The gala had come faster than either of them wanted.
One moment, Lucas had been sitting in the nursery in oversized pajamas with breastmilk on one sleeve and dry shampoo in his hair, and the next, he was being herded into a dressing suite lined with velvet, gold-trimmed panic, and a very specific number of outfit options that all screamed: 'you are not allowed to be normal anymore.'
"You could have told them no," Trevor said mildly, adjusting the cuff of his tailored shirt like a man who absolutely did believe in saying no to imperial logistics.
Lucas, still glaring at the array of formalwear like it owed him child support, replied, "I did. Twice. Then Cressida sent a gift basket. You know how I feel about strategic gift baskets."
Trevor didn't even blink. "There was foie gras in it. You caved."
"I caved because she attached a note threatening to redesign the gala theme if I didn't cooperate. She said it would be 'nautical spring.' With pastels."
A pause.
