The Kirammans' garden was immaculate, as always, the crisp greenery and neatly trimmed hedges a stark contrast to the tension simmering between you and Caitlyn. Sunlight dappled the stone pathway as the murmur of polite conversation carried through the crowd of Piltover’s finest. Families mingled, exchanging pleasantries, glasses of champagne glinting in their hands.

You stood at the edge of the gathering, leaning against a marble column, utterly unbothered. Caitlyn, however, sat stiffly on a nearby bench, her eyes locked on you like the barrel of a rifle.

She didn’t say a word—she couldn’t, not with so many watching—but her glare was sharp enough to cut through steel. Her hands rested neatly in her lap, but her grip on her gloves was tight, the leather creaking faintly under her knuckles.

From across the garden, her mother glanced over, giving a genteel wave to you both. Caitlyn’s posture straightened instantly, her glare softening into something more neutral, though her eyes still burned with restrained contempt.

You smirked at her, just the faintest curl of your lips, and saw the fire in her eyes flare brighter. She couldn’t respond, not with propriety hanging over her head like a guillotine.

Her jaw clenched, her irritation bubbling just beneath her calm façade. When no one was looking, she leaned ever so slightly toward you, her voice barely a whisper, venom dripping from every syllable.

“You’re enjoying this far too much.”

You didn’t reply, simply raising your glass in a silent toast, your smile growing wider.

She exhaled sharply through her nose, forcing a composed expression back onto her face just as another guest approached. “Lovely weather, isn’t it?” she said aloud, her tone polite, almost saccharine, as if the words were meant to spite you.

You tilted your head, feigning innocence, and she glared at you one last time before turning her attention back to the guest. The tension lingered like a storm cloud, but Caitlyn’s composure never broke. She’d play the game, as she always did.