CHAPTER 401: CHAPTER 401: LUNCHEON

A week later, the sun had the audacity to shine in winter.

Light poured through the glass dome of the Fitzgeralt Assembly Hall, scattering across chandeliers and polished marble floors like liquid gold. The room smelled faintly of citrus polish and wealth, centuries of it, layered over expensive perfume and conversation too practiced to be sincere.

Lucas stood at Trevor’s side, perfect posture wrapped in cream silk and quiet indifference. He looked exactly as a Fitzgeralt consort should: poised, immaculate, and only faintly bored. Trevor, beside him, was the picture of composed authority, his black suit sharp enough to cut through the noise, his violet tie a deliberate echo of the Fitzgeralt crest and his eyes.

If the nobles in attendance represented the Empire’s elite, Cressida Fitzgeralt was its ruling ghost, a matriarch no one dared to cross and whom everyone pretended to admire.

And she was, as Lucas privately noted, in one of her moods.

"Darling boy," she said, sweeping through the crowd with the kind of presence that made senators scatter. Her jewelry glimmered like warning lights. "You’re late."

Trevor kissed her cheek dutifully. "We’re exactly on time, Grandmother."

Cressida arched one perfectly drawn brow. "On your time, perhaps. The Council follows mine."

Lucas inclined his head politely. "Lady Cressida. You look radiant as ever."

Her eyes softened for a fraction of a second; Cressida had always had a soft spot for charm, especially when it was armed with Lucas’s eyes. "Flattery will get you only so far, my dear, but it’s a promising start."

Alistair, hovering just behind her like a man torn between reverence and self-preservation, gave Lucas a conspiratorial look. "You handled that better than I ever do."

"I’ve learned survival," Lucas murmured.

Cressida tapped her cane lightly against the floor, a sound more commanding than a gunshot. "Enough whispering. Sit. The first course will arrive, and I want you both at my table before the vultures start circling."

The luncheon hall glittered in careful symmetry. Every table was arranged by hierarchy and influence, and of course, the Fitzgeralts were placed at the center like royalty without the crown.

As soon as they were seated, Cressida began her verbal campaign.

"Trevor," she said, dabbing delicately at her lips with a linen napkin, "your new defense contracts are the talk of the Council. I hear you’ve managed to frighten three ministers into early retirement."

"Only two," Trevor replied smoothly. "The third took a vacation."

"Permanent?" Cressida asked without missing a beat.

Lucas smiled faintly. "The Empire’s definition of ’vacation’ can be creative."

Cressida’s sharp eyes slid toward him. "You know, I rather like you, Lucas. You’ve learned to keep up."

"I do my best," Lucas said. "Though I imagine you’ve been terrifying dinner guests long before I was born."

Alistair choked on his champagne, barely stifling a laugh.

Cressida’s mouth twitched in reluctant amusement. "You might survive this family after all."

"I plan to," Lucas said mildly, slicing into his dish with unnerving grace.

The waiters came and went, refilling glasses and replacing plates, all while the murmur of politics hummed like a steady current around them. Cressida carried on effortlessly, commenting on trade routes, the state of education reforms, and the tragic decline of taste in the younger aristocracy.

Then, inevitably, her sharp gaze turned toward Lucas.

"And how are you, my dear? I saw the palace report. You’ve been keeping a very low profile lately."

Lucas took a sip of his sparkling water before answering. "I’ve been conserving energy. Everyone says I’ll need it."

"For the child," she said knowingly. "And the attention that will come with it."

Trevor shifted beside him, a small, imperceptible motion that said brace yourself.

Lucas smiled politely. "I’m not terribly concerned about attention."

"Oh, you should be," Cressida said. "You’re carrying the first Fitzgeralt heir in two generations. The entire Capital is practically vibrating with curiosity."

Lucas’s tone remained perfectly composed. "Then they can continue vibrating quietly. I’m sure it builds character."

That earned a rare, startled laugh from Alistair and even a faint smirk from Trevor.

Cressida tilted her head, studying Lucas with an expression that hovered between fondness and appraisal. "You are my new favorite."

Trevor smiled faintly, that careful, composed curve of his mouth that meant he was already thinking three steps ahead. Before he could reply, his phone vibrated once against the tablecloth.

Cressida’s eyes didn’t even lift from her plate. "If it’s important enough to interrupt my luncheon, go. If it’s not, you’d better make it sound like it is."

Trevor chuckled under his breath. "You’re very forgiving, Grandmother."

"Don’t mistake indifference for forgiveness," she said, stabbing her fork into her salad with elegant violence. "Now go frighten some bureaucrats. We’ll manage."

Trevor leaned closer to Lucas, his tone low enough for only him to hear. "Don’t cause a scandal while I’m gone."

Lucas tilted his head, eyes glinting. "I make no promises."

"I know," Trevor murmured, brushing a light kiss against his temple before straightening. Then he was gone, his presence receding through the rows of tables, leaving a quiet ripple of acknowledgement in his wake.

The sound of conversation slowly filled the space he’d left behind. Lucas turned back to Cressida, who regarded him with the measured satisfaction of a general inspecting her most promising lieutenant.

"You’re calmer with him gone," she said.

"I’m calmer when there’s less noise," Lucas replied easily, spearing a piece of roasted pear from his plate.

"Mm." Her mouth twitched. "You do understand this family better than most."

"Experience," he said lightly. "And practice."

Alistair leaned in, grinning. "You mean survival instinct."

Lucas’s smile deepened. "That too."

Cressida waved a dismissive hand. "Go take him outside, Alistair. You both look like caged wolves. Try not to get photographed brooding."

"Wasn’t planning to," Lucas said, rising with practiced grace. "If I fall off the balcony, make sure it’s on page three, not one."

Cressida snorted softly, her version of affection. "Try not to fall at all, dear. It’s a poor look for a Fitzgeralt."

Lucas inclined his head in acknowledgment, and Alistair followed him toward the balcony doors.

The moment the glass sealed behind them, the sound shifted, the echo of conversation replaced by the hush of winter air. The city stretched beyond the terrace in clean, metallic lines, sunlight sharp and pale against the skyline.

Alistair drew in a deep breath and shuddered. "Saints, that’s cold."

Lucas only smiled, stepping closer to the edge, his fingers resting lightly on the marble railing. "Cold is honest. The room inside isn’t."

"You and Cressida really do speak the same language," Alistair said, shaking his head. "Sharp, poetic, and vaguely threatening."

"She raised Trevor," Lucas said simply. "She understands the necessity of precision."

For a while, they stood quietly, the wind cutting across the terrace in small, clean bursts. The hall’s scent lingered faintly on their clothes, along with expensive perfume, polish, champagne, and something else underneath.

Something faint. Metallic.

Lucas frowned, the shift in the air subtle but enough to make his skin prickle.

It wasn’t from the hall, nor from Alistair’s cologne. It was older, thinner, and infused with a sweetness that didn’t belong in the winter air.

"Do you smell that?" he asked quietly.

Alistair inhaled once and shrugged. "I smell frost and my grandmother’s perfume, and both make me uncomfortable."

Lucas didn’t answer. His gaze drifted toward the far edge of the terrace, where the wind was stronger. For a moment, he thought it was his imagination, the faintest hint of pheromones, sharp and electric, laced with something like amber.

Then it clicked.