[BL]Reborn as the Empire's Most Desired Omega
Chapter 169: Administrative nightmares and Imperial Summons

Chapter 169: Chapter 169: Administrative nightmares and Imperial Summons

Lucas stared at him, open-mouthed. "I—what? No. Absolutely not. I’m not a—" He gestured vaguely toward the window, as if the morning light itself might have answers. "That’s insane."

Trevor shrugged, unapologetic. "You married into the Fitzgeralt line, under the blessing of House D’Argente. You’re the heir of one duchess and you’re carrying the political hopes of at least three provinces who want to see what kind of legacy you’ll leave. That makes you more than a state event. You’re practically a public holiday."

Lucas flailed slightly, hands in the air. "I don’t feel like a public holiday."

"You’re not supposed to feel like one," Windstone said dryly, still scrolling through the morning’s alerts. "You’re meant to appear radiant and deeply inaccessible, Your Grace. Now, if we may continue. I’ve arranged for your office to be cleared and stocked. All documents requiring your seal are already sorted by urgency and potential emotional damage."

Lucas pushed his chair back with the slow determination of someone walking to his own execution. "Fine. Let’s go. If I have to pretend to be radiant and inaccessible, I’d rather do it from behind a desk."

Trevor rose with him, finishing the last of his drink. "I’ll walk you. I need to see the look on your face when you realize half your official correspondence now starts with ’Beloved Grand Duchess.’"

Lucas groaned. "God, just kill me."

Windstone, who had survived three regime transitions and at least one mysterious fire, raised an eyebrow. "If only I had a coin for every time someone said that before entering the office wing."

— NovelFire

The walk through the east corridor was mercifully quiet, no aides, no press, no bloodthirsty grandmothers armed with florals. Just the soft hush of polished floors, the warm press of sunlight, and the whisper of Lucas’s polished shoes as he moved with purpose. Or tried to.

The door to Trevor’s personal office, now their shared office space, was already open.

Lucas stepped in first, expecting something cold and sterile, the kind of neutral room built to intimidate. But the moment he crossed the threshold, something in his chest exhaled.

The room was sunlit and surprisingly warm. Sleek wood and heavy velvet, a few shelves already filled with thick ledgers, and a single framed photo on the desk, one of Trevor and Lucas at a gala, both clearly caught mid-snark, eyes narrowed, mouths sharp with half-swallowed laughter.

Lucas blinked. "You put that one on your desk?"

Trevor came up behind him, setting a hand on his shoulder. "It’s the only one where you looked at me like you didn’t hate me. And I looked like I knew I was going to marry you."

Lucas didn’t answer. He just reached up, resting his hand briefly over Trevor’s, and let the moment hang.

Then he stepped forward, crossing to the desk like it was a battlefield he might actually win today.

There were folders. Dozens. Arranged by priority, tagged with colored ribbons, gold for Fitzgeralt estate affairs, silver for D’Argente correspondence, and ominous black for Imperial notices.

Lucas narrowed his eyes. "Why do I have Imperial notices? I haven’t even been presented to the Imperial family yet. Lucius and Sirius don’t count."

Trevor, who had claimed the adjacent armchair with the confidence of a man immune to bureaucracy, arched a brow. "Don’t. Count?" he echoed. "Sweetheart, Lucius nearly started a trade war in your defense, and Sirius sent a whole division of lawyers to make sure your marriage contract didn’t get ’misinterpreted.’"

Lucas gave him a long look. "That just makes them overprotective. Not imperial."

Trevor smiled faintly, tipping his head. "Be that as it may, the Empire disagrees. You’re now legally my spouse, which means you fall under the category of recognized noble consort with shared jurisdiction. That gets you a seat at the table and a stack of notices on your desk."

Lucas opened the black folder with the resigned dread of someone expecting a bomb. "I was expecting... maybe a commemorative pen. Not a half-dozen fiscal reports and a handwritten note from the Minister of Agriculture."

Trevor chuckled. "He’s asking if you’ll endorse a heritage grain initiative. Apparently your taste in breakfast bread has been noted."

Lucas blinked at him. "How?"

Windstone’s voice drifted from the hallway, as if summoned by the gods of timing. "There was a photo taken during your stay at the Palace in Saha. Your Grace was photographed holding a slice of barley toast and smiling."

Lucas looked positively haunted. "I was smiling at the dog."

Trevor leaned back in his chair, smug. "And now you’re a regional champion for sustainable grain."

"I’m going to scream."

"You’ll be fine," Windstone said, entering the office with a steaming cup of tea and a tablet tucked under his arm. "Your Grace has survived worse. Including lace-gloved death threats, Serathine’s third wine-tasting luncheon, and your husband’s selective shirtlessness."

"That last one was a gift," Trevor said mildly, picking up a pen and flipping through one of the gold-ribboned folders.

Lucas buried his face in his hands. "This is my life now. Breakfast bread propaganda and public titles I didn’t sign up for."

Windstone placed the tea gently beside him. "It’s chamomile. For when the state becomes emotionally taxing."

Lucas peeked at the cup, then at the man who had somehow become his primary line of defense against aristocratic chaos. "You’re scarily good at this."

"I was forged in a much more ridiculous era," Windstone replied with quiet dignity. "This is practically a sabbatical."

Lucas inhaled slowly, rolled his shoulders back, and picked up a silver-ribboned folder. "Alright. One duchy at a time."

Trevor raised his cup. "That’s the spirit."

The room settled into something quieter, with only the steady hum of paper being turned, documents signed, and tablets tapped. Lucas read through a shipping proposal, underlined a clause about textile tariffs, and made a note to call Serathine about a proposed donation loophole she’d clearly slipped in with aggressive grace.

He wasn’t fast. He wasn’t flawless.

But he didn’t stop.

And when he reached the second Imperial folder, a simple envelope with a wax seal and crisp script, he didn’t flinch. NovelFire)

He opened it.

A single card, thick and heavy, inked in the neat, impersonal hand of a palace steward:

His Imperial Majesty Caelan requests the presence of Grand Duchess Lucas Fitzgeralt-D’Argente for private tea at the Palace in two weeks’ time. No press. No formal escort required. Time and date to be confirmed. Formal attire is optional. Punctuality is not.

P.S. He liked the dog too.

Lucas stared at the card.

Trevor, noticing the shift in his expression, leaned over. "What is it?