CHAPTER 168: CHAPTER 163: A RUINED MORNING

There were few things Elliot Claymore treasured more than his mornings.

Silk sheets. Silence.

A perfectly steeped silver-leaf tea served by a valet who knew never to speak unless spoken to.

So when someone pounded on his door before sunrise, Elliot already knew the day was a catastrophe.

The door opened without permission.

Good morning, Count Nissa," came the voice of a devil. "I hope you slept well. You’ll need the energy."

Elliot didn’t move. His face remained buried in the pillow, one arm thrown over his eyes. He didn’t need to look. There was only one person in the Empire who would speak to him in that tone, in that wing, at that hour, and still expect to be thanked for it.

"Max," he sighed. "Who was the unfortunate soul that let you in?"

Maximilian hadn’t entered the Nissa wing more than three times since the day he had taken full control of House Claymore. Elliot had made sure of it. Instructions had been written, spoken, and reinforced with the kind of scathing reminders only a noble heir could deliver. Even the servants had learned to fear his tone when it came to uninvited guests, especially him.

And yet.

He was here.

Not just inside the mansion. Inside his room. Wearing his robe. Drinking his tea.

"You’re lucky I’m not armed," Elliot muttered into the sheets.

Max wandered further in, completely unbothered, sipping from a porcelain cup that looked suspiciously familiar. "Don’t be dramatic. It’s early."

"You broke into my rooms."

"I bribed Orlan."

"He’s been with the household for twenty years."

"Sentimental loyalty. It’s a terrible weakness."

Elliot turned his head slowly, just enough to glare at Max without lifting it fully from the pillow. "Say what you came to say before I have the staff burn the chair you’re sitting on."

Max beamed at him, infuriatingly pleased with himself. "You’re getting married."

There was a pause.

A heavy one.

Elliot lifted his head, disheveled, and half-glared through strands of sleep-tousled hair. "To whom." Panic started to settle in his chest.

"Princess Anya."

He stared.

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

Elliot sat up with all the grace of someone dragged from a crypt. "You’re lying."

Max sat across from him like a spectator at a private opera. "You, Elliot Marina Claymore, Count of Nissa, have been selected to preserve diplomatic relations with the Paisian Kingdom. It’s a deeply honorable—"

"Shut up."

Max did not.

"—an arrangement that involves politics, titles, and—should you survive the season—silk gloves and a chair at her right hand."

Elliot narrowed his eyes. "Does my father or mother know about this?"

"They will."

"They would refuse," he said flatly.

He didn’t have to explain why. The control he held over George remained unshaken. Even now, they wouldn’t risk crossing him; his mother was Hadeon’s unofficial partner at the moment, someone feared that not even Damian could easily dismiss.

This was a punishment.

The only one who could have stood beside him—truly, without making him look small—was Gabriel. A dominant omega. Not a flailing beta with a fallen title and wandering ambition. Gabriel had power in every inch of his silence. Gabriel understood bloodlines.

Anya was just a crown-chaser in velvet shoes.

Max tilted his head slightly, catching the shift in expression but, blessedly, not commenting.

Instead, he set the teacup down with quiet finality. "Well. Regardless of who knows or doesn’t, the meeting is happening. Today."

"Of course it is," Elliot muttered, dragging a hand down his face. "Why am I the one punished? Shouldn’t the heir take this responsibility?"

His tone was bitter and scathing, the kind that curdled wine and silenced rooms. He didn’t try to hide the look he gave Max, sharp, cold, loathing. The kind of gaze reserved for enemies wearing family crests.

Max, infuriatingly calm, swirled the last of his tea with casual grace. "Well..."

He dragged the word out, letting the moment breathe in that special way he knew would grate on Elliot’s nerves.

"There are a lot of reasons," he continued lightly, "but I’ll spare you the political details. You’ll get your fill at the meeting."

He raised a finger.

"One. You had the audacity to treat Damian like an errand boy, throwing the Blue Ether Project report at his feet and expecting him to lower himself to accept it."

Elliot’s lips pressed into a thin line. "How would I know he was the Emperor? He was dressed like your workers!"

Max’s expression didn’t change, but something in his voice sharpened, precise and cold. "He was wearing the imperial insignia. And he’s the only man in the Empire with golden eyes."

There was no smile now.

"I had to manage a seven-day diplomatic ball because of your idiocy," he said flatly. "Seven days of parading nobles and answering every insult with a polite bow. Weeks of nonstop work because you couldn’t be bothered to look up. It happened in my home and Damian is rarely the man to spare anyone."

Elliot looked away, jaw tightening.

"Two," Max continued, raising a second finger. "He knows about your little friendship with Hadeon. Everything. Absolutely everything."

His tone was calm now. Too calm.

"Did you really think Hadeon is better than an army of Shadows?" Max asked, his voice dipped in disbelief. "That you could slither around behind the throne and Damian wouldn’t notice?"

Elliot’s breath caught. His heart skipped. The panic didn’t hit all at once—it climbed, slowly and suffocating, until it sat behind his ribs like stone. His eyes widened.

Max saw it, and did not stop.

"Oh, you don’t get the time to plan a comeback or run squealing to your master," Max said, smiling now, not kindly. "Outside, palace guards are already waiting to escort you. A royal car, if you can believe it. Isn’t the Emperor the sweetest?"

Elliot opened his mouth to speak—

Max raised a third finger.

"Three," he said, his voice flat. "After the Blue Ether meeting at the palace, you left your pheromones on Gabriel."

Elliot went still.

"His mate," Max repeated. "His fucking marked mate."

The words rang like a slap.

"Did you really think you’d escape that? Did you think you could breathe too close to something Damian claimed and not pay a price?"

Elliot didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His throat had gone tight.

Max leaned in, voice low now, like a verdict.

"Honestly, I’d rather kill myself than deal with whatever the fuck he has planned for you. Hadeon?" He gave a humorless laugh. "Hadeon is a child compared to how Damian can be when he’s crossed."

Silence followed. Heavy. Unforgiving.

Elliot stood there, surrounded by silks and sunlight, the edges of his control unraveling like a poor seam. And for once, there was no performance, no pride. Just the cold, creeping knowledge:

He wasn’t in control anymore.

"Oh, and one more thing, he has excellent hearing." Max smiled, cold and bright. "I’m sure he enjoyed every word." He spoke as he left the room, leaving the door open.