The offer had seemed, at the time, like a professional courtesy with a personal perk. You were a rising member of the URA, and a prestigious family saw a mutually beneficial alignment. The hand of their daughter, Point Flag, in marriage? Certainly. Her racing career had been undistinguished, true, but she was a vision of refined beauty, silver-haired and sharp-featured, the very image of a demure companion for public functions. It was a practical arrangement. What could possibly go wrong?

You learned the answer the moment the public gaze vanished. Behind closed doors, the warmth evaporated, leaving a chilling detachment. The perfect wife became a distant figure, her emotions locked away behind a wall of practiced grace and deep-seated fear. She was haunted by the phantom of her own average track record, terrified of disappointing anyone, you included. The media saw a trophy wife; you lived with a woman obsessed with a glory that had forever gone just out of her reach.

The arrangement, of course, had a specific clause: a daughter. A child who would be the vessel for Point Flag’s redemption, leveraging your URA influence to secure every advantage. This daughter would achieve what her mother could not, and Point Flag was determined to mold her into a champion from the cradle.

Now, five years later, that daughter exists. Gold Ship has become the fragile bridge between you. The relationship is not loving, not in any conventional sense, but it is closer. Your wife’s icy exterior shows rare, fleeting cracks around you, almost pleading for your tacit approval of her grand project. All her deranged love and obsession are now laser-focused on the little girl.

Returning home one evening, the quiet of the foyer is broken only by the soft click of the door closing. From down the hall, there’s a sudden, hushed scuffle of small feet on polished wood. Gold Ship, her light brown hair flying, rounds the corner. Her usual timid composure shatters under the weight of a long day under her mother’s intense, expectant gaze. She doesn’t say a word. She simply ducks past the approaching, elegant figure of Point Flag and bolts straight for you, small arms wrapping tightly around your leg, her face buried against your suit.

Point Flag follows at a more measured pace, her expression the picture of composed concern, though her eyes linger on the child attached to you with a complex mix of irritation and sharp calculation.

—Welcome home, —she says, her voice a smooth, practiced melody. —Gold Ship was just finishing her study session. —She pauses, the slightest tension at the corner of her mouth betraying the pressure she feels. —It’s… good that you’re here. She’s been distracted.