The car ride was quiet, but not peaceful.
Trevor sat in the backseat of the matte black town car, one arm slung loosely along the leather backrest, the other thumbing through reports on his tablet with detached precision. His etings had ended two hours late. Half the ministers were incompetent, the other half manipulative, and only one of them had managed to piss him off enough to earn an audit.
He closed the tablet with a soft snap and looked out the tinted window. The sky was dimming, the golden flush of late afternoon lting into soft blue haze as the city lights of Saha flickered to life.
"ETA?" he asked, voice sharp enough to cut through the driver’s silence.
"Four minutes, sir."
He didn’t respond. Just adjusted the cuff of his suit jacket and checked the silver watch on his wrist. Lucas should’ve finished lunch with his grandmother by now. He’d expected a ssage. A sarcastic comnt. A dramatic plea for rescue. Sothing.
But there was nothing.
And that absence was starting to itch.
When the car pulled up outside the restaurant, Trevor’s eyes scanned the entrance automatically. No obvious threat. The valet offered a deferential nod. Inside, the front wall was all glass, the lighting sleek and golden. Reflections warped everything—until his gaze locked onto a table in the back corner.
Lucas.
Still. Frozen.
Trevor’s pulse didn’t spike, but his breath drew in slow and silent. Controlled. Like every bone in his body had rembered who she was before his brain caught up.
Lucas sat across from the Marchioness, posture too upright, hands curled around the edge of the table like he was bracing for sothing. That alone was enough.
This was the third ti it had happened; the previous two were Christian and Jason. Now Vivienne Alostora, his forr fiancée, and Lucas, who told him about his past life a few days ago. The woman from the south islands and Trevor’s wife in what Lucas experienced in his past life.
Of course it was her.
It had been years since Trevor last saw Viviene Alostora, and yet the sight of her pulled mories from the marrow of his bones. Not fondness. Not regret. Just a low, coiling tension, like a blade unsheathed too soon.
She hadn’t changed. Not really. Still beautiful in that refined, effortless way that always seed designed rather than born. Still a storm wrapped in pearls.
"Grandma, I didn’t know you liked scandals," Trevor said, his voice smooth as silk over steel as he moved toward the table. He didn’t wait to be invited—just pulled out the chair beside Lucas with casual elegance and sat like it belonged to him. Like Lucas did.
He placed his hand over Lucas’s without hesitation, fingers warm, sure, and steady.
The rings caught the light.
Alexandrite, pale and sharp, glead in a platinum setting on Lucas’s finger—regal, rare, and chosen with intention. Trevor’s was simpler: a brushed platinum band, clean and solid. But the engraving was the sa. The design was the sa. Different, but still related. Like them.
Vivienne’s gaze dropped, then lifted again, eyebrows arching.
"Well," she said, swirling her wine, "this is a surprise."
Trevor smiled without warmth. "This is what happens when one doesn’t lie about his secondary gender."
Her fingers stilled on the stem of the glass for just a second—barely a twitch—but Lucas noticed. She recovered quickly.
"Still bitter?" Viviene asked with a light laugh, the kind ant to pass as charm. "I just wanted to greet the Marchioness and et your husband now."
Lucas didn’t speak. Didn’t smile. But he tilted his head slightly, studying her like she was a puzzle with pieces he didn’t want to put back together.
Trevor’s expression didn’t shift. "Funny."
He turned to Lady Fitzgeralt then, his tone colder than protocol allowed. "Grandma, if you want to et Lady Alostora, please do it in your alone ti, not when you’re with my current spouse. That is, if you want to et Lucas ever again."
The threat was silk-wrapped, but it was still a threat. One that rang with the weight of power and sothing worse: personal betrayal.
Lady Fitzgeralt didn’t flinch. But the subtle stiffening of her spine betrayed her surprise.
"That’s quite the tone to use with your own blood," she replied coolly, lifting her teacup without sipping. "I am as surprised as you to et her here. As you can see, I didn’t ask her to sit with us."
And it was true, Vivienne was still standing. Elegant, composed, but uninvited. There was no second glass at the table, no extra chair pulled out, and no polite gesture to include her. Only silence and a woman who had taken that silence as license.
Trevor’s gaze slid to Vivienne. "Still being an intruder at others’ tables," he said, sighing like she was nothing more than a persistent fly that refused to leave the room.
Vivienne’s smile held, brittle at the edges. "You’ve always been dramatic, Trevor."
"And you’ve always been where you’re not wanted," he replied, his tone dry enough to burn.
She didn’t move. Just stood there, perfect posture, wine glass in hand, hovering like she belonged, like an old painting soone insisted on rehanging.
Lucas didn’t look up.
His fingers were still pressed together, his eyes fixed on the white plate in front of him like it might offer so kind of escape. He didn’t flinch, didn’t speak, but Trevor knew his silence for what it was: endurance.
Lady Fitzgeralt set her cup down with a quiet clink. She’d been patient, gracious, even but that grace had limits.
"This is enough," she said, her voice clipped, no longer bothering with the pleasantries she was known for. "I wanted a day with my grandson-in-law. Not court theatrics."
She turned her head slightly, not toward Vivienne, but toward the butler, who had been standing just far enough to be polite, just close enough to intervene.
"Windstone."
He stepped forward with the efficiency of soone used to cleaning up aristocratic sses.
"Show Lady Alostora the way out of our privacy," Lady Fitzgeralt said, each word exact, cool, and chosen like a scalpel.
Vivienne hesitated. For the first ti, she blinked.
There was no chair pulled out for her. No gesture was made. Not even a nod of acknowledgnt.
She hadn’t been part of this table.
And she never would be.
Her grip on the glass didn’t tighten, but sothing about the way she stepped back betrayed it. Calculation of a woman tallying losses she hadn’t expected.
She inclined her head, graceful even in dismissal. "Of course."
Windstone didn’t touch her. His presence was enough to shift the air.
Vivienne turned without another word, the soft rustle of silk trailing behind her like smoke. She didn’t look back.
Trevor watched her until the glass doors closed, then pressed his fingers into Lucas’ hand.
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