CHAPTER 39: PREGNANT BESTIES & THE BATTLE OF BLOODLINES

[Imperial Capital – Grand Atelier of Saint Veloria, Bridal Floor]

If gods ever designed a department store, this was it.

Marble floors glistened like they’d been polished by baby angels on glitter-duty. Chiffon curtains billowed in a breeze that did not physically exist. Mannequins posed like they were about to walk into an opera full of betrayals and extremely tight corsets. Somewhere in the distance, a live harpist casually played a slow romantic melody while sipping boba through a golden straw.

Lucien stood at the entrance like a prophet entering paradise. His eyes widened. His lips parted. He clutched Elise’s hand like a Victorian maiden seeing a chandelier for the first time.

"I feel like I’ve entered a cathedral of fashion," he whispered, reverently. "I might start levitating. I’m not even joking."

"You better not," Elise replied, sweeping through the massive glass doors like she owned the global economy. "Because we have diamonds to try on, tea to spill, and at least three assistants to emotionally confuse into submission."

Lucien’s eyes glittered like gemstones dunked in starlight. "I love that for us."

A poor, unsuspecting sales associate saw them enter—and immediately dropped her clipboard.

The clipboard bounced. The pens scattered. The poor woman gasped like she’d seen royalty.

Because, well. She had.

The Empress. Had. Entered.

Whispers shot through the showroom faster than a scandal in a royal court.

"Th-that’s the Empress—"

"And... who’s with her?"

"They’re glowing. Like actually glowing. That one’s skin is radiating sparkles. Is that legal??"

"Do you think they’ll adopt me if I faint dramatically right now?"

And just as Lucien prepared to dramatically toss his scarf at a glitter mannequin and declare, "I claim this store in the name of bridal justice!"—

The automatic doors slammed open with the force of a thousand plot twists.

(Well. Nothing dramatic actually happened. The door slid open politely and a soft ding chimed.)

But outside, the sunlight cracked through the clouds like it had been waiting for this moment. A suspiciously well-timed breeze swept into the boutique—tousling chiffon veils, ruffling hair, and causing one particularly emotional mannequin to faint into a diamond tiara display.

Enter: The Imperial Knights.

Flanking either side, they marched in like runway models who had taken a few sword classes. Behind them, the shop owner—Lady Mirielle Veloria herself—skidded across the polished marble, nearly tripping over her own pearl-crusted heels as she dashed forward and bowed so deeply her tiara tilted.

"Greeting to Her Majesty!" she gasped. "It is an honor—no—a blessing—no, a cosmic rebirth to have you here! What may I present for your pleasure today—"

But before she could finish the sentence—

Elise lifted one elegant hand.

Tilted her head.

And with the poise of a male lead in a top-tier K-drama with a 100-episode budget, pointed one manicured finger across the entire bridal floor.

"From there—" she said, voice smooth and lethal as velvet, pointing at the left end of the boutique. "—to there—" she pointed to the opposite end like she was conducting a symphony of diamonds, chiffon, and economic devastation,"Pack everything... for this man."

She turned to Lucien like she’d just won a duel.Hair gleaming. Aura smug. Eyes sparkling like a goddess of retail vengeance.

The room collectively G A S P E D.

Lucien stood still. Stared at her. And then—Clapped both hands over his mouth. Eyes watering.Voice trembling.

"OH. MY. GHOSH," he breathed, like a K-drama heroine at peak confession moment. "She just... she just main-charactered me..."

He hugged Elise like she’d just saved him from a lifetime of budget shopping.

"Elise. You are—" he pulled back, sparkles fully activated, "—THE MOTHER OF MY SHOPPING DESTINY."

Elise smiled sweetly, air-kissed his cheeks, and then removed her imaginary fashion goggles like a secret agent putting away her laser glasses.

"Anything for you, Lucien," she said coolly. "Besides, I need you in sequins by next Tuesday."

Lucien squeaked.

The shop assistants were already sprinting with racks of clothes, tiaras, veils, and one suspiciously bedazzled sword labeled "For Drama Only."

Mirielle Veloria, the shop owner, stood at the edge of collapse. Her hands trembled over her jeweled clipboard. Her lips quivered. Her knees knocked politely. She looked like she was about to either weep or propose to both of them.

And just when Lucien was about to try on the sixth outfit that had its own insurance policy—

SLAM.

The boutique doors flew open with the violence of a budget K-drama wind machine set to "possessed hurricane."

A voice screeched: "WHAT IN THE WORLD ARE YOU DOING HERE?!"

Lucien froze, mid-sparkle. Elise turned slowly, like a villain rotating in a swivel chair.

Lucien’s head whipped toward the entrance, his jaw dropping.

"...Seraphina?"

There she stood. Lady Seraphina Vontrelle, Lucein’s cousin and Vialliness of the Novel.

In towering heels, a red satin gown sharp enough to commit tax fraud, and enough smoky eye makeup to declare war. Her hair was perfect. Her aura was made of contempt and cinnamon venom.

She was glaring.

At Elise.

Lucien blinked once.Twice.And then practically screamed internally:

’THE FEMALE LEAD AND THE VILLAINESS OF THIS NOVEL HAVE ENCOUNTEREDDDDDDDDDDDDDD!!’

The temperature in the boutique dropped thirty degrees instantly. A glass of warm milk froze solid. A mannequin cracked in half. A sales associate fainted with a dramatic sigh into a pile of silk.

Lucien stood between them—arms clutched around a frilly pink blazer, looking like a very lost squirrel in a Gucci commercial.

Elise gave a smile. A slow, sharp, I-will-bury-you-in-my-private-rose-garden kind of smile.

"Lady Seraphina," she said sweetly, in a tone that could frost wedding cake. "What an... unexpected delight."

Seraphina’s scoff echoed like someone had just insulted her family’s wine collection.

"The pleasure is all mine, Empresssssssssss," she replied, drawing out the title like it was something she’d found under her shoe.

Lucien’s eyes went wide as saucers. He turned to Elise. Then Seraphina. Then Elise. He could feel the laser beams whizzing above his curls.

"W-Wow, look at the weather today," he stammered, laughing nervously. "So chilly and deathly and oh-my-god-I-might-actually-die."

"I wonder," Elise said, her voice honeyed and poison-tipped, "when Lady Seraphina will finally learn how to greet her sovereign properly. Or perhaps it’s too much to expect manners from a woman who once wore pearls to a mourning banquet?"

Seraphina twitched like someone had kicked her designer ego. She bared her teeth in a smile that would make a snake jealous.

And then—like a greased-up steel blade dipped in spite—she dipped into a bow so slow, so oily, so venomously dramatic it looked choreographed by an evil swan.

"...Greeeeeetings, Your Highness," she hissed through gritted teeth.

Lucien whispered, "Oh my god, I can taste the tension."

Seraphina and Elise were still locked in a visual death match, eyes sharp enough to slice lace. Mannequins nearby had started leaning away from the sheer violence of the atmosphere.

And then—Seraphina whipped her head toward Lucien so fast, her earrings nearly slapped someone into a lawsuit.

"What," she snarled, eyes narrowed to suspicious slits, "the hell are you doing here—and with Her Majesty?"

Lucien froze.

He stood there, shoulders tight, like a deer caught between two runway lights and an emotional lawsuit.

"I, um, well, you see—" he stammered, clutching the hem of his dramatic velvet tunic like it could deflect confrontation.

And just then—Elise gently, but pointedly, looped her arm around Lucien’s. Her grip was firm. Regal. The kind that said ’this man is under imperial protection, and possibly joint custody.’

"Lucien, my dear best-friend," Elise said sweetly—like a silk glove full of knives—"do you and Lady Seraphina... know each other?"

Her words oozed with polite curiosity.

Deadly. Polite. Curiosity.

Seraphina’s gaze dropped to their interlocked arms.

Then to their joined hands.

Then to the intense sparkle-glow of platonic soulmateness radiating off them like a thousand chandelier fireflies.

"...Best friend?" she muttered.

Like it was a curse. Or a tax audit. Or a gluten-free soufflé that collapsed mid-bake.

Lucien gulped.

"W-Well... Elise... um, she’s my... cousin."

Elise raised a perfectly arched brow. "Your cousin?"

Seraphina twitched.

Lucien nodded quickly, cheeks puffing with the effort of not passing out from social stress. "Y-Yeah. We’re cousins. Like... blood relatives. Holiday dinners. Awkward family reunions. That kind of cousin."

Seraphina narrowed her eyes with the slow precision of a villainess winding up for a monologue. Her ruby lips curled into a serpentine smile.

"And..." she said, voice syrupy with suspicion, "...why the hell is the Empress your best friend?" Her tone practically hissed. "Since when?"

Elise didn’t flinch. She smiled. Dangerously. Like a queen who didn’t just sit on the throne—she made the throne cry.

"We’re not just any best friends, Lady Seraphina." She casually brushed imaginary dust off her shoulder, scanned the room, then leaned in with a sparkle in her eye that should’ve required a warning label.

She whispered like she was sharing a royal scandal: "We’re pregnant besties."

Time.

Stopped.

Like, literally. Someone in the background dropped a tray of pearl-encrusted stilettos. A mannequin fainted again. A harp string snapped in the distance.

Seraphina’s pupils shrank.

"...W-What?" she croaked. "Pregnant?"

Elise leaned back, flipping her hair like it had tenure. "Ohooo... did you not know, Lady Seraphina...?" She turned slightly, eyes gleaming with unholy delight. "...Lucien is pregnant."

Lucien flailed. "ELISE—!"

But it was too late.

Seraphina’s gaze immediately snapped to Lucien. To his midsection. Then back to his face. Then to his stomach again—just to double-check for signs of holy omega glow.

Lucien tugged at his tunic self-consciously. "Don’t stare like that, it’s rude!"

"...But... you’re a man," Seraphina finally said, blinking like her brain had short-circuited.

Elise smiled like she’d just pulled the plot twist card in a drama board game. "Ahem... a rare male omega man."

Seraphina stood very, very still.

Then—

She let out a small laugh. Then a bigger one. And then she flicked her perfectly curled hair behind her shoulder, voice slick with challenge.

"Well then..." Her gaze sharpened like a jeweled dagger. "If he’s pregnant—and he’s my cousin—then I obviously have more rights over the baby than you, Empress."

Elise’s head jerked back an inch. "What."

Lucien, meanwhile, looked like a cornered female lead, caught between two male leads fighting over a baby carriage.

"I—I am literally right here!" he squeaked, waving both hands. "Hello? Person carrying the baby? Anyone want to ask me how I feel?"

Seraphina and Elise both ignored him.

The glitter between them practically crackled. Satin dresses billowed in imaginary wind. Jewelry twinkled like alarms.

And somewhere—deep in the emotional layers of Lucien’s soul—he whispered:

"...God help me, I’m the plot device again."