CHAPTER 55: THE BABY CAN HEAR YOU

[Rynthall Estate—Morning Madness / Main Hall]

The morning light spilled across the estate like golden gossip—soft, warm, and full of dangerous curiosity.

And the whole estate?

Was vibrating with the tension of an incoming storm. Footsteps thundered down the hallway. Teacups clattered in panic. Curtains were yanked closed like they would hide the shame of what was to come.

"LADY SERAPHINA IS HERE—!!!"

A shriek ripped through the estate like a battle horn.

One maid skidded to a halt, nearly dropping a tray of freshly cut melon. "Again?!"

Another, clutching a bundle of lace curtains like a lifeline, nodded gravely. "Yes. Third time this month. She just strolled in wearing emeralds and war crimes."

"Oh gods," someone whispered. "Did she bring her fan again?"

"The one she uses like a sword? Yes. I saw her open it at the front gate. It was sparkling with vengeance."

A collective gasp.

"I’m scared," the curtain-clutching maid whispered, eyes darting toward the garden where Lucien usually lounged like chaos incarnate in silk robes. "If this news spreads to the Empress—"

"She’ll show up again."

"She’ll do more than show up," the first maid hissed. "Last time she heard Lady Seraphina visited, she PACKED HER ENTIRE IMPERIAL LUGGAGE."

"—and marched in with a full army of midwives, guards, and shade!"

"And told the Grand Duke she ’couldn’t let that bitch breathe the same air as Lucien.’"

They both shivered.

"Poor Emperor," one of them muttered sympathetically.

"Still recovering from the time she demanded a nursery be built here. Said, ’If our children are destined to be friends in the future, at least let them grow up under the same wallpaper.’"

A footman walked by, dead-eyed, whispering, "I’ve seen the blueprints. She wasn’t bluffing."

***

[Meanwhile, in the Garden—Scene of Passive-Aggressive Crimes]

Lucien was glaring.

Not just regular glaring—no, no.

This was a six-months-pregnant, betrayed, under-caffeinated, craving-spicy-food-for-the-last-four-hours kind of glaring. The kind that could boil holy water and send a grown man to confession.

Across from him, seated on an embroidered velvet bench, Lady Seraphina tried to smile through the tension. Her fan fluttered weakly like a dying dove.

"I... I’m not lying," she said finally, with the shaky voice of someone standing on very thin diplomatic ice. "I... I really did forget."

Lucien narrowed his eyes. Slowly. Deliberately. Like a drama queen summoning thunder.

He didn’t speak.

He just squinted.

A long, suspicious, belly-cradling squint.

Even Seraphina’s maid was trembling, her hands clutching the tea tray like it might become a shield. "She—she really forgot, Your Grace! My lady is not lying, I-I swear on all ten of her skincare serums!"

Lucien’s voice dropped into a regal growl. "I can smell your lies, Seraphina."

Seraphina blinked. "You—what?"

"I said," Lucien huffed, one hand on his stomach, the other on his hip, "I. Can. Smell. Your. Lies."

She opened her mouth, baffled. "I have never in my life heard of a pregnant person sniffing out deception."

Lucien sniffed dramatically. "That’s because I’m not just pregnant. I’m a rare male omega, Seraphina. Do you know what that means?"

"I—no?"

"It means," Lucien said, gesturing wildly with a silk-clad arm, "I come with limited-edition pregnancy side effects. Enhanced emotions. Deadlier moods. And yes—lie-detection sniffing. My senses are heightened like a cat raised by truth gods."

Seraphina just stared at him.

Dumbfounded.

Lucien leaned in with the grace of a scandal. "And guess what my nostrils picked up when you walked in without my fried spicy chicken—crafted by my Aunt Nayana, may her apron be blessed forever?"

She blinked again. "I genuinely forgot, I swear—"

Lucien turned to the maid with theatrical sadness. "See, I knew it. She forgot the ONE thing that brings me joy besides my unborn child and judging people."

The maid looked two seconds away from throwing herself into the koi pond.

Lucien wiped a perfectly invisible tear with the corner of his sleeve. "If the Empress were here..." he began, voice breaking, "she would’ve made ten trays. Hand-delivered. With extra seasoning and sauces. Because she cares."

Seraphina broke. "ALRIGHT!" she hissed, snapping her fan closed so hard it echoed like a slap. "I’ll send someone to fetch it from the estate right now."

Lucien perked up like a cursed sunflower in spring. "And tell them to bring it warm. Or I swear to the gods, I will send a scroll to the Empress."

Seraphina’s eye twitched. "You’re bluffing."

Lucien raised a brow with glittering menace. "Do I look like I bluff with my cravings?"

She groaned. "Ugh—fine!"

Lucien batted his lashes, smiling with weaponized sweetness that could bring kingdoms to ruin."Thank you~ my dearest, most aesthetically bitter sister."

Seraphina narrowed her eyes. "I... have never in my life witnessed an evil, pregnant cousin until you."

Lucien’s smirk curled like a villain in velvet."Maybe it’s genetic. Like cheekbones. Or inherited spite."

She pointed her fan at him like she was about to duel. "Don’t push me, you hormonal gremlin."

Lucien gasped—offended. "Gremlin?!"

"Yes," she said firmly. "A gorgeous, manipulative, culinary-tyrant gremlin who weaponizes cravings like a war general."

He blinked, dramatically hurt. Then whispered, starry-eyed and sincere: "...You forgot ’glowing.’"

Seraphina blinked.

Then she slumped back on the chair like she’d just aged ten years in ten seconds. "Gods above. And they call me a villainess. Me."

Lucien gently swirled the tea in his untouched cup, his expression ethereal, smug, and high-drama all at once. "I know. Isn’t it romantic? You’re the villainess, and I’m the misunderstood romantic lead. Together we bring shame to the noble bloodline and flair to the empire."

Seraphina groaned into her fan. "Somewhere, our ancestors are sobbing into their portraits."

Lucien smirked. "Good. Let them cry in oil paint."

Then her gaze dropped. Slowly. Meaningfully.To his belly.

"...Did the wobblebean kick yet?"

He shook his head. "Not yet."

Seraphina sighed. "Tragic. I was going to read them poetry."

Then she snapped her fingers at her maid, who jumped like she’d just been called into war.

"Books," Seraphina commanded.

The poor maid rushed forward and deposited a mountain of books on the garden table with a thud so dramatic it echoed. Everyone—including Lucien—gasped.

"GODS," Lucien choked. "That’s so many!"

"They’re essential," Seraphina said with all the severity of a royal advisor announcing war. "Pregnancy literature. Read one every day."

Lucien stared at the titles.

Then blinked.

Then stared harder.

"...Are these all about you?!"

The first title read:"A Great Aunt and Her Nephew: A Tale of Unmatched Grace."

Next to it:"The Aunt Who Raised a Nation (and Her Brother’s Children)"

Then—"Never Wed, Only Raised Legends: A Memoir by Lady Seraphina"

Lucien flipped through another, whispering in horror,"’The Baby Called Me Saint: Chronicles of a Noble Aunt.’ —What in the self-published hell is this?"

"That one’s my favorite," Seraphina said proudly. "It includes a monologue for your child to recite on their third birthday."

Lucien, still flipping through pages with increasing horror, muttered, "You annotated your own autobiography..."

Seraphina ignored him entirely. "Now listen—read them every day. Every.Single.Day. I heard that children start learning things from inside the womb."

Lucien blinked. "Wait. Really?"

Seraphina nodded sagely, lifting a pinky as if reciting sacred scripture. "Yes. Mom told me that when she was pregnant with me, she read philosophy, strategy, and the entire royal tax code aloud—and that’s why I’m so sharp."

There was a long, cold pause. A breeze swept across the garden. Even the leaves looked skeptical.

Lucien froze mid-page.

The gardeners, who had been trimming the roses, froze. The maids, fluffing the seat cushions, froze.

Even a squirrel on the estate wall stopped chewing its acorn. Everyone turned slowly to look at Seraphina.

And then—without blinking, without inflection, like the spirit had left his body—Lucien said flatly,"Yeah... I can definitely see that."

The maids nodded solemnly, like mourners at a funeral for common sense.

The head gardener muttered under his breath, "Sharp like a spoon."

Seraphina sniffed dramatically. "Jealousy isn’t flattering on you, brother."

Lucien rubbed his temple. "Stars above. You think my child can hear all this nonsense?"

"They can," she insisted. "They’re absorbing everything. Words. Emotions. Character. It’s a sacred bond."

Lucien stared at her like she’d just offered him tea brewed from moonlight and conspiracy theories."...So you’re telling me the baby in my belly can already... hear... you?"

Seraphina placed a delicate hand on his stomach and whispered to the unborn child like she was addressing the nation,

"My darling niblet, if you can hear me—repeat after me: Auntie rules, drama is survival, and never trust anyone who wears beige."

Lucien yanked her hand away like he was disarming a magical curse. "Stop cursing my baby with your fashion manifesto!"

"I’m bonding," she hissed. "It’s called early influence."

Lucien looked down at his belly and whispered, horrified: "Oh no. They’re in danger. I have to detox the womb. Is that a thing? Can I do a womb cleanse?"

The gardener chimed in, deadpan: "Try herbal tea and garlic. Clears spirits and drama queens."

Lucien nodded, solemn as a monk.

And just like that, a new law swept through Rynthall Estate: No cursing. No chaos. No emotional outbursts near the belly.

And Lucien?

He stood, dramatically clutching his stomach. "I am residing in the library starting today."

Everyone froze.

Even the wind paused.

Silas, somewhere indoors, felt a sudden chill.

This... was going to be a problem.