[BL]Reborn as the Empire's Most Desired Omega
Chapter 168: You are a state event.

Chapter 168: Chapter 168: You are a state event.

The dining room was too bright.

Lucas squinted as he entered, blinking against the soft morning light spilling through tall windows, the crystal pitcher of juice on the table glowing like it had the nerve to be cheerful. Trevor, of course, looked entirely unbothered, hair tousled just so, shirt freshly buttoned and only marginally wrinkled. He slid into his usual chair like a man who had never known chaos in his life.

Lucas sat across from him with the weight of a man preparing for war.

Windstone poured coffee with reverent precision. "Cream is to your left, Your Grace. And a reminder that you asked for breakfast service at this hour."

"I was under duress," Lucas muttered. "There was a knot involved."

Trevor smirked over his mug, looking at Lucas like he had offended his entire bloodline. "You remember just one?"

Windstone, who had lived through too many wars, political and romantic, didn’t blink.

Lucas, however, froze mid-reach for his coffee, cheeks pinking with delayed mortification. "I was trying to preserve some dignity," he muttered.

Trevor took a slow sip of his drink like it was vintage wine and smiled without mercy. "Too late for that, sweetheart. Plus, I expect my staff to understand that there will be discussion about sex and not be prudish about it."

Windstone, unflappable as ever, merely adjusted a fork on the table. "Your Grace, I served under your grandfather. I’ve seen worse than post-knot banter before my morning tea."

Lucas blinked. "I don’t even want to know what that means."

"Good," Windstone replied dryly. "Now, shall we continue your schedule, or would you like to inform the council that your work will be delayed by your lingering knot?"

Trevor hummed, clearly amused. "He could send them a scented letter. Really lean into the drama."

Lucas groaned. "Can I just fake my death instead? Seems less humiliating."

Windstone, flipping a page on the tablet in his hand, didn’t even glance up. "If Your Grace is able to draft a death certificate, notify the palace, and evade your husband’s security detail for more than twelve minutes, I’ll allow it."

Trevor leaned back in his chair, arms folded, smug as sin. "Twelve minutes is generous."

"I hate everyone at this table," Lucas muttered into his cup.

"Then I believe we’re off to a productive start," Windstone said mildly, tapping the screen. "First item: a meeting with the accounts secretary. Second, a review of incoming correspondence, most of it floral. And third..." He paused, then looked up with an expression that could only be described as politely bracing. "A luncheon hosted by Grand Duchess Cressida. She has, how shall I put this, restructured your calendar."

Lucas stared at him. "What possibly could that mean?"

Windstone gave the kind of sigh reserved for bureaucracy and people in denial. "It means, Your Grace, that over half of your upcoming engagements have been replaced with social outings curated by Her Grace the Grand Duchess—garden teas, charity luncheons, and a particularly aggressive embroidery circle that meets on Wednesdays."

Trevor let out a low whistle. "She’s bringing out the lace gloves."

Lucas’s eyes narrowed. "And no one thought to inform me before now?"

"You were indisposed," Windstone said with clinical gentleness. "For forty-nine hours. With knot-induced fever. I was advised not to interrupt."

"I wasn’t dying," Lucas muttered, only to be met with two deeply unimpressed looks, one from Trevor, the other from Windstone.

"You did cry when I moved the pillows," Trevor added helpfully, sipping his drink.

Lucas threw him a withering glare. "You rearranged the entire bed while I was tied to you!"

"Details," Trevor said with a shrug, far too pleased with himself.

Windstone cleared his throat. "Shall I respond to Her Grace Cressida on your behalf, or would you prefer to negotiate terms yourself, Your Grace?"

Lucas sank lower into his chair. "Please tell me that at least Serathine didn’t hear about Cressida."

Windstone hesitated just long enough to confirm Lucas’s worst fear. "The Duchess of D’Argente has... been informed."

Lucas let out a strangled noise, halfway between a groan and a whimper. "By whom?"

Trevor, entirely too calm, bit into a slice of toast and said around the crunch, "Pretty sure my grandmother’s exact words were, ’I’ll be taking care of the boy now, since someone else already tied him to a bed.’"

Lucas covered his face with both hands. "Why are old women in this family armed with metaphors and no shame?"

"Her Grace Serathine responded with a bouquet of thistles," Windstone added, helpfully. "And a note that read, ’Over my dead lineage.’"

Trevor coughed, clearly trying not to laugh.

Windstone went on unbothered, mildly entertained. "Both forwarded requests for a stay in the mansion."

Lucas didn’t lower his hands. "Both? As in... at the same time?"

"I did attempt to stagger the visits," Windstone replied with the grave dignity of a man who had seen war. "Unfortunately, Her Grace Cressida believes she outranks Her Grace Serathine, and Her Grace Serathine believes she owns the right to see her adopted son after two months."

Trevor muttered into his coffee, "She’s not wrong."

Lucas groaned, dragging his hands through his hair like it might keep his brain from sliding out of his ears. "They’re going to destroy each other." Correct content is on NovelFire)

"They may," Windstone allowed, unperturbed. "But rest assured, the palace staff has already been briefed on all evacuation routes. I’ve also restricted access to the cutlery drawer and moved all sharp objects from the parlor."

Lucas blinked and then shifted his gaze to Trevor. "Can’t you stop them? It’s your mansion and property."

Trevor didn’t answer immediately. He set his cup down with a muted clink, leaned back in his chair, and regarded Lucas with that maddening, unreadable expression—the one that made it clear he’d already thought five moves ahead.

"I could," he said finally. "Legally. Financially. Logistically." A pause. "But politically?" His gaze flicked to Windstone, who gave the most diplomatic non-nod in recorded history. "Not unless I want Serathine to summon a rainstorm and Cressida to start a cold war."

Lucas stared. "So that’s a no?"

"That’s a ’we survive it, or we die elegantly in the attempt.’"

Windstone cleared his throat again, ever the voice of reason. "Preferably the former. With minimal property damage. And if I may be so bold—your Graces, perhaps you might consider scheduling your public outings with some overlap. Two grand duchesses in one place might cancel each other out. Or detonate."

Lucas slumped forward until his forehead met the table with a gentle thunk. "Do you realize they will argue and, God knows, maybe start a war over who will organize our official wedding?"

Trevor didn’t flinch. He calmly reclaimed his cup, took a slow sip, and replied with a serenity that bordered on infuriating. "Of course they will."

Lucas turned his head just enough to glare at him, one cheek still pressed against the table. "You don’t look nearly alarmed enough." NovelFire

"I’m choosing peace," Trevor said, entirely unbothered. "Mostly because I’ve already accepted we lost control of the event the moment they found out we signed the papers without a parade."

Windstone, ever composed, offered a dry smile as he tapped the corner of his tablet. "Technically, your grandmother is calling it a ’private union ceremony,’ Your Graces. The term ’secret’ caused Her Grace Cressida to send a three-page letter of protest. In calligraphy."

Lucas groaned louder. "They’re going to kill each other. In my parlor. While wearing lace gloves."

"Then we’ll mourn with dignity," Trevor said, folding his napkin. "And possibly publish the more flattering photos."

Windstone cleared his throat. "Assuming they allow photographers. Her Grace Serathine has already contacted three stylists, two florists, and a stained glass artisan. Her Grace Cressida has... requisitioned the Imperial string quartet."

Lucas sat up abruptly. "That’s supposed to be for state events."

Trevor leaned in slightly. "Sweetheart, you are a state event now."