He exhaled through his nose, slow and cold. "Acknowledging everything now would be a disaster for the image of the imperial family. A son, hidden for nearly two decades. Sold. Reclaimed through adoption. It would invite too many questions we can't afford to answer publicly."
"So," Caelan said, sitting back down, "Serathine offered a compromise. She would adopt him under House D'Argente. A male omega raised outside the palace, protected from scandal. Trained. Presented as a noble debut, a prince hidden until adulthood."
Lucius's expression didn't shift. But his tone was knife-sharp.
"And what would he be told?"
Caelan hesitated, then:
"That Grand Duke Trevor Fitzgeralt is seeking a partner. That House D'Argente is offering him one. No more than that. Enough to place him in the right social tier. Enough to make Velloran back off."
Sirius blinked once. Slowly.
"Trevor Ariston Fitzgeralt? The Grand Duke who's refused every offer since the East fell? The one who told the foreign delegation he'd sooner be exiled in hell than be matched through politics?"
Lucius let out a dry, mirthless laugh. "The same Trevor who once responded to a marriage inquiry with a ten-page essay on the benefits of solitude and an attached reading list?"
"The very same," Caelan said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Serathine claims he agreed to help."
Sirius narrowed his eyes. "Why?"
"She didn't say."
Lucius leaned back against the desk edge, arms folded. "You trust her to play this out?"
"I trust her more than I trust the rest of the court right now," Caelan replied. "She's the only one who moved fast enough. She pulled Lucas from Misty's reach, buried the contract and gave us a narrative before the scandal could break. If she says Trevor is cooperating, then he is."
Sirius made a face. "She must have blackmail."
"Oh, undoubtedly," Lucius said. "No one gets Trevor to do anything without leverage."
Caelan looked at them both, tone colder now. "We don't need him to fall in love. We just need him to play the part. If the court believes Lucas is a rising D'Argente heir with a potential match in the North, it makes him untouchable."
"And if Lucas finds out the truth first?" Sirius asked.
"He'll know," Lucius said flatly. "Sooner or later."
Caelan met his youngest son's eyes without flinching. "And when he does, I'll tell him everything myself. But first—" he straightened, his voice firm now, imperial, "—we need to make sure he is safe and treated as the prince he is."
The weight of that statement lingered.
A moment passed before Sirius spoke. "Does the court know anything yet?"
Caelan shook his head. "Only a few whispers. Most assume Serathine adopted a promising northern omega for D'Argente's political balancing. No one outside this room knows he carries my blood."
Lucius glanced toward the tablet still displaying the falsified birth certificate. "They'll start digging. Someone will put the pieces together."
"They can't afford to," Caelan replied. "If they link Lucas to me now—before we control the narrative—it'll be chaos. Every house with a political grudge will treat him like a weapon or a weakness."
"And Velloran?" Lucius asked.
Caelan's eyes darkened. "He's being watched. But he's too quiet for my liking."
Sirius gave a humorless smile. "He's quiet because he's cornered. Serathine moved before he could complete the sale. That's enough to scare a man like him."
Lucius turned, picking up the file again. "Then let's keep him scared."
"We will," Caelan said. "For now, we play the game Serathine started. Lucas is the heir of House D'Argente, soon to be presented. We honor the fiction until he's ready to choose how it ends."
"And if he doesn't want to be a prince?" Sirius asked, watching his father closely.
Caelan's voice dropped. "Then I will not force him. But the Empire will know who he is—if not now, then soon."
Lucius exhaled through his nose. "Let's hope he survives the court long enough to decide."
—
The office of Grand Duke Trevor Ariston Fitzgeralt was silent, save for the low hum of the ventilation and the scratch of his pen against paper. Dark-paneled walls, a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the frozen bay, and a glass decanter of untouched whiskey on his desk. Everything in the room was precise, spare, and sharp—like the man himself.
Trevor didn't believe in clutter. Or surprises.
Which was why the message in his encrypted inbox had already set him on edge before he even opened it.
Trevor Ariston Fitzgeralt didn't flinch at assassins, uprisings, or snowstorms that could freeze a soldier mid-step.
But the message sitting in his encrypted inbox?
That made him lean back in his chair like it might explode.
He scanned it again, slower this time, as if repetition might make it less absurd.
FROM: Lady Serathine D'Argente
SUBJECT: An Introduction
Trevor,
You've always said you would never marry for politics, which is exactly why I've included you in one. Lucas is under my protection. You will not court him. You will not pursue him. But you will give him your name—temporarily.
Smile for the cameras when needed. Scowl the rest of the time if you must. But make no mistake: the boy is not for sale, and you will not be asked to act.
This is not a request. Info attached.
—S.D.
Trevor stared at it.
Then stared some more.
Then he opened the attached file with all the energy of a man defusing a bomb.
The file loaded: a concise but brutal portfolio.
Name: Lucas Oz Kilmer.
Age: Seventeen years, eleven months, and three weeks.
Status: Adopted heir of House D'Argente (yesterday)
Secondary Gender: Omega (male, unawakened).
Background: Fragmented.
Affiliation: None—until now.
Note from S.D.: He's not yours to save. Just yours to shield.
Trevor's eyes paused as the photo loaded—grainy but unmistakably real.
The boy was seated, half-turned in the frame, eyes fixed on something outside of view. He wasn't smiling. He looked like he hadn't smiled in years.
And yet—
Trevor stared. His breath caught.
Same ash-blonde hair. Same striking green eyes. Same damn bone structure that used to glare down from every imperial portrait before the last war shattered them all.
He looked like a carbon copy of his grandfather—the former Emperor. The one who'd rebuilt the Empire and nearly bled it dry.
Lucas didn't look like a pawn.
He looked like a legacy in the making.
Trevor sat back and reached for his phone. Called her. Didn't wait for formality.
"You deranged harpy," he said the moment she picked up.
"Trevor," Serathine answered, all silk and satisfaction. "You sound well."
"You used my name in a staged political engagement without asking me."
"I informed you."
"There's a difference!"
"Semantics," she said smoothly. "Besides, you should be flattered. I only draft legends when I need the court to shut up."
Trevor pinched the bridge of his nose. "You couldn't pick literally anyone else?"
"I needed someone too dangerous to challenge, too disinterested to actually fall for him, and too well-dressed not to be photographed. That left me with exactly one name."
"Oh, good," Trevor said flatly. "So I've been turned into a designer scarecrow."
"Exactly. And a very handsome, dominant alpha, too."
"I'm going to kill you."
"You've tried," Serathine said breezily. "You failed."
"I was twelve and it was a butter knife."
"And yet I still have the scar," she replied with fond malice. "Which is precisely why I trust you with this. You're too stubborn to back down and too clever to get emotionally involved."
Trevor sighed through his teeth. "You want me to stand next to him and growl like a warning sign."
"No," Serathine corrected, "I want you to exist near him while radiating your usual 'touch him and die' energy. Which you already do so well."
"Gods, I hate when you flatter me. It means I'm trapped."
"Good. Hold that resentment. It photographs beautifully. Meet you in three days at his debut ball. Baye."
Trevor blinked. "Three days?"
"Tailors are already en route to your estate. I told them not to speak to you unless spoken to, so do try not to threaten them."
"You already planned the whole thing."
"Obviously."
"You really are a harpy."
"And you, darling, are going to look devastating in navy."
The line went dead.
Trevor slowly lowered the phone, staring blankly at the wall across his office.
Three days.
A debutante ball.
A boy with the eyes of a dead emperor and the blood of a family that turned kingdoms.
He leaned forward, poured himself the whiskey he'd been ignoring for hours, and muttered to no one:
"This is going to be a disaster."
Then he drank.