[BL]Reborn as the Empire's Most Desired Omega Chapter 361: Dinner with Dragons (1)

They lasted five days.

Five whole days of pretending everything was normal. Five days of avoiding phone calls, tiptoeing around Serathine’s texts, and pretending that Windstone’s silence was not, in fact, the smug quiet of a man who knew he was sitting on a live bomb.

Peace ended the mont a sleek silver envelope appeared on the breakfast tray, sealed with Duchess Serathine’s insignia and the kind of handwriting that belonged on expensive ultimatums.

’Dinner tonight. Informal. Bring Trevor.’

Lucas stared at it as though it had personally insulted him. "She knows."

Trevor sipped his espresso, utterly calm. "She doesn’t know. She suspects."

"Sa thing."

Windstone, leaning against the counter, raised an eyebrow. "In Duchess Serathine’s case, yes. The woman could detect guilt through a firewall."

Lucas groaned softly, pushing the invitation away. "She’s inviting us to dinner because she already knows. And Cressida will be there."

Windstone smiled faintly. "Naturally. The Duchess and the Marchioness dine together every second Thursday. And it is Thursday."

Trevor’s grin was imdiate and wicked. "Fantastic. Dinner with two won who make senators cry. Can’t wait."

Windstone poured him more coffee without comnt. "You always say that right before regretting it, my lord."

—

The drive to the D’Argente townhouse was too smooth to be comforting. Lucas watched the lights of the capital pass by, every turn bringing them closer to their doom. He had one hand resting absently over his abdon, more out of instinct than awareness. Trevor noticed, of course; he noticed everything about Lucas.

"Relax," Trevor murmured, his tone infuriatingly casual. "They’re our family, not executioners."

Lucas shot him a look. "Your grandmother once threatened to break a senator’s arm with her cane."

Trevor smiled. "And he still sends her flowers every year. That’s respect."

Lucas closed his eyes. "That’s fear."

Trevor humd, his tie pin shining in the passing light of the Fitzgeralt city. "They would have to pass before anyone can touch you."

—

The townhouse doors opened before they even reached them. Serathine D’Argente stood waiting in the marble foyer, red hair swept into a loose twist, amber eyes sharp and welcoming all at once. She was dressed in silk the color of deep wine, and the effect was... theatrical.

Behind her, Marchioness Cressida Fitzgeralt sat in one of the high-backed chairs near the fireplace, white hair gleaming under the chandelier, tablet in hand, wearing modern minimalism like armor. Her presence radiated authority and mild annoyance that the universe had forced her to spend the evening surrounded by people less competent than herself.

"Lucas, darling," Serathine said, sweeping forward to kiss his cheek. "You look pale. Are you getting enough rest?"

"Enough," Lucas said, his voice polite, neutral, and defensive.

Her gaze flicked toward Trevor. "And you look like a man trying to hide sothing."

Trevor didn’t miss a beat. "Your cooking, mostly."

Serathine’s smile turned sharp. "Careful, Fitzgeralt. I have witnesses this ti."

From the chair, Cressida sighed. "Must we start the theatrics before the appetizers?"

"Always," Trevor said cheerfully, unbuttoning his jacket. "I’d hate to disappoint you, Harpy."

Serathine rolled her eyes with the long-suffering grace of soone who had known him far too long. "You know, for a man who married above his station, you’re remarkably fearless."

"It’s hereditary," he said, flashing a grin toward his grandmother. "Cos from being raised by the Marchioness of Passive Aggression."

Cressida didn’t even look up. "Keep talking, dear. I’m drafting your inheritance letter as we speak."

Windstone, who had of course arrived ahead of them and was now calmly uncorking a bottle of wine, hid a smirk behind a glass.

—

Dinner was flawless, as expected. Too flawless. Serathine was suspiciously civil, and Cressida’s sarcasm was tempered by an almost grandmotherly attentiveness that made Trevor uneasy.

Lucas was quiet and trying his best to not grimace at the food. He smiled when spoken to, but his fingers kept brushing the edge of his napkin, and every ti Serathine offered him wine, his polite refusal ca a little too quickly.

It didn’t take long.

Midway through the main course, Cressida set down her fork with a faint clink. "All right," she said. "Out with it."

Trevor looked up, perfectly blank. "Out with what?"

"You’re both behaving like people sitting on national secrets," Cressida said dryly. "Lucas hasn’t touched his wine, and you keep watching him like he’s going to faint into the soup. So. What’s wrong with him?"

"We are sitting on national secrets," Trevor said, unbothered, leaning back in his chair before Lucas could open his mouth. "It’s basically my job."

Cressida didn’t even blink. "Don’t be clever with , boy. You only sound like that when you’re lying."

Trevor smiled faintly. "Then it’s a good thing I’m charming enough to get away with it."

Across the table, Duchess Serathine set her fork down very slowly, the sound of silver against porcelain sharp in the quiet dining room. "He’s deflecting," she said smoothly. "He only starts talking like that when he’s uncomfortable." Her amber eyes shifted toward Lucas. "And you..." her voice softened, but it didn’t lose its precision, "you’ve smiled exactly four tis since we sat down. Once at the bread basket. No one smiles at bread unless they’re trying to hide sothing."

Lucas froze mid-motion, napkin half-twisted in his hands. "I... just like bread?"

Trevor bit back a laugh. "He does like bread."

Serathine arched a single brow, unimpressed. "Enough to ignore his wine? Unlikely."

Cressida sat back, studying them both with the slow, predatory calm of a woman who’d raised three generations and learned that silence was the most effective weapon. "You’re jittery. Both of you. Either you’re about to confess to a cri, or..." she paused, her sharp gaze flicking to Lucas’s untouched plate, his pale face, and the way Trevor’s hand had been hovering just a little too close to his wrist all evening, "sothing else is going on."

Serathine turned toward her, already frowning. "What do you an, sothing else?"

Cressida didn’t answer right away. Her eyes narrowed slightly, the glint of realization dawning, followed by a very quiet, "Oh."

Trevor, still leaning lazily back in his chair, tilted his head. "That’s the tone people use when they find out too much."

Cressida pointed her fork at him like a weapon. "You absolute nace."

Serathine blinked, confused. "What? What’s happening?"

"Oh, nothing much," Cressida said lightly, her voice cutting through the air like glass. "Just the fact that our dear Lucas is pregnant."

The fork slipped from Serathine’s fingers. "What?"

Trevor smiled, the picture of calm self-satisfaction. "We were going to tell you after dessert. I even planned sothing dramatic, but congratulations, you’ve both ruined the reveal."

Serathine was already on her feet, eyes wide. "Lucas!" She crossed the table in three elegant steps, skirts brushing against the chair legs as she leaned down to touch his face. "Is it true?"