[BL]Reborn as the Empire's Most Desired Omega
Chapter 183: The Matriarchs

Chapter 183: Chapter 183: The Matriarchs

The corridor to the east salon was unnervingly quiet, no clinking teacups, no murmured arguments, no sound of servants being flayed by passive-aggressive requests for imported sugar swans. Just the muted brush of footsteps and the kind of tension usually reserved for international summits and sudden-death chess matches.

Trevor walked like he was going into a boardroom with guns under the table. Lucas walked like a man being escorted to an altar and a firing squad simultaneously. Benjamin strolled, perfectly at ease, because he had already accepted the chaos and decided to wear it like couture.

Outside the double doors, Windstone paused with the solemnity of a man announcing a final meal. "They’re waiting."

Lucas sighed knowing full well that he was the main victim of this alliance. Trevor could be moved by loyalty, by duty, by Lucas, yes, but not by lace samples or the threat of rebranded imperial floral theory. Cressida had long given up trying to outmaneuver his stonewall demeanor. Serathine hadn’t tried at all. They both knew the more efficient route was psychological warfare, and Lucas, bless him, had feelings. Which made him the battlefield.

Lucas exhaled once more, leveled his spine like armor, and gave Windstone a slight nod. "Open the gates."

Windstone didn’t flinch. He opened the doors.

The east salon was radiant. Which was already suspicious.

Gold-thread curtains drawn halfway to cast flattering shadows. Cut crystal vases filled with peonies, calla lilies, and, inexplicably, weaponized orchids. A tea service arranged like it had been styled for a royal magazine spread. And in the center of it all, like matching thunderclouds disguised as elegance, they sat.

Lady Serathine, immaculately posed in ivory with wine-red accents, was cross-legged on the divan, reading over what looked like a mood board with the intensity of someone evaluating enemy troop positions.

Lady Cressida, regal in midnight blue and surgical precision, was sipping her tea like it was an indictment.

They looked up in eerie unison. View the correct content at NovelFire.

"Good," Cressida said. "You’re late."

"This is my house." Trevor said, unbothered, now that he was in front of danger. His right hand was on Lucas’s back.

Lady Cressida didn’t flinch. "And yet we were still kept waiting. How quaint."

Lady Serathine set down her folder, one elegant brow arching like a blade being unsheathed. "I told you we should have entered through the conservatory. The staff there actually announces guests."

"This is a coordinated invasion, not a visit," Lucas muttered under his breath.

Trevor’s hand stayed firm on his back calm, grounding. "If you’re going to stage a coup in my own house, the least you can do is remember which of us actually owns the battlefield."

"Oh, we remember," Serathine said smoothly, unfolding a swatch of dark fabric that absolutely no one had asked for. "We just decided the battlefield was lacking adequate textiles."

Benjamin, trailing behind like a court jester with excellent fashion sense, paused to admire the tension like one might appreciate fine wine. "What a lovely family dynamic. The affection, the power struggle, the unspoken threat of arsenic. I feel right at home."

Cressida gave him a cool glance. "You’re overdressed for neutrality."

"And yet," Benjamin replied with a saccharine smile, "underdressed for war."

Lucas stared blankly at the room, still adjusting to the visual horror of mood boards, place card mockups, and a pile of silk sashes color-coded by bloodline relevance. "Is there a reason you’re both here at once? I thought you couldn’t stand each other."

"We can’t," Serathine said cheerfully.

"But the Empire’s watching," Cressida added with far less joy. "We agreed not to detonate the ceremony from opposite ends of the chapel."

"The wedding is in a week. I thought you set everything up three weeks ago." Lucas said, raising a brow, his ash blonde hair falling elegantly in the light.

"We did. The only thing remaining to be ready for the wedding is... you."

Lucas blinked once. Slowly. Like someone who’d just been handed the final riddle before a public execution.

"I’m already here," he said flatly. "I woke up in this house. I’ve suffered through six tasting menus. I’ve approved thirty-eight napkin folds. What else could you possibly need from me?"

Serathine reached into her folder without breaking eye contact. "Your final fitting. Your revised vows. Your updated signature for the new Fitzgeralt-D’Argente archival line. And, of course..."

Cressida cut in, smooth as a blade sliding between ribs. "...your demeanor. You are not currently projecting enough serene power. You’re projecting quiet dread and caffeine dependency."

"I am dread and caffeine dependency," Lucas muttered.

Trevor was no help. His hand slid from Lucas’s back to rest casually at his waist, grounding him with the warmth of a man used to hurricanes. "You do tend to scowl through formal dinners."

"It’s called surviving," Lucas snapped, then sighed. "What, exactly, do you want me to do?"

Both martiarch smiled and Lucas finally considered running away from this madness and letting Trevor follow him later.

"First, stop planning an escape; we secured every exit."

Lucas stared at them, equal parts horrified and impressed. "You’re joking."

Serathine smiled, and it was almost kind. "I never joke about logistics."

Cressida folded her hands over her lap, like a queen preparing to issue a royal decree. "You have two obligations before the end of the day. One: your final bridal fitting. Two: the Fitzgeralt family dinner."

Lucas flinched. "Dinner?"

Trevor tensed beside him like someone had just unsheathed a sword at his back. "That dinner was postponed."

"Postponed," Cressida echoed, her tone as flat as a guillotine. "Not cancelled."

"For a reason," Trevor said tightly.

Lucas turned toward him. "What reason?"

Trevor didn’t answer immediately.

Serathine stepped in, gracious as ever. "He didn’t want to see his mother. Or his brothers. Which is fair. But also inconvenient."

Lucas blinked. "Wait, your family dinner? With your family? I thought you had sent them on their way until now."

Trevor’s jaw tightened just enough to be noticeable. "I did. Or tried."

Serathine, still by the door and looking far too pleased, offered helpfully, "He did make the attempt. Multiple, in fact. Very dramatic. Letters were sent. Schedules conveniently rearranged."

Cressida added, "Unfortunately, I insisted they stay under my supervision until the wedding is over. I am not letting them poison my porcelain or my wine. Again."

Lucas stared at her. "So you brought them here?"

"She didn’t want to host them at her manor," Trevor muttered, resigned. "Where she received them."

"They disrupted my hydrangea pruning and frightened my butler," Cressida said coolly. "He hasn’t blinked correctly since. This is containment, not hospitality."

Benjamin whistled. "This is better than theater."

Lucas dragged a hand down his face. "So let me get this straight. Your estranged mother, your exiled siblings, and the grandmother who may or may not have launched them out of spite are all in this house?"

Trevor nodded. "On the west wing."

"In the same house where I’m having final suit fittings and being forcibly monogrammed by two matriarchs with a vendetta against satin creases."

"Yes."

Lucas stared at nothing for a moment. "I want it on record that this is not how I imagined marriage."

Trevor stepped closer, his tone somewhere between dry affection and survivor’s humor. "Neither did I. I thought we’d have time."

"You thought wrong," Cressida said briskly, checking a timepiece that probably once belonged to a warlord. "They arrived this morning. They have been fed. They are currently in the drawing room arguing over who should wear what to dinner. You have five hours before we all pretend to be a family."

Lucas turned to Benjamin. "Can I fake a fainting spell?"

Benjamin sipped his tea. "Only if you do it dramatically, with clutching and at least one gasp."

"I’ll coach him," Trevor offered, deadpan.

Lucas groaned. "I hate everyone in this room."

Cressida smiled faintly. "Good. That means you’re ready."

Serathine opened the door fully. "Now go. Final fitting. No tears unless they’re photogenic."

And with that, the war council adjourned.