CHAPTER 122: LOVE IS IN THE AIR

I’m feeling headache guys please il sorry for resending this Chapter

The men had been speaking in low, sharp tones—plans, structures, things only kings of their world would dare discuss—when a silence stretched too long.

Roman felt it first, the prickling weight of a stare. He turned.

Julie.

Her pout was small, unintentional, but it struck him harder than any blade.

Across from her, Samantha wore the same expression, luminous eyes fixed unblinking on Lazarus, lips drawn into the faintest sulk as if daring him to notice.

For the briefest heartbeat, both men froze—Roman and Lazarus, rulers of empires, caught off guard by their women’s attention. Then, without a word, they shifted.

The business dissolved like smoke.

Roman leaned forward, his gaze darkening with something softer, something possessive.

His hand found Julie’s with ease, lifting it to his lips. He kissed her fingers one by one, slow enough that time itself seemed to hold its breath.

"How long," he murmured, velvet-low, "have you been looking at me like that, hmm? No wonder the world felt... different."

Julie flushed crimson, trying half-heartedly to pull her hand back, but Roman only held firmer, his mouth brushing over her knuckles again, his eyes never leaving hers.

On the other side, Lazarus tilted his head at Samantha’s sulk, a slow smirk curving his mouth.

"Dangerous," he murmured, leaning closer until she could feel his breath, "the way you look when you pout. You’re casting spells on me without trying."

His thumb traced her lower lip, coaxing it back into a smile. "And I think you’ve already won."

Samantha’s chest rose sharply, her cheeks aflame as his touch lingered.

She tried to glare at him, tried to form words—but her lips betrayed her, trembling between a smile and surrender.

The soiree shifted.

Whispers rippled through the room like silk. Queens leaned toward one another, fans fluttering as they spoke in hushed tones.

"Look how Roman adores her... Did you see how he kissed her hand?" Their eyes flicked with envy toward Julie, their voices sharpened by longing.

A few tilted their chins high, pretending disinterest—but their stares betrayed them.

The men, too, muttered between glasses of wine. "That’s love, pure and clear," one said with a laugh.

Another shook his head, voice heavy with approval, "If Roman smiles at her like that in public... imagine what he does in private."

.Their admiration was almost exaggerated, men trying to one-up each other with their praise, as though Roman’s devotion gave them permission to be bold about their own affections.

And then—her.

At the far corner, half-hidden by shadows, a young woman froze where she sat on an old man’s lap.

His hands roamed her beneath the table, but her mind was elsewhere. Her eyes had found Roman.

Her breath stopped.

That smile—the warmth he gave Julie, the softness in his eyes as he touched her hand—it cut deeper than any knife.

She remembered it. That smile had once been hers. That devotion, that quiet way he used to look at her, as though she were the only woman alive.

And she had shattered it.

She remembered his care, his protection, his tenderness, how he once loved her with a fire so pure it terrified her.

She had broken him into pieces, watched him bleed, and thought he would never rise again.

But here he was—risen higher than ever, moved on without her, his heart claimed by another.

Her nails dug into the old man’s shoulder, but he didn’t notice. Her body smiled, but her soul withered. Jealousy coiled hot and venomous in her chest.

Because Roman had walked away. He had rebuilt himself. And now he gave to Julie everything she thought he’d never give again.

The queens whispered more. The kings laughed and nodded. All eyes, somehow, came back to the four of them—two men, two women, in their own worlds.

Roman bent close enough that Julie felt his lips graze the shell of her ear.

"Tell me, Mia bella," he teased low, intimate enough for only her to hear, "should I please you until you forget why you pout?"

(Mia Bella) Means My beautiful in Italian.

His thumb brushed the corner of her lip, sending heat flooding her cheeks.

She tried to turn away, but he caught her chin, making her meet his gaze.

Across from them, Lazarus leaned in until Samantha nearly trembled under the weight of him.

"Look at me like this," he whispered, voice velvet and steel, "and I’ll give you everything you don’t even dare to ask for."

His hand cradled her jaw, tilting her face up, his eyes burning into hers as though he were writing spells into her soul.

Julie and Samantha forgot the room. Forgot the whispers, the envious stares, the murmurs of queens and kings.

But the room had not forgotten them.

Roman and Lazarus had turned the soiree into a stage—and their women into its brightest stars.

The hall shimmered beneath golden chandeliers, music spilling gently from a corner quartet.

Nobles and dignitaries filled the seats, their laughter mingling with the clink of glasses.

The Master of Ceremony, tall and smooth-voiced, stepped forward with practiced grace.

He spread his arms wide, his smile bright enough to pull the restless crowd into silence.

"Ladies and gentlemen," his voice rolled like velvet, "tonight we are honored by the presence of great men and women who walk among us as kings and queens in their own right. Let us welcome—most especially—His Excellency, Mr. Bellanti."

Applause broke out, rising and falling like a wave. All eyes turned to the man rising from his seat.

Mr. Bellanti moved with an unhurried poise, dark suit pressed to perfection, a faint smile ghosting across his lips.

He reached the stage, accepted the microphone from the MC, and inclined his head to the guests.

"My dear friends," Mr. Billante began, his voice warm and measured, "thank you for gracing this evening with your presence. It is no small thing, to set aside time and lend your company to a gathering such as this. To each of you—my queens and kings—I extend my heartfelt gratitude."

His gaze shifted, steady and deliberate. "In particular, I wish to thank Arbiter Lazarus for standing with us tonight.

Your presence honors this house." His eyes slid further, catching the man seated beside Julie.

"And of course, Roman Thompson. Your attendance is no less a privilege."

Polite applause followed. Some faces were open with admiration, others guarded, lips pursed in envy. Bellante gave a final nod, returning the microphone to the MC, who all but flourished as he took it back.

"Magnificent words, sir," the MC said smoothly. Then, pivoting with a practiced grin, "Now, perhaps we should hear from the very ones our host has praised. Arbiter Lazarus, would you do us the honor?"

Lazarus rose, his tall frame commanding the hall without effort.

He clasped Samantha’s hand briefly before striding to the stage.

A smile lingered on his lips, one that softened his usually sharp features.

"Good evening to you all," Lazarus began, his tone warm, threaded with pride.

"It is always a gift to stand among such company. Tonight, I celebrate not myself, but the bonds we forge in gatherings like this—bonds of trust, of loyalty, of shared vision. For me, this is more than politics.

" It is personal. Because behind every ambassador, every man who holds an office, stands someone who gives him strength."

His hand lifted slightly, pointing without shame toward Samantha. Her cheeks flushed pink as murmurs rippled across the hall.

"Yes," Lazarus said, his voice carrying a certain reverence. "Allow me to introduce her—not as a shadow beside me, but as my partner. Samantha, the woman I love. My girlfriend, and, by God’s grace, the future wife of an arbiter"

The words drew a blend of applause and knowing chuckles. Samantha lowered her eyes, her lips curving into a shy smile that could not hide her pride.

The MC all but clapped his hands. "A toast of admiration for love so boldly declared! And now—" his voice swelled theatrically, "—the man whose presence alone stills a room. Roman Thompson."

A hush followed. Roman rose without hurry, his height and presence pressing on the air itself.

He didn’t smile as he mounted the stage, didn’t soften himself for their comfort.

He stood at the microphone, his dark gaze sweeping the hall as though measuring each soul before him.

"I thank you," he said simply, voice low, calm, and deliberate, "for your welcome. Like Lazarus, I do not come here for politics. I come for loyalty. For family. For respect that is not spoken only in words, but shown in action."

He paused, letting the silence stretch until even the clink of glasses ceased.

Then, without breaking eye contact with the room, he reached his hand toward Julie.

She looked up, caught in his gaze, and with the gentlest hesitation placed her hand in his.

He drew her to her feet, the motion protective, unyielding.

"This," Roman said, voice carrying like iron across marble, "is my wife. Julienne. Soon—very soon—you will all receive the invitation to our wedding. Until then, know this: her honor is my honor. Her name is mine. Speak of her as you would dare to speak of me."

Gasps scattered through the hall. Whispers rose—half awe, half outrage.

Married? Without a word to us? Faces turned, brows furrowed, lips tightened.

Yet none dared to rise against him openly.

The MC cleared his throat, laughter forced but eager. "Well! It seems both gentlemen have given us reason to cheer tonight. Love is in the air, my friends. Arbiter Lazarus with his radiant Samantha, and Mr. Thompson with his beautiful Julienne. If devotion were a crown, surely they both would wear it."

The teasing tone tugged a ripple of chuckles from the crowd.

Lazarus leaned slightly toward Samantha, whispering something that made her blush harder.

Roman, meanwhile, remained utterly unbothered by the murmurs—his arm firm around Julie’s waist, his expression daring anyone to question his claim.

And though envy swirled in quiet corners, one truth lingered in every mind: tonight, two men had not only declared their power, but their love—and in doing so, had shifted the very air of the gathering.