CHAPTER 180: CHAPTER 175: EVENING RENDEZVOUS

Damian stepped back from the map, brushing invisible dust from his sleeves as the last of the light bled across the chamber floor. "That will be all for today," he said, his voice cool again. "Send the requisitions for the Paisian border review. I’ll read them after dinner."

Astana gave a short nod, already moving to gather the relevant folders. "Understood. I’ll prepare Irina for court in the morning."

Damian turned toward the tall doors of the Imperial Office, his thoughts shifting to the peace of his wing—and Gabriel, whose mood had hopefully not been completely destroyed by the dinner with Lucius and Theo. He had agreed to the meeting because of obligation, but not without hesitation. If either of them had pushed too far—if they’d tried to lecture, guilt, or play family politics—Gabriel would’ve walked out, and Damian would’ve had to clean up the fallout.

Again.

He was already considering what to say to him or whether he should simply have Edward prepare a good bottle of cognac.

It might be one of those nights. Gabriel could be sullen, snide, or silent, depending on how much harm Lucius and Theo had caused under the guise of reconciliation. Either way, Damian would deal with it. Would listen if Gabriel allowed it. I would sit in silence if he didn’t.

He just wanted him back in one piece.

But before he could take another step, a sharp voice erupted from the corridor outside the Imperial Office.

A sharp voice outside snapped the thought clean in two.

"I know he’s in there! Open this door now or I’ll make sure the Empire learns exactly what kind of omega you’ve crowned!"

Damian’s steps halted. So did the air in the room.

Astana turned his head slowly, an expression of exhausted disbelief sliding across his face. "Please tell me that’s not who I think it is."

Damian’s jaw ticked. "Unfortunately, it is."

The voice rose, sharper now, laced with venom.

"I have letters. Reports. I know what Gabriel von Jaunez did during the rebellion. I know who he met. Who died."

Astana blinked. "She really wants to die, doesn’t she?"

"Apparently," Damian said quietly, turning fully toward the doors. "Let her in."

Astana gave him a long look. "You’re not going to kill her, are you?"

Damian’s voice was calm. "Not yet, she has to marry Elliot and get out of here."

The double doors opened with perfect imperial weight the moment Damian’s finger snapped—and Anya strode in as if she still mattered.

She was dressed in crisp, calculated nobility, with no flowers or frills, just tailored rage and high-heeled spite. Her eyes locked on Damian, smug and glinting.

"You’re making a mistake," she said before the doors had even fully closed. "Keeping him. Elevating him. You may not care, but the people will."

Damian didn’t look at her. He was unrolling his cuffs with quiet precision, the gold embroidery catching the dying light.

"I don’t know who sold you information," he said coolly, "but you overpaid."

Anya stiffened. "Don’t mock me. You think I’m bluffing?"

"No," Damian said simply, brushing an invisible crease from his sleeve. "I think you’re desperate and stupid by forcing your way to me."

Her eyes flashed. "I’m a princess of Pais—"

"You’re a pawn," Damian cut in, his voice like a blade sliding into place. "A discarded one, at that. If your king had any use left for you, you wouldn’t be here begging for relevance."

Anya’s spine went rigid.

Her voice dropped into something colder. "Gabriel was born an alpha. Don’t you think people will have the right to be concerned by the legacy of your new regime?"

There it was: the card she hoped would shake him.

Damian didn’t flinch.

"People will always be concerned," he said evenly. "It’s the nature of weak minds and weaker bloodlines to be afraid of what they don’t control."

Anya tilted her chin, a smile curling where it shouldn’t. "Even so, they’ll doubt your bond with him. They’ll see your mate as nothing more than a joke."

Damian stilled. Slowly.

There was no fire in his expression. No flare of anger. Only the slow, coiled shift of something ancient reawakening beneath his skin.

"A joke," he repeated, voice soft as silk and twice as sharp. "Is that what you think this is?"

Anya didn’t back down. "They’ll say you were manipulated. That it was a pity. That you chose him because of a contract or a curse or something worse. And they’ll laugh, Damian. Not in your face, but behind closed doors. In council halls. In foreign courts. Your mate will be the Empire’s punchline."

Astana blinked.

He turned to her fully now, disbelief flattening every line of his face.

This had to be a joke. A play. A test of some kind. No one was that reckless.

"You can’t be serious," Astana said, voice low, like a man refusing to believe what he just heard. "You’re standing in front of the Emperor and calling his bond a pity project?"

Anya ignored him.

She was fixated on Damian, as if this was still a conversation she could win, and she had not just committed imperial treason with a smile on her lips.

Astana took a step forward, but Damian raised a hand—barely—and he froze.

"I’m impressed," Damian said at last, his voice low and measured. "You’ve managed to say the most ignorant sentence I’ve heard in this office in years. And I host nobles here."

Anya’s smile faltered, ever so slightly.

"Let me be clear," Damian continued, his tone shifting—still soft, but carved in iron. "My bond is not a weakness. It’s not a mistake. And it is not something you get to speak about as if it were yours."

He snapped his fingers, the sound echoing like a trigger through the chamber.

From the shadowed corner near the columns, a figure stepped forward—silent, precise, and unmistakable.

Alexander.

The air changed as he emerged, his presence cold and clinical, like the hush before a blade falls.

Anya turned sharply, eyes narrowing. "You wouldn’t dare—"

"Alexander," Damian said, his voice as smooth as glass, "take the Princess to a nice rendezvous this evening. Somewhere quiet. Discreet."

Alexander said nothing. He didn’t need to.

"Show her what happens to those who test my patience," Damian continued. "Make her sing. Every contact. Every whisper. Every piece of paper she’s hiding."

He tilted his head, smiling like the sun never touched him. "And don’t leave a mark. She still has to be pretty for the engagement."

Anya went pale.

Astana, despite everything, flinched—because he knew what sing meant in this context. He looked at the princess with pity, knowing that once they were done with her, she would be reduced to a human shell.

Alexander stepped forward, soundless as smoke, already reaching for her arm.

"You can’t," Anya snapped, panic creeping in now. "I’m a Princess—"

"You still are," Damian said calmly, fastening his cuff with surgical precision. "But in my empire, I make the rules."

Anya opened her mouth again, but Alexander was already beside her, his grip gentle and unrelenting.

"You’ll be returned to your quarters before midnight," Damian added, his voice almost kind. "Intact. Unharmed. Well," he paused, fastening the second cuff with calm precision, "not physically."