[BL]Reborn as the Empire's Most Desired Omega
Chapter 170: Cursed times incoming

Chapter 170: Chapter 170: Cursed times incoming

Lucas held the card out in silence, like it might detonate if he blinked the wrong way.

Trevor took it, scanned the lines, and let out a low, amused breath. "Oh, that’s charmingly terrifying."

Lucas dragged a hand down his face. "Why is the Emperor casually inviting me to tea like we’re... cousins? And what does he mean, punctuality is not?"

"It means you shouldn’t panic if you’re late," Trevor said. "Or that Caelan intends to be dramatically late himself and wants plausible deniability."

"I haven’t even been presented properly!" Lucas stood, pacing a slow, stunned circuit behind the desk. "There’s protocol for this. Ceremonies. A goddamn herald or three. I’m not supposed to just show up for tea like he’s my neighbor."

Trevor folded the card with maddening calm and set it back on the desk. "Caelan’s never cared for protocol... And biologically, he is your father."

Lucas stopped pacing.

"I know that," he said quietly. "I’ve always known that. But he’s never—" He gestured vaguely, frustration flickering behind his eyes. "He never reached out. Not once. Not when Serathine took me in. Not when the name change hit the registries. Not even after the wedding. I thought he was staying away on purpose."

Trevor stood, slower this time. "He might’ve been."

Lucas looked up sharply.

Trevor met his gaze with a kind of gentleness that didn’t come easily to him. "Caelan doesn’t do anything halfway. If he stayed away, it wasn’t because he didn’t care. It was because once he stepped in, there’d be no going back."

Lucas dropped his eyes to the invitation again. The paper felt too heavy in his hands, too final. "And now he wants tea."

Trevor smiled faintly. "That’s how he starts wars. And reunions."

Windstone, adjusting a stack of folders, added with characteristic dryness, "You should be flattered. His Majesty has only ever invited three people to tea without ceremony. Two of them are dead. One of them married him."

Lucas let out a long, exhausted breath and rubbed at his temple. "Of course he waits until I’ve got three ducal titles and a stack of diplomatic correspondence to my name before deciding I’m interesting."

"Technically," Windstone murmured, "you’ve always been interesting. You’re simply unavoidable now."

"Please tell me that he won’t officially recognize me now as one of his bastard children."

Windstone didn’t blink. "Would Your Grace prefer he wait until a state banquet to do it?"

Lucas looked genuinely horrified. "That wasn’t a no."

Trevor, still holding his hand, looked far too composed. "It wouldn’t change anything legally. You’re already married, titled, and publicly acknowledged as D’Argente and Fitzgeralt. Any recognition now would be symbolic."

"I don’t need symbolism. I need distance and plausible deniability."

Windstone flipped to a new screen on his tablet. "Unfortunately, Your Grace, you forfeited deniability the moment you married into a political family while bearing the face of half the Imperial bloodline."

Lucas groaned. "Fantastic. So tea with my emotionally unavailable biological father, who might declare me royal property between sips."

"Not property," Trevor said mildly. "Just a deeply inconvenient diplomatic asset." Correct content is on

Lucas muttered something unprintable and dropped into his chair like it had betrayed him.

"I swear to every god in this cursed bloodline, if he tries to introduce me as his son in front of the press—"

Windstone gave him a serene look. "Then we will simply act surprised, Your Grace."

Trevor nodded. "Very surprised."

Lucas slumped forward, forehead meeting the desk with a soft thunk. "I hate everyone in this family."

"Understandable, I don’t like the imperial family either." Trevor said without shame.

"You know, I didn’t talk about the imperial family."

Trevor paused, then gave a slow, considering hum. "Ah."

Lucas didn’t lift his head. "That’s all you have to say?"

"I mean..." Trevor leaned his hip against the desk, completely unrepentant. "If we’re being honest, both sides of your family have caused at least two international incidents and a regional drought. I’m not offended."

Lucas turned his head just enough to glare at him, cheek still pressed to the wood. "Your grandmother threatened me with clothes and Seratine is coming here to assert dominance. We have a wedding planned by two diplomatic, volatile women and an Emperor that is interested to talk with me after years of silence, justified or not, and maybe, maybe, the clergy wants me for my second gender."

Trevor blinked. "Well," he said finally, "when you put it like that, it does sound slightly cursed."

"Slightly?" Lucas asked, voice muffled by the desk.

Windstone, flipping to another calendar tab with terrifying efficiency, added, "You also forgot that Lady Cressida had destroyed your social agenda and from tomorrow you will have at least one social event a day."

Lucas let out a noise that was somewhere between a whimper and a primal scream. "One. A day?"

Windstone didn’t flinch. "Sometimes two. Occasionally three, if brunch counts as a separate category."

Trevor winced in sympathy. "You know she’s only doing this to make a point."

"Yes," Lucas snapped, lifting his head just enough to glare again. "The point being: I belong to her now. Like a handbag or a trained falcon."

"She does have both," Windstone noted.

Lucas slapped a hand over his face. "I’m going to die wearing brocade in someone’s garden while people pretend to care about the last designs of Evrin."

Trevor offered him a mock-thoughtful look. "It could be worse. Actually it would be worse... for you. Cressida and Serathine would want to train you for your official presentation."

Lucas slowly slid his hand down his face, eyes wide with dawning horror. "Oh no."

Trevor nodded, far too calm. "Oh yes."

"They’ll eat me alive."

"They’ll groom you alive," Trevor corrected. "Which is worse. You’ll be steam-pressed, cologne-bathed, and emotionally flayed over tea sets and posture."

"I already have posture," Lucas snapped, sitting up straighter in defiance.

"Not imperial posture," Trevor said, deadly serious. "Not the kind that makes bishops bow and diplomats panic. Serathine will demand you glide, not walk. Cressida will install a tea-pouring spine."

Windstone, who had stopped scrolling purely for dramatic effect, offered, "They’ve already sent over three tutors, a stylist, and a woman known only as Madame Solange. No one knows where she comes from. She arrived with her own lighting."

Lucas made a strangled sound. "Lighting?"

"She says it follows her," Windstone deadpanned.

Trevor grinned. "Solange trained half the reigning nobility. She’s terrifying. And also maybe a ghost."

"I refuse," Lucas said flatly. "I will not be paraded before the Empire like a blessed centerpiece wearing couture and regret."

Windstone tilted his head. "Unfortunately, Your Grace, refusal has not been recognized as a legal defense since the Year of Five Crowns."

Lucas narrowed his eyes. "What is recognized?"

Trevor leaned in, lips brushing just behind his ear. "Obedience. And the threat of public scandal."

Lucas groaned. "You’re all monsters."

Trevor smiled. "Yes, but we’ll make sure your shoes match your title."