Chapter Text
Climb up the H of the Hollywood sign, yeah.
In these stolen moments,
The world is mine.
There's nobody here, just us together.
Keepin' me hot like July forever,
'Cause we're the masters of our own fate.
We're the captains of our own souls.
There's no way for us to come away.
— Lana Del Ray, ft. The Weeknd
…
Bright lights, big city going through her head. But it’s alright, Furina reaffirms to herself and she fixes her composure, focusing her gaze to the reflection of herself at the vehicle’s heavily tinted window. I’m used to this. Her point of view registers various cameras pointing to their direction, flashes flickering in a steady rhythm.
When it comes to a temporary halt, It begins to flicker like chaotic stars against the night sky. It’s a familiar rhythm, one that beats alongside her heart—a quick, erratic tempo she’s grown accustomed to over time. Furina inhales sharply, smoothing the fabric of her perfectly tailored dress— the prettiest of them all. The midnight blue cascading into the dark, symbolizing transience and elegance at the same time.
It was much like Furina. Furina dé Fontaine.
Play the part, she reminds herself. A performer, a symbol, a mystery. It’s what they expect, what they crave.
The vehicle slows as it approaches the curb, the distant hum of the crowd now a deafening roar. Voices blur into one overwhelming sound, cameras clicking and shutters snapping in rapid succession, but Furina keeps her gaze steady, unflinching. The door opens, and for a brief moment, the cold air rushes in—a stark contrast to the warmth of the car’s interior.
She steps out.
The world seems to pause, if only for a fraction of a second. Furina straightens, chin lifted, the faintest smirk playing on her lips. Eyes—hundreds, maybe thousands—lock onto her. Anticipation, admiration, envy, curiosity. All of it radiates from the crowd, crashing into her like a wave.
But Furina doesn’t falter. The corner of lip curls upwards, the crowd erupts by her mere smile. More photographers have crossed the carpet to get the most perfect shot of the perfect Furina— her eyes scan the crowd for more— there it is, she can see her fans screaming for her attention. Their eyes sparkling even more when they notice Furina looking in their direction. She sends a flying kiss in that direction and starts to walk down the red carpet.
She can see a photographer waving from the corner of her eye, “Mademoiselle! Please spare us a glance!” Furina shifts her angle to the man, she hears a snap indicating a photo is taken, and looks straight ahead again after hearing a grateful thank you from the man.
“Ms. Furina! What should we expect from your new film?!” A reporter cries out.
“Are you and the House of Hearth’s CEO exclusive?”
“Furina! We love you!”
She embraces it. The scrutiny, the expectations, the weight of being her. With the confidence of someone who’s played this role a thousand times over, she strides forward, the rhythmic click of her heels drowning out the noise. The cameras continue to flash, yet none can capture the real her.
And perhaps that’s exactly the way she wants it.
She hears a chuckle, one that’s irritatingly a bit too familiar. She almost rolls her eyes once she recognizes the figure approaching her down the stairs of the Gala’s venue. “Well, someone looks too unhappy for Monaco.” The male figure says in a snarky tone, offering his arm.
“Wriothesley.” Furina huffs out, taking his arm as they enter the venue together.
“Furina de Fontaine! You remember me, your co-star!” Wriothesley jokes, “But seriously, what’s with the attitude?”
“I don’t know what you’re referring about,” Furina looks at him indifferently when he raises an eyebrow. “Raising your brow won’t help.”
Wriothesley replies, with a dramatic flair, “Well do entertain me Lady Furina, with all your brooding, you’re going to cause widespread depression here. Or.. is this about Lumine? Hm?”
“I have nothing to say to that.” Furina silently replies, picking up a glass of champagne that was served by a waiter. Wriothesley politely declines, excusing himself with an all-knowing smirk after finding a small frown in her features.
Yes, it is about her. That blonde Mercedes driver. Furina wants to say, but could not muster the courage to do so.
The Gala buzzes with opulence—golden chandeliers casting their glow across polished marble floors, laughter chiming like bells, and the faint sound of a string quartet weaving through the air. Furina feels like an intruder among it all, despite her place at its center. The champagne in her hand feels heavier than it should, her fingers tightening around the delicate glass stem as her gaze flickers across the room.
And there she is. Lumine.
The blonde Mercedes driver, effortlessly radiant, surrounded by admirers as if she’s the sun itself, pulling everything and everyone into her orbit. Furina forces her eyes away, but it’s too late—the small flare of irritation has already curled in her chest like a smoldering ember.
“She’s hard to ignore, isn’t she?”
Navia’s voice comes in, low and teasing, from somewhere behind her. The rising actress in the field with a promising future. She’s appeared out of nowhere, of course, like she always does.
“And?” Furina quips, refusing to look at her.
“Aren’t you going to approach her? Or should I do it for you instead?”
Furina takes a sip of her champagne, as if to drown out her words, but she knows it won’t stop anytime soon.
“She’ll approach me.” she finally mutters, eyes drifting back—unintentionally, she insists—to where Lumine stands. She’s laughing now, effortlessly charming the group around her, as though she’s been born for this kind of attention.
“You know, you’re not as unreadable as you think, Lady Furina.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Navia.”
“Fine.” She shrugs, stepping away with upkept carelessness. “But whatever’s eating at you, don’t let it ruin your evening. Even if her ex fiancé is in the same room as you two.”
Furina freezes, caught off guard by the sincerity in her voice. For a moment, she glances at her and finds that Navia trails off again. But she doesn’t let herself dwell on it.
The music swells, the crowd shifts, and Furina finds herself once again staring at Lumine. She wants to hate her—truly, she does—but the frustration twisting in her chest is more complicated than that. Lumine has everything Furina pretends not to want: attention, admiration, a carefree aura that draws people in effortlessly.
And yet, all Furina can do is take another sip of champagne and steel herself against the lingering sting of jealousy.
Because Furina de Fontaine isn’t supposed to feel this way.
She’s supposed to be untouchable.
Furina’s eyes find Lumine once again, effortlessly radiant in her champagne-colored gown, the fabric shimmering like liquid gold under the soft glow of the chandeliers. She stands at the center of attention, surrounded by admirers who hang on her every word, her laughter ringing out like music that feels both maddening and soothing all at once.
Furina tightens her grip around the stem of her champagne glass, forcing herself to appear composed, even as her heart pounds a little harder than she’d like to admit.
She shouldn’t be staring, but it’s impossible not to. She doesn’t see what everyone else does—the poised woman dazzling the Gala’s guests with effortless charm. No, she sees Lumine behind the wheel of that sleek silver Mercedes, the same controlled confidence lighting up her gaze as she grips the steering wheel, handling every turn with breathtaking precision. It’s that unshakable focus, that grace in chaos, that draws Furina in every single time.
She remembers standing trackside at Monaco not long ago, with many layers of disguise and even wearing shades even though it was night. The roar of engines drowning out every other sound. Lumine had flown by in her Mercedes, the car almost an extension of herself, its silver exterior glinting under the midday sun. Furina had held her breath watching her take a corner others struggled with, the line she followed impossibly clean.
Reckless, Furina had thought back then. Daring.
(Lumine wins the pole that night, spraying that hard earned champagne to the fellow drivers, smiling cheekily. And that night, she remembers her lips being devoured to death by Lumine still in her sports tracksuit.)
But now, standing here among the glittering lights of the Gala, she knows better. Lumine isn’t reckless—she’s deliberate, calculating. Every move she makes, whether on the track or in a room like this, is intentional.
Furina tears her gaze away, scolding herself for the foolishness of it all. They’re together. She sees Lumine every day, feels the warmth of her touch, hears her soft laughter when it’s just the two of them. And yet, here she is, admiring from a distance like some infatuated schoolgirl, as though Lumine doesn’t already belong to her.
It’s maddening.
She takes a sip of champagne, feigning interest in the conversations around her and trying to join in, but her attention inevitably drifts back to Lumine. The blonde is smiling now, a soft, genuine expression that catches Furina off guard. It’s different from the one she shows to the crowd—this one is quieter, more real.
And then, just as quickly, Lumine’s gaze flickers across the room and lands on her.
Furina freezes, her breath hitching as Lumine’s lips quirk into a subtle, knowing smile. It’s barely noticeable, a secret carved into the moment that no one else would catch. But Furina does.
That single look is enough to make her heart stutter, the champagne suddenly tasting sweeter on her tongue. Lumine turns back to her conversation, as composed as ever, leaving Furina standing there, feeling entirely undone.
Hopeless, she thinks to herself, though there’s no bitterness in the word.
The night continues on, the music swells, and the crowd shifts, but Furina doesn’t mind anymore. Because Lumine, her Lumine, is here—radiant, confident, untouchable to everyone but her. And for tonight, that’s enough.
Lumine is for Furina de Fontaine’s only.