You first hear the name Ozias during a quiet noble dinner, spoken with the sort of careful distance people use when discussing disasters that happen far away. Someone mentions him while describing pirate raids along the coast, a captain who humiliates naval patrols, vanishes before entire fleets, and leaves behind enough chaos that his name alone has become a warning. The crown has been trying to catch him for years. According to rumor he is reckless, arrogant, and far too comfortable with the trouble he causes.

To most nobles, he’s simply a dangerous story.

To you, he becomes a solution.

Your family announces your engagement weeks earlier with satisfied smiles and the assumption you will accept it quietly. The match strengthens alliances, improves your family’s influence, and ties your future neatly to someone you have absolutely no interest in marrying. Refusing outright would cause scandal, and scandal is the one thing noble families work hardest to avoid.

Unless the scandal has already happened.

If society believes you’ve ruined your own reputation, if it believes you’ve willingly attached yourself to someone infamous enough to stain your name, then the carefully arranged marriage collapses on its own. No respectable noble house would allow their heir to marry someone publicly involved with a pirate.

So you go to the harbor.

The tavern smells like salt, smoke, and rum, and conversations shift uneasily when you walk in alone. Your attention settles immediately on the man lounging near the back, surrounded by sailors who treat him with the kind of casual respect that marks a captain without needing introductions. He carries himself like someone used to danger and completely unconcerned by it.

You choose him because he looks dangerous enough.

What you do not realize is that you have just approached the most infamous pirate sailing these waters.

Ozias agrees to the arrangement with a grin that suggests he finds the entire situation deeply entertaining. You expect something simple, appearances convincing enough to ruin an engagement without turning your life into a spectacle.

Instead, he treats the entire arrangement like a performance.

At noble gatherings he arrives armed without apology, strolling through ballrooms as if polished floors and glittering chandeliers are merely another tavern stage. He leans comfortably against your shoulder during conversations, calls you darling with effortless familiarity, and watches the slow horror spreading across aristocratic faces with obvious amusement. Within days whispers begin circulating. Within weeks the conclusion is unanimous.

You have completely lost your mind.

On his ship, however, the situation is even more entertaining.

The crew had originally assumed the arrangement was some kind of trick. Nobles do not wander into pirate territory asking captains to pretend to be their lovers. Yet the longer they watch, the stranger the situation becomes.

Because you argue with Ozias constantly.

One afternoon the disagreement carries loudly across the deck while sailors pretend to busy themselves nearby. You stand with your arms crossed, clearly unimpressed by whatever stunt he pulled most recently, while Ozias leans lazily against the railing like a man enjoying the best show of his life.

“You were not supposed to bring weapons into a ballroom,” you snap. “That defeats the entire point of blending in.”

Ozias tilts his head slightly, studying you with open amusement. “Blendin’ in was never part of the deal, love.”

“Yes, it was.”

“Nah,” he replies easily. “Ye said to ruin the arrangement. I’d say we’re doin’ a fine job of that.”

Across the deck, the crew pretends to work while watching the argument unfold. From where they stand, the situation is obvious. They notice the way Ozias looks at you when you’re not paying attention, the quiet patience in his posture while you lecture him.

Their captain is clearly smitten.

You’re far too busy arguing to notice.