "Because Dean is leaving. And he's… Dean."
Her mother's expression shifted slightly in something so kind it hurt. "So this is about you not wanting him alone."
Sylvia's throat tightened. She hated that her mother could always find the honest core with one sentence.
"Yes," Sylvia admitted. "And also," she added quickly, because sincerity made her itchy, "I am not turning down a salary that looks like an insult."
Her mother blinked once. "An insult."
She unlocked her phone, scrolled furiously, past clauses and footnotes and the kind of legal language designed to make civilians cry, until she found the compensation section. Then she zoomed in with vicious movements until the yearly income was the only thing on the screen, enormous and almost insulting in its bold font.
She slid the phone across the counter like she was presenting evidence in court.
Her mother leaned in.
Silence.
Then her mother leaned in closer, like distance might change the number into something more reasonable.
Sylvia watched her face with grim satisfaction. "Mm-hm."
Her mother stared for another beat, then slowly looked up. "That's…" She took a deep breath, like oxygen might help. "We need your father here."
Sylvia blinked. "Why? So he can faint too?"
"Because," her mother said, already pushing away from the counter, "I am not delivering this level of insanity alone."
She turned toward the hallway and raised her voice, still calm but with that unmistakable mother tone that meant this was not a request. "Honey?"
A pause. Footsteps. The soft thud of someone coming downstairs in socks.
Her father appeared in the doorway a moment later, rubbing his eyes with one hand, his hair a mess, his expression sleepy and suspicious in equal measure. "What's wrong?"
Sylvia pointed at the phone on the counter like it was a bomb. "Nothing's wrong. Everything's wrong. I'm apparently moving to Alamina."
Her father froze mid-step. "You're what?"
Her mother gestured to the screen. "Read it."
He leaned in, squinting. His eyes moved once. Twice.
Then he straightened, very slowly, and looked at Sylvia like she had sprouted a second head.
"That's not… that can't be…"
Sylvia nodded solemnly. "Right? It's offensive."
Her father stared at the ceiling for a second, as if asking the universe why his daughter couldn't just get a normal job like other people's children. Then he looked back down at the phone, then at Sylvia again.
"Who is paying you," he asked, carefully, like the answer might bite.
Sylvia lifted her shoulders in a small shrug. "The Crown Prince of Alamina."
Her father's face went blank. "The—"
"Yes," Sylvia said quickly. "That one. The one Dean is marrying."
Her mother crossed her arms. "It's an official contract."
Her father looked from mother to daughter, then back to the phone, as if hoping it would change its mind. "Why would he do this?"
Sylvia opened her mouth.
Her mother answered first, softer. "Because Dean is leaving, and Sylvia doesn't want him alone."
Her father's expression shifted, something protective and worried flickering through the shock. "So you're going because of Dean."
Sylvia nodded. "And because the salary is—"
Her father raised a hand. "We saw the salary. We are not discussing the salary like it's normal."
Sylvia's mouth twitched. "It's not normal."
Her father pointed at the phone. "That number is what people get paid to stop wars."
Sylvia nodded again, like she'd said the same thing. "Exactly."
Her father dragged a hand down his face. "Okay. Okay. Let's… back up." He took a breath, visibly trying to assemble logic. "When is this happening?"
"After Dean's birthday," Sylvia said. "After the engagement ceremony."
Her father's brows knit. "And you're going to live where?"
"University quarter," Sylvia replied immediately. "Two rooms. Security. And I can go to the palace whenever I want—"
Her mother cut in, firm. "Only if Dean allows it."
Sylvia pointed at her. "Yes. That part is decent. I said that."
Her father looked back at the phone, then at Sylvia. "And what do you have to do?"
Sylvia blinked. "Exist near Dean."
Her father stared. "That's it."
Sylvia nodded. "That's it."
Her father's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. "So you're moving to another empire to… be your best friend's emotional support menace."
Sylvia brightened. "Yes."
Her mother sighed. "You see why I needed you here."
Her father exhaled slowly, then leaned on the counter like his knees had decided they were done. "Sylvia."
She met his eyes, bracing. She expected a lecture. A no.
Instead her father's voice went quieter. "Are you safe?"
Sylvia's throat tightened again, because that question always landed. Always the one that mattered more than money, palaces, contracts, and Crown Princes.
"Yes," Sylvia said. "As safe as I can be when I'm anywhere near a Fitzgeralt."
Her mother huffed a small laugh, tired. Her father didn't.
"And the Crown Prince," her father said carefully, "is he…"
"A red flag," Sylvia supplied immediately.
Her mother shot her a look. "Sylvia."
Sylvia lifted her hands. "What? He is!"
Her father's gaze stayed on her. "Is he dangerous?"
Sylvia hesitated. Just for a second.
Then she nodded. "Yes."
Her father's jaw tightened. Her mother's shoulders rose, then fell.
Sylvia added quickly, because she wasn't cruel. "But he's also… weirdly decent about Dean. In a terrifying way."
Her father stared. "That's not comforting."
Sylvia shrugged. "I didn't say it was comforting. I said what it's real."
A long beat passed. Her father looked at her mother, then back at Sylvia.
Finally he said, resigned, "If you're doing this, then we do it properly."
Sylvia blinked. "Properly?"
Her mother nodded. "Paperwork. Copies. Emergency contacts. Travel plans. We're not letting you walk into an empire with nothing but sarcasm."
Sylvia opened her mouth to protest.
Her father pointed at her. "No. Don't. Your sarcasm is not a passport."
Sylvia closed her mouth, then muttered, "It's basically a weapon."
Her mother's eyes narrowed. "Sylvia."
Sylvia sighed. "Fine. Properly."
Her father picked up the phone, stared at the number one more time, then looked at Sylvia with a mixture of disbelief and reluctant pride.
"You know," he said slowly, "if you ever get tired of being a menace, you could apparently become a small nation."
Sylvia's mouth twitched. "Don't tempt me."
Her mother rubbed her temple again. "Okay. First question." She took a breath. "Have you signed it?"
Sylvia hesitated.
Her father and mother both stared at her.
Sylvia lifted her hands defensively. "Not yet."
Her mother's eyes narrowed. "But?"
Sylvia sighed, defeated. "But I accepted it verbally to the Crown Prince, so basically yes. It's signed with my words." She winced. "Also… everything you just said is necessary. The prince's staff already dealt with it."
Her parents stared at her.
"Already dealt with it," her father repeated slowly.
Sylvia nodded. "They sent a checklist."
"A checklist," her mother echoed, like the word itself was suspicious.
"With tabs," Sylvia added, because if she didn't say it, they'd imagine worse.
Her mother sank into a chair. "What tabs."
Sylvia counted on her fingers. "Travel documents, health coverage, emergency contacts, embassy numbers, and something called 'cultural protocol' that I refuse to read on principle. They also asked if I have allergies."
Her father stared. "They asked if you have allergies."
Her mother exhaled, long and slow. "That's… frighteningly competent."
Her father rubbed his face. "So an empire is organizing your relocation better than we've ever organized a holiday."
Sylvia's mouth twitched. "Yes."
Her mother looked at her properly then, the exasperation softening into something warmer. "You're really going?"
Sylvia nodded once. "Yeah."
Her father hesitated, then said quietly, "We're impressed."
"And exasperated," her mother added.
"Very," her father agreed.
Sylvia tried to grin. "Only fair."
Her mother pointed at her. "You call. Every day."
"Okay," Sylvia said.
Her father stepped closer and pulled her into a quick, tight hug. "Be careful," he murmured.
Sylvia hugged back for half a second longer than usual, then pulled away and cleared her throat like sincerity was a virus.
"Great," she said briskly. "So we're all agreed. I'm moving to Alamina, I'm becoming international paperwork, and I'm still not reading 'cultural protocol.'"
Her mother groaned.
Her father laughed despite himself.
And Sylvia, phone heavy in her hand, finally let the reality settle, before she buried it under humor again.