Chapter Text
Montague sat on the deck in silence, the yacht swaying slightly beneath him, yet enough to make him feel nauseous. A guard stood nearby, still as a statue, saying nothing. Montague had said even less.
The click of footsteps on stairs signaled Midas’ arrival, but Montague didn’t move. He was still seated at the edge of the deck, his elbows braced on his knees. The night wind licked cold across his cheeks and ruffled his collar, but he didn’t react to it. His eyes were unfocused, glassy, fixed somewhere beyond the railings where the sea bled into darkness.
The slow rhythm of footsteps climbed closer as Midas appeared at the top of the stairwell, the wind catching slightly in his hair. He glanced at the guard and flicked his fingers once, and that was enough for the guard to swiftly walk away. Midas then turned his full attention to Montague, one brow raising lazily, a smirk half formed on his lips. “Well”, he said, voice light as he kept slowly walking towards his guest. “To what do I owe the visit?”
Montague didn’t answer. His leg bounced once, then twice and then he blinked slowly. The question seemed to reach him late, like a voice underwater. He barely opened his mouth, and then closed it again when he realized his throat had locked up tight as a fist. He shifted his gaze slightly, just enough to glance around the deck as if searching for something, but in reality all he could think about was what Valeria would’ve thought of him, had she been there to see where he had ended up. The thought scraped through him, jagged and silent, and his jaw twitched.
Midas’ smirk faded as he seemed to realize something was wrong. He descended the final few steps, slower now, watching him more carefully. He crossed the deck without a word, coming to stand directly in front of him. His gaze roamed over Montague’s face which was shadowed under the low lights, then dropped to the loose way his coat hung around his shoulders, one side almost slipping off completely.
He didn’t speak. He simply reached down, lightly took the lapel of Montague’s coat, and straightened it.
That's all it took. Montague looked up. Something in the motion, in Midas’ quietness and in the fact that he was still there collapsed whatever was left of his composure: his vision blurred suddenly and his amulet flared once, trying desperately with a faint pulse over his chest to do what it was forged to do: seal him, steel him, keep him composed. But it failed; it failed because Midas didn’t step away. He didn’t mock him nor smirk. Instead, he reached for him, and Montague let him.
The contact shattered him. He leaned in, slow and helpless, and pressed his face to Midas’ shoulder. The tears came then without sobs nor gasping, it was just a steady, silent flood slipping out past every carefully constructed wall he’d spent his entire adult life holding up. It was shameful, but somewhat liberating. He gritted his teeth and tried to breathe, but even that was difficult. He hadn’t cried in decades. And now here he was, breaking open against someone he wasn’t supposed to need.
Midas said nothing still, he just held him, one hand pressing against the back of Montague’s head, the other settled lightly on his shoulder.
Montague hated it. He hated how easy it was to sink into and hated the way it felt like safety. Most of all, he hated how small he was at that moment. How human.
Once the tears dried and the silence deepened, Montague barely shifted. Without thinking, without permission, he sluggishly reached for the closest anchor he had. His hand found the collar of Midas’ shirt, smooth silk over his warm skin, and he pulled him forward with a force that startled even himself. Their mouths collided, and in that action there was no place for grace nor precision: it was a clumsy, reckless motion driven by hunger and want. Montague didn’t kiss him, he devoured him. Their lips crashed, parted sloppily, crashed together again in a mess of spit and uncoordinated tongues that couldn’t decide who was leading whom. Montague’s hand tugged at Midas’ collar, pulling him in until their teeth clicked togethe. His grip was greedy, fingers splayed across Midas’ shoulder to his back like he needed to claim every inch before it slipped away. Midas tasted sweet, like wine, but the way Montague drank him in was anything but refined: it was a desert thirst, frantic and starved. Every swallow of Midas’ breath worsened the ache in his chest. He wanted more, a ll of it. Midas groaned low against his mouth, the sound vibrating through Montague’s teeth, and his fingers found their way back into Montague’s hair, gripping it this time and holding his head in place.
Eventually, their bodies demanded a pause, even for just a couple of seconds. A ragged gasp clawed its way up Montague’s throat, forcing him to break the kiss, their lips parting with a wet pull, a thin strand of spit still tethering them as they struggled to breathe.
That’s when Montague rose from his seat with a bit too much confidence for his current state: his balance faltered, drunkenness pulling at his limbs, but his grip on Midas surely didn’t loosen. His breath came in sharp, uneven bursts as he raised both hands to cup Midas’ face. His thumbs brushed the heat of Midas’ flushed cheeks, fingers curling against the angles of his jaw, needing to feel him, to ground himself in the warmth of his skin, in something that wasn’t slipping away. There was a wildness in Montague’s eyes, glassy and fevered, as if looking at Midas was the only thing keeping him upright. Then, without giving himself another second to hesitate, he dove back in. Their lips met again, crashing with even less finesse than before. Montague’s hands framing Midas’ face, thumbs pressing hard against his cheeks. He dragged Midas closer: chest to chest, hip to hip. Still, Montague couldn’t get close enough; if he could have fused them together, he would have, just to end the gap, just to quiet the roaring, suffocating need clawing through his ribs. He opened his eyes for a half second and saw Midas’ closed lids, the crease of his brows, the faint flush on his cheeks. That earnest expression undid something in him, and Montague deepened the kiss even further.
Then, Midas tapped on his shoulder. A small gesture, barely a flick, but it landed heavier than a shove. Montague’s head snapped up, breath ragged, lips parted as though his mouth couldn’t decide whether to kiss him again or curse him for stopping. The space between them became unbearable. Midas’ taste was still lingering on Montague’s tongue. Montague straightened up, his movement clumsy, but he didn’t care. He pulled him forward, reclaiming his mouth with a desperation that bordered on reckless, but Midas didn’t let him. His hand came up, calm and precise, two fingers pressing against Montague’s lips.
Montague froze, lips barely brushing against his golden fingers. His breath hitched. He tried to speak, but the words refused him. His throat locked up once again, strangling whatever demand or plea had been forming. His chest rose and fell in shallow, frustrated bursts as a dull, hot pulse hammered behind his eyes. His mind was spinning but all he could see was Midas, standing steady in front of him, unmoving and unreadable. His body caved in before his will did: he leaned his forehead against Midas’ shoulder, burying his face there, letting the heat and scent of him flood his senses.
Midas didn’t falter.
“You don’t want me”, he murmured, voice low, right against his ear. His tone was soft, but the words pierced clean through. “You want out”
Montague’s jaw clenched. His breath hitched somewhere between his chest and throat and his stomach knotted. The words didn’t make sense, or maybe they did. He didn’t really know. He didn’t care. His head felt stuffed with cotton and static, and it pissed him off. His mind scrambled to form a protest, but it all came out tangled, slurred and clumsy. “No- non, je veux ça”, he rasped, and his hand fumbled up, catching Midas’ wrist. “Je veux toi”
It was pathetic: the words spilled out as a broken mess, tasting wrong in his mouth and sounding wrong in the air. He leaned his forehead against Midas’ shoulder, not gracefully, but with the slow, heavy collapse of a man whose legs no longer obeyed him. His fingers curled in the fabric of Midas’ shirt, clinging like it was the only thing tethering him to the world.
Midas’ fingers brushed once through Montague’s hair, smoothing it back as though Montague weren’t unravelling beneath him. Montague hated the quiet way Midas touched him with no rush, just steady hands while Montague’s insides screamed for something louder. “Alright”, Midas said, soft and infuriatingly even, like Montague’s pathetic attempt at French hadn’t just slipped between them. “Come on”
Montague didn’t know if he was being mocked, pitied or simply ignored. His legs moved when Midas’ hand coaxed him to move, not because he wanted to, but because Midas had this way of guiding without force. His grip was light, but Montague followed without hesitation. The world tilted under his feet, or maybe it was the yacht, or maybe it was just him.
Midas led him across the deck, their steps were out of sync: Midas gliding, Montague stumbling, one foot barely catching the next. The bedroom wasn’t far, but it felt like a pilgrimage. When they reached it, Midas didn’t say a word. He simply pressed a hand on Montague’s chest and gave him a small push which was enough for Montague to collapse onto Midas’ king sized bed. He blinked up at the ceiling, the room tilting, swaying and breathing with him. Midas wasn’t in his line of sight anymore, but Montague heard the clink of glass and the soft hiss of water being poured which made him realize his mouth was dry.
Then Midas returned, crouching beside the bed, holding out the glass as if Montague were some delicate, fragile thing that needed his aid. His expression was softer now, maybe. Or maybe it was the alcohol painting tenderness where it didn’t belong. Montague’s eyes narrowed, trying to read him in vain. “Drink”, Midas said simply.
Montague took the glass. His fingers were clumsy around it, his throat dry, but he drank anyway. He didn’t thank him, but Midas didn’t expect it.
The golden man reached for him again, but this time it wasn’t with the cautious, featherlight touch from before. His fingers slipped beneath the collar of Montague’s coat, brushing his nape, and with a fluid motion, he tugged it off his shoulders. Montague’s arms resisted at first, sluggish and stiff, but Midas was able to take it off him.
Once he had been freed from his coat, Montague slumped back onto the bed, his breath uneven. He wasn’t cold, but when Midas’ fingers ghosted over his chest to the first button of his shirt, Montague shivered anyway. The first button slipped free and Montague’s breath hitched, sharp and involuntary. The loosened fabric gave a whisper of relief, a fraction more space to breathe. He hadn’t even realized how stifling the shirt had become, how the collar had been cutting into his throat, how every breath had felt trapped beneath stiff cotton. Midas’ fingers didn’t rush: they found the second button with a measured ease, working it loose with a deliberation that made Montague’s pulse throb louder in his ears. The moment the button slipped, the fabric eased off his chest, and a thin ribbon of cool air kissed his skin. His chest expanded a little fuller, less constricted. The way Midas did it, unhurried and precise, crawled beneath Montague’s skin. He knew what this looked like. Knew what his body and his mind wanted it to look like. His mind scrambled to keep control, to ignore how his muscles coiled tighter under Midas’ touch. Yet Midas’ face gave nothing away. No teasing grin, no sly glance. Just a quiet focus, as if tending to a task that needed to be done.
Montague’s thoughts blurred at the edges, alcohol and exhaustion mixing into a thick fog that dulled everything but the heat low in his stomach. Suddenly he was propped up on his elbows, half risen from the bed. His hand reached out, clumsy and greedy. His fingers barely brushed the hem of Midas’ shirt when the man looked up. Golden eyes locked onto him, sharp and luminous. There was no smirk this time, just a quiet, unreadable gaze that held Montague suspended. The air thickened between them, Montague’s breath slowed but his heart kept racing. The room tilted and his arms trembled, not from effort, but from that sickening combination of adrenaline and bone deep fatigue. His focus kept slipping, vision narrowing in and out on Midas’ face, as if even reality had grown tired of holding shape. And still, Midas watched him.
Montague’s lips parted, a protest half formed on the tip of his tongue, but before he could force the words out, Midas leaned in. For a split second, Montague was certain their mouths would meet, that heat would swallow him whole, but Midas tilted just slightly, bypassing his lips, and pressed a kiss to Montague’s forehead.
Montague’s chest tightened, a spike of frustration cutting through the haze. His jaw clenched, ready to curse, to shove, to pull , but Midas’ hand was already there, firm at his shoulder, guiding him back down to the bed. He let himself fall. He hated the surrender, hated how easily Midas folded him down like an exhausted child who didn’t know what was best for himself. And yet he didn’t fight it. His eyes fluttered half shut, lashes dragging heavy as he watched Midas straighten up.
He didn’t want to sleep, didn’t want to be still. But his frustration gave way to sleep in no time.
The next morning, Montague woke when the sun was already high in the sky, its light spilling across the upper deck of the Marigold . For a fleeting moment, his hazy mind expected to see the jagged, glistening cliffs of the Grand Glacier outside the windows. But instead, it was only ocean. Endless, open, blue. He blinked against the sunlight, and the realization hit him like a slow, nauseating wave. Right, The Marigold , last night.
He rolled onto his back, staring out through the wide windows at the endless stretch of ocean, its surface gleaming under the sunlight. His mind was a tangle of thoughts, looping over and over . Qu'est-ce que tu foutais, Montague…? What the hell had he been thinking?
Midas wasn’t there. The sheets were rumpled, creased in a way that told him he hadn’t slept alone, but the space beside him was already cold. He stared at the empty spot, head still heavy, trying to piece together how long ago Midas had slipped away. The idea that he’d stayed, even for just a moment, settled strangely in his chest, a dull ache that wasn’t quite relief nor disappointment. Had Midas left because he wanted nothing to do with him? Or had he been there longer than Montague deserved? The thought twisted, sharp and sour, as he dragged his gaze toward the open sea. The Marigold drifted on, oblivious, as if mocking him for his dramatics. Maybe he should’ve just thrown himself overboard and swum back to shore. At least that would’ve spared him the humiliation of facing Midas again.
Instead, he inhaled deeply and with a slow, deliberate motion he got up to collect his coat, which had been carefully folded on a cabinet. As he collected it, his eyes caught on a photograph resting next to it. He paused, fingertips brushing against the edge of the frame. In it, a younger Midas stood proudly with who must’ve been his daughter, Jules, in his arms, her tiny hands clutching his collar, her face half buried in his chest. Midas's expression was way softer than the one Montague was now used to.
He straightened, buttoning up his shirt, fingers moving deftly but his mind distant. He raised his chin with that cultivated confidence he had mastered over the years as he told himself: “Either I meet him on my way out, ou rien”
The Marigold was bustling with movement, crewmates and guards moving with practiced efficiency. He descended the steps toward the lower deck, catching sight of TNTina lounging in a chair, sunglasses perched on her nose, one arm slung lazily over the backrest. She noticed him, smirked slightly, and raised a hand in a lazy wave.
Montague hesitated, then gave in, altering his path to approach her. She raised an eyebrow as he neared. “Well, well. Didn’t think I’d see you here at this time”, she said, her grin widening.
“Neither did I”, Montague replied smoothly, though there was an edge of tension under his voice.
Her gaze flicked over him knowingly, and he felt a flare of embarrassment he refused to show. “Looking for someone?” she asked, the tease not subtle in the slightest.
He paused, then exhaled. “Do you happen to know where Midas is?”
TNTina's grin grew sharper. “Seeing Jules, I think. If you ask one of the guards, they’ll find him for you in no time.”
He scoffed lightly. “Non, that won’t be necessary-”
But TNTina raised her hand and snapped her fingers at a nearby guard before he could finish. “You,” she called out. “Fetch Midas. Tell him the prince has awakened”
Montague’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t protest. The guard nodded respectfully and hurried off, leaving Montague standing there, suddenly aware of how exposed he felt. He wasn’t entirely composed, and he hated that people on the Marigold could probably see it. His mind spiraled for a moment, thoughts knotting up with paranoia. Would they use this against him? Twist it into something more? He was snapped out of it when TNTina leaned back, crossing her legs and tilting her head at him. “You look tense”, she observed casually. “You’re not worried, are you?”
Montague smoothed his coat almost defensively. “Worried?” he echoed, forcing his voice back to its usual, disdainful smoothness. “Hardly”
She chuckled, shaking her head. “Could’ve fooled me”
Before Montague could form a retort, footsteps approached from behind. He turned just as Midas appeared, moving with his usual casual authority. His golden eye gleamed in the sunlight, his posture almost infuriatingly relaxed.
“Good morning”, Midas greeted, his tone polite, almost unnervingly normal.
Montague’s heart gave an uncomfortable jolt, but he masked it behind a cool nod. “Morning.”
Midas gestured toward the upper deck. “I was just about to join Jules for breakfast. Care to join us?”
There it was. Politeness, charm, that unshakeable sense of control like nothing at all had happened. Montague hesitated, searching Midas’s face for a crack, a flicker of acknowledgment. But Midas just waited, patient and calm.
Finally, Montague nodded, forcing his expression into something resembling nonchalance. “I suppose I could spare the time”
Midas’s lips twitched, just slightly. “Excellent. Follow me”
The simple request sounded far too casual for Montague’s liking. He trailed after Midas, keeping his strides measured, composed, though every step seemed to chafe against his fraying dignity. His coat felt too heavy on his shoulders, his shirt was still creased and his hair… he didn’t even need a mirror to know how disheveled it was. A disgrace. He resisted the urge to slick it back, knowing it would only worsen the mess.
They walked through the interior of the Marigold, sunlight slanting through the windows, gilding the dark walls.
“Did you sleep well, Montague?” Midas asked, casually, as though they were discussing the weather.
Montague’s jaw tightened. “Adequately, thank you” He managed a polite tone, crisp and sharp, though inside he seethed at how ordinary Midas made it all sound. As if Montague hadn’t been clutching at him like some lovesick fool mere hours ago.
“Good”, Midas said, his gaze straight ahead, unfazed. That damnable calmness again.
Montague straightened his spine, fingers brushing down his coat as if that would erase how out of sorts he felt. His skin prickled with the awareness of his own dishevelment. He loathed how vulnerable he must have looked.
They emerged onto the far side of the deck, where a long table had been set beneath a sunshade. The Marigold’s golden railings framed the open sea, and at the table, seated cross legged and scrolling through her phone with studied boredom was Jules. She didn’t glance up at first, but when they approached, she tucked the device away with a casual flick of her wrist. Her gaze swept over Montague, appraising, not hostile, but certainly not deferential either.
Montague inclined his head, offering her the faintest of smiles, though his gut churned with that same misplaced sense of being a trespasser.
“I’ve heard a great deal about”, Jules said, her voice smooth, her posture slouched in a way that could only belong to someone with no need to impress anyone.
“And I’ve heard a lot about you, mademoiselle”, Montague replied, taking his seat with care, smoothing his coat as he sat. “Your intervention at Oscar’s estate was quite admirable”
Jules’s lips curled into a grin, lazy and self assured. “Yeah. I know”
Montague couldn’t help the faint, dry huff that escaped him.
The table in front of them was lavish: baskets of fresh bread, carved fruits, golden bowls of pastries that glistened under the sun. He stared at it all with a faint sense of disgust, not at the spread, but at himself. What he wouldn’t give to be able to light a cigarette right there, to drown out the awkward stiffness coiled in his chest with smoke. But this wasn’t the kind of company where he could indulge in such escapes. Instead, he folded his hands in his lap, outwardly composed, inwardly screaming.
Montague reached, with as much poise as he could muster, for a piece of bread nd busied himself with spreading a thin layer of butter across its surface. The normalcy of the act was somehow both grounding and humiliating.
Meanwhile, Midas leaned back in his chair, the morning sun glinting off the polished deck as he regarded his daughter with a faint smile. “So, Jules. What have you been up to? Any new projects I should know about?”
Jules, sprawled comfortably, plucked a cherry from the table and tossed it into her mouth. “And yes, actually. Working on a new drone prototype. Smaller and faster… Might replace the owl”
“A shame”, Midas said with mock solemnity. “That bird’s become somewhat of a mascot. People will riot”
“Let them riot”, Jules said, nonchalantly. “The owl deserves retirement” She popped another cherry into her mouth, chewing lazily before adding, “Besides, they’ve got better things to riot about”
Montague’s fingers stilled, the butter knife paused mid stroke across the bread. He lifted his gaze, sharp but tired, as Jules continued, voice smooth as ever: “You know… salary cuts, new regulations, new Public Safety Contribution tax, a funny way to say you’re charging people for existing in their own homes... Or the surveillance checkpoints all around the island”
Montague’s jaw tightened. He placed the knife down with care, fingers steepling as his posture straightened. “It’s called infrastructure. The Society ensures stability through necessary measures. If certain radical elements didn’t make a sport of terrorism, these precautions wouldn’t be needed”
Jules didn’t flinch. Her smile, lazy and crooked, only deepened. “Ah, yes. The terrorists. Always convenient, aren’t they? It’s funny how the more you tighten things, the more radical elements seem to pop up like weeds. Or maybe... like cause and effect”
Montague’s lips thinned. “Weeds are to be managed for the sake of the garden”
“That’s adorable”, Jules’s tone was light, mocking. “But you don’t sound like a gardener. You sound like an exterminator”
Midas’s hand moved, slow and deliberate, as he refilled his tea cup. “Alright”, he said, voice cutting through the tension like a warm blade. “I believe it’s better if we leave politics away from the breakfast table”
Jules leaned back in her chair, grinning. And then, as if nothing had happened, she said, “I had ice cream with Aphrodite a few days ago”
Montague’s breath hitched subtly. The coffee cup he had just poured himself met his lips a beat too late to disguise it.
Midas’s brow lifted, mildly intrigued. “I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting her”, he said, tone casual, but his eyes flickered, sharp beneath the surface. “Though I’d say pleasure is precisely the problem with her, isn’t it?”
“She’s curious”, Jules said, stretching out her legs. “About humans, mostly. Said she never had ice cream before. Can you imagine? Millennia of existence and not once did anyone hand her a cone. She went for pistachio, by the way”
Midas gave a quiet, thoughtful hum, though his expression cooled slightly. “Curiosity’s a dangerous trait in a god”
“Oh, don’t worry”, Jules waved him off, scrolling lazily through her phone. “She’s not the clingy type. More like… She plays a little and moves on. Besides-” her grin widened, eyes flicking to Montague with sharp amusement, “she tagged me in a post. Got me five thousand new followers overnight. If she wants to play PR goddess, I’m not about to stop her”
Montague’s fingers tightened around his cup. The words and the smile both felt meticulously placed, as if she was peeling back his composure one casual remark at a time, but she didn’t press. She let it hang there, effortless and offhand, like the photos she didn’t mention didn’t matter at all.
Midas, utterly unfazed, shook his head with a smile. “This social media business…I’ll never understand it”
“That’s because you’re old… and you don’t have good angles”, Jules said, slouching into her chair with a smug grin.
Montague, against his better judgment, allowed a quiet exhale of amusement.
“And you, Montague?” Jules said suddenly, eyes gleaming with something sharp and entertained. “Any divine rendezvous? Or do you prefer keeping your scandals private?”
Montague placed his butter knife down with quiet precision, his smile thin. “None I would consider worth a mention” He reached for his coffee, the steam curling past his face as he lifted it to his lips. “Not all of us are so public”
Jules’s grin widened. “Pity. That’s where all the fun is”
Midas, watching the back-and-forth with mild amusement, shook his head. “Careful, Jules. Don’t be rude to our guest”
“Montague’s fine”, Jules said, lounging back. “Aren’t you, Montague?”
He gave her a glance that was almost charming in its forced politeness. “Of course. I’m thriving”
They kept talking after that, drifting into safer, inconsequential topics: current mechanics projects, the logistics of importing decent coffee onto the Marigold , the efficiencies of the island’s transportation networks. It was a light, winding conversation that, for all its ease, never quite allowed Montague to settle.
Eventually, Jules pushed her chair back with a casual scrape. “I have something to work on, if you excuse me. Thanks for the food, dad”, she said, already standing. She stretched lazily, pocketed her phone, and turned to Montague with a grin. “Goodbye, Montague. It was a pleasure finally meeting you”
She didn’t wait for a reply. With the same effortless confidence, she strolled off, leaving Montague and Midas at the table amidst half empty platters and the soft rustle of the sea breeze. For a beat, Montague let his gaze linger on where she’d vanished. The table felt emptier without her presence filling the space, her sharp remarks keeping him alert. Now, it was just Midas and the faint ghost of last night tightening around his throat. Then, a group of waiters began clearing the table, their movements efficient and unobtrusive.
Midas was the first to rise from his seat, and Montague mirrored the motion with fluid ease. They didn’t exchange a word as they crossed the deck, footsteps echoing softly against the polished wood, until they reached the railings. The sea stretched endlessly before them, the island resting in the distance like a sleeping beast beneath the noon sun.
Midas leaned forward, forearms resting on the rail, his eyes on the horizon. “Tell me, Montague”, he said, voice smooth, light, almost lazy. “Did something pressing bring you here last night? Or was it merely a longing for sea air?”
The question was subtle in wording, but Montague knew what it was. His hands tightened on the iron rail, the mask of casual indifference slipping, just slightly. “Valeria”, he said, his voice low. “She’s gone”
Midas’s golden gaze shifted, catching him in his periphery. There was no surprise in his face, only a flicker of acknowledgement, perhaps. “That is a shame”, he murmured, thoughtful rather than sympathetic. “But you mustn’t let it distract you”
Montague’s jaw tensed. “She isn’t just some minor inconvenience”
“I didn’t say she was” Midas’s tone remained infuriatingly calm. “But whether you’re ready or not, the gods will catch the scent soon. And they are far less forgiving about missing pieces”
The truth of it settled heavy between them. Montague’s fingers tapped once, twice against the railing, before curling into a fist. The sea rolled on, indifferent. Montague’s gaze stayed fixed on the water, his voice sharp now, cutting through the salt heavy air. “Valeria and I had a plan. To strike Zeus, assault Mount Olympus. I see no reason to postpone it”
The words hung there, stark and final, like a gauntlet thrown. Midas was silent for a beat. Then, a quiet, disbelieving laugh rolled from his throat. He turned to Montague, slow and deliberate, his expression unreadable. “You’re serious?” His eyes gleamed with a glint of something that wasn’t amusement. “You intend to go ahead with this suicide?”
Montague’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t ask for your approval, Midas”
“No”, Midas said, “you didn’t. But you’ll get my answer all the same” He pushed away from the rail, straightening with a grace that felt like a challenge. “It’s a terrible idea, Montague. Reckless, ridiculous and arrogant. And not just for you, for every poor soul you plan on dragging with you. My men included”
Montague’s hands curled into fists, knuckles pale. “You forget who you’re speaking to. This island is mine . Your men are mine. You’ll contribute what I ask”
For the first time that day, Midas’s smile thinned into something cold. “Or what?” The words were razor sharp. He stepped closer, golden eyes narrowing. “You’ll wage a war against me? Because make no mistake, Montague, if you plan on throwing my men into a graveyard for your pride, I will fight you. Not out of defiance, but out of duty. Because I will not let your delusions turn into my men's blood”
Montague’s breath flared through his nose, his composure hanging by a thread. “You’re clinging to neutrality, Midas. It won’t save you when Zeus comes for all of us”
“And you’re clinging to the last trace of Valeria”, Midas shot back, no longer soft, “as if that will bring you anything but your own destruction”
The silence that followed was taut, suffocating. Montague’s heart pounded against his ribs, his glare locked with Midas’s, two forces that refused to yield. But in the end, Montague said nothing. He turned, coat snapping behind him as he strode away from the rail, away from Midas, away from the suffocating air of the Marigold and didn’t look back.
Montague’s steps carved into the earth, each stride cutting across the gravel and grass. The quiet hum of the Marigold faded behind him, replaced by the crunch of dirt beneath his soles and the dull roar building in his chest. The air was thick, stifling, like it too had taken offense at Midas’s words. He was halfway to his car when a soft, unhurried rhythm of footsteps joined his own.
“Well”, came Aphrodite’s voice, honey smooth and unbearably amused, “that’s a turn I didn’t see com-”
The pistol was in his hand before she could finish. The shot cracked through the air, sharp and precise, but it didn’t hit flesh. Instead, where she had been, there was only a burst of shimmering pink smoke, curling and dissipating like a perfumed sigh.
From somewhere in the haze, her laughter followed him, lilting and far too pleased. “What a temper”
Montague didn’t even glance back. His jaw was clenched so tight it throbbed, but he kept walking, swallowing the space between him and his car. The sun caught the messy strands of his hair, and sweat ran down the back of his neck beneath his collar.
When he reached the car, he yanked the door open hard enough to shake the frame and felt it all the way in his bones. He dropped into the driver’s seat without hesitation and slammed the door shut behind him. His hands gripped the steering wheel, fingers white from pressure. The leather bit into his skin, something solid to hold onto. His breath came out ragged and uneven. The quiet inside the car pressed down on him, broken only by the steady beat of his heart pounding full of betrayal. Midas was no ally, that fact hit him like a weight on his chest. Beneath all the charm and smooth talk, Midas’s loyalty curled back to himself. Always. he should've known better than trust him.
Montague’s fingers tapped a restless, uneven rhythm against the wheel before his hand curled into a fist, tight and aching. It wasn’t just that Midas didn’t understand, it was fear. A coward hiding behind careful words. He’s choosing himself. As always.
With a low growl, Montague turned the key. The engine roared to life beneath his hands, matching his fury. The tires dug into the earth as he tore away from the Marigold and from the man he should’ve never trusted.
Once again, hendidn’t look back. There was only one way forward, and he was ready to face the storm head on.