"I've lived alone in this mansion long enough."
The words weren't sentimental. Not truly.
They were delivered like strategy dressed in charm.
Lucas didn't pull away from her hand, but he didn't lean into it either.
"You don't even know me," he said.
Serathine hummed. "No. But I know what kind of stories the court likes to rewrite. Better I write the next chapter myself."
"That sounds like control."
"That sounds like protection," she corrected, her voice silk and stone. "Call it what you want. Either way, it buys you time."
He turned toward her then, meeting her eyes fully for the first time since they stepped into the estate.
"Time for what?"
"For the fallout. Misty had announced her marriage to Andrew Le Chattae. This is not something the court cares about, but she started to talk about you."
"Me?"
That was new. Misty never wanted to talk about him.
To use him? Always. To smile and claim him? Only if it served her.
So what had changed?
Serathine watched the realization ripple through him.
"She's not the type to waste breath unless there's a crowd listening," Lucas muttered.
"No," Serathine agreed. "But she's also not the type to let go without a fight. And right now, she's trying to make herself relevant again. A wedding to a minor noble won't do that. But a beautifully tragic son? That's gossip with teeth."
Lucas's jaw tensed. "What is she saying?"
"That you're broken," Serathine replied without ceremony. "Useless, even with imperial blood. That you've never entered heat. That she did her duty, gave the court what it wanted, and was left with a child too noble to ignore but too defective to parade."
The words didn't sting—they burned.
"She's not just attacking you," Serathine continued, watching him carefully now. "She's going after the bloodline. Quietly. Dressed in concern."
Lucas blinked slowly.
"So all of this has nothing to do with me," he said flatly. "She just wants more money. She said the truth."
He shrugged.
That was the dangerous part—Misty hadn't needed to lie.
Not entirely.
He had been a late bloomer.
Or at least, that's what everyone thought.
He'd made sure of it.
Lucas had used suppressants—quiet, illegal, precisely measured—to dull his cycle from the time he was fourteen. Easy enough to fake the signs of a dormant secondary gender. Easier still to lie to Misty. She never looked closely unless there was something to gain.
If she had known…
She would've sold him earlier.
Maybe to someone worse. Maybe to someone richer.
Maybe to Christian sooner.
He swallowed hard.
Ophelia found out first. Of course she did. The one person always watching him—not out of love, but for leverage. She'd called it a secret, like it was something sweet between siblings. Like she was protecting him.
She wasn't.
And Lucas—naïve, desperate—had been foolish enough to believe that Christian could be the one person he didn't have to lie to.
That he could shed the mask. That someone would see him and not recoil.
He'd been wrong.
And in the end, they all used it against him. His cycle. His status. His silence.
"Now, Lucas, be a good son to me and don't lie. I have better informants than Misty," Serathine said lightly from the doorway, her laughter velvet and razor-edged.
He expected them to know.
The confirmation didn't surprise him.
It just hurt in the kind of way that didn't show. The kind that made your spine straighten and your throat close.
The Emperor—his father in name, never in presence—had known.
And still, nothing.
No letter. No protection. No interference when Misty signed the contract.
He had watched—or worse, ignored—as his son was sold to a man who only saw value in bloodlines and breeding rights.
Lucas's fingers tightened at his side, just enough to press half-moons into his palm.
He kept his tone flat. "Then why now?"
Serathine tilted her head slightly, as if admiring a piece of music only she could hear.
"I'll tell you at dinner," she said.
Lucas blinked once. Slowly. "You're making me wait."
"I'm making you prepare," she corrected, stepping back toward the doorway. "It will be official. Misty. Ophelia. And Andrew Le Chattae, the man foolish enough to marry your mother."
Lucas didn't hide the sharp breath that escaped him.
Not shock.
Resentment.
Andrew. He remembered him. Charming in that slick, smiling way. The kind of noble who only looked at Lucas when Misty wasn't watching. The kind who laughed too long at cruel jokes. The kind who liked beautiful things as long as they stayed silent.
Serathine continued, "They'll arrive by sundown. Dinner will be formal. There will be questions. You will not answer any of them."
Lucas's brow twitched. "Why invite them at all?"
"Because nothing stings Misty more than being forced to smile at a table she doesn't control."
She didn't wait for him to respond.
Her heels clicked once against the polished floor.
"I'll send someone with the menu. Choose what you like," she said. "And wear something sharp. If she's going to cry, she should at least have to do it in front of polished silver."
Then she left.
And Lucas stood there, fingers still curled, pulse pounding like he was seventeen again.
Because he was.
—
The dining room was designed to silence gossip with sheer intimidation.
It stretched long and wide, lined with carved columns, each dipped in gold leaf and lit by low sconces that burned warm and soft. Velvet drapes framed the tall windows, just sheer enough to let in the evening light—but heavy enough to remind guests that everything in this house had weight. The ceiling arched overhead in quiet splendor, pale gold paint catching candlelight like spun fire.
The table was set for twelve, though only five seats would be filled.
Crystal goblets. Gilded china. Black linens embroidered in a green so dark it looked black unless the light hit just right. It reeked of money—not new, but old, inherited, and well-guarded.
Lucas stood beside his chair, silent as staff ushered in the final touches. Everything smelled faintly of citrus and smoke, Serathine's signature choice. Expensive. Clean. Nothing sweet enough to cover fear.
Misty arrived precisely on time.
Of course she did.
She entered as if the house might fold around her—lace sleeves brushing her wrists, heels clicking with the rhythm of self-importance. Her hair was pale gold, pulled into a soft twist that was a little too youthful. Her smile, however, was practiced to perfection.
"Darling," she said, drawing Lucas into a light kiss on each cheek.
He did not return it.
Ophelia followed behind her, soft-spoken and flawless in a seafoam gown. Her eyes flicked over the room like it was a museum.
And then Andrew Le Chattae.
Younger than Lucas remembered. Or maybe just more polished. His eyes swept the room the way men did when calculating its worth.
Serathine rose as they entered. "Welcome," she said, her voice silk over steel. "Let's not pretend we're strangers tonight."
They exchanged the usual courtesies. Sat.
And then, for a moment, there was only the sound of wine being poured.
Misty looked directly at Lucas, the corner of her mouth twitching up. "I can't believe your father recognized you at last. We invested so much in you."
We.
As if she had ever included herself in anything but the taking.
Lucas didn't touch his glass.
"Mother," he said quietly, without looking at her, "I don't think this is the place or time."
Misty raised her brows, still smiling like they were on stage together.
"Why not?" came a soft voice from further down the table.
Ophelia.
Her hands folded perfectly in her lap, posture flawless—just like Misty taught her. Pale blue eyes shimmered with carefully placed tears. The ones she'd always known how to summon when it benefited her the most.
"I got second season dresses because of you," she said, voice trembling. "All those years, they only let me in because of your name."
Lucas turned his head slowly. Met her eyes.