CHAPTER 87: GREAT BABY VANISHING

[Rynthall Estate—Three Months Later]

Chaos.

Big chaos.

Unapologetic, flamboyant, house-wide sparkling chaos. Because, of course, why would the Rynthall Estate ever be quiet?

Silence was a myth. Peace was a bedtime story. And today?

Well, today the estate was in full code-red meltdown.

Why?

Because their resident tornado in royal ribbons had vanished again.

"LITTLE MISS HAS VANISHED AGAIN!!" A maid screamed, running down the hallway like a flaming comet of anxiety.

Maids darted through the corridors like startled pigeons, skirts flying, hairpins falling. Footmen were crawling under tables. Enchanted brooms were thrown aside in the panic. Alphonso and Marcel were under a chaise lounge, whispering urgently.

"Little Miss?" Marcel called softly, lifting the curtains with trembling hands. "Are you hiding behind here again, your terror?"

"Check the nursery!"

"She’s not under the crib!"

"Try the drawing room!"

"Did anyone check inside the laundry basket?!"

Lucien stood barefoot in the center of the hallway, one sleeve falling off his shoulder, hair a poetic mess of regal dishevelment, silk robe unbuttoned halfway, and his eye twitching with majestic despair.

"She was right here ten minutes ago," he said, voice hushed like he was narrating his own breakdown. "I put her in the crib. With three pillows. Five safety charms. A lullaby spell. A goat-blessed blanket. What more do you need to contain a baby?!"

Silas came jogging in behind him, shirt unbuttoned, hair sticking up like an exhausted rooster, one slipper missing, and holding a half-drunk milk bottle like a failed offering to the gods of parenthood.

"She’s learned how to crawl, Lucien," he said between breaths. "You saw her. She’s been practicing every morning like she’s training for an infant jailbreak."

"She can’t even walk! How is she crawling through walls?!"

"She doesn’t crawl," Silas said grimly, scanning the hallway. "She vanishes."

Lucien let out an elegant, almost princely groan and stomped toward the next room. "If I find her under the couch again, I’m bubble-wrapping this entire estate and installing a moat."

The guards remained wisely silent. One of them slowly backed into a column.

A maid popped her head out of the study. "Not in here either!"

Another from the pantry: "She’s not in the flour sacks—but she was! There’s a handprint!!"

Lucien clutched the nearest doorframe like a man barely holding onto reality. "She better not be inside the flower bushes again. I still have pollen in my soul from last time."

Just then Marcel ran up, panting. "My Lord... we still can’t find her..."

Lucien bit his lower lip, pacing like a sorcerer on the edge of a vision, then paused. Froze.

His eyes narrowed.

"...Did anyone check Silas’s office?"

Alphonso blinked. "No, my lord."

Lucien’s entire aura shifted. "SHE’S IN THERE."

Silas blinked. "Wait—how do you know that?!"

"I feel it," Lucien said, voice low, dangerous, and insane. "My baby radar is tingling."

"...Your what now?"

"My baby radar," Lucien snapped, already sprinting.

"Lucien—! Wait! You’ll fall!" Silas yelled, chasing after him.

Lucien shouted over his shoulder, "I SHALL DIE IF I MUST, BUT I’M BRINGING HER IN MY ARMS NOW!"

And then—he stormed down the hallway like a hurricane in royal slippers. The door to Silas’s office slammed open. Lucien dove to the floor like a knight retrieving a sacred sword—

—and there she was.

Under Silas’s enormous mahogany desk.

Like a little war general hiding behind spreadsheets and ink bottles.

Elysia Rynthall.

Three months old. Round as a dumpling. Glowing with baby fat and probable criminal intent.

Fast asleep.

Snuggled between two stacks of tax documents like a pint-sized anarchist accountant. One sock was missing. One chubby toe pointed dramatically to the heavens. Her pacifier bobbed in her mouth like royalty mid-tea. She held a rogue crayon like a dagger. She was radiating peace.

Lucien gasped like he’d found the last moonflower in winter. "You...demon cherub."

Silas skidded into the room seconds later. "Is she—?"

"Sleeping," Lucien whispered, crawling under the desk. "Under your desk. Again. With her favorite crayon."

He scooped her up gently, like she was a bomb made of dreams and betrayal.

"...How do you even get out of your crib?" he muttered. "I enchanted that thing with six barrier spells, a sleepy-sheep ward, and three lullabies."

Elysia gave the tiniest snort.

Lucien’s whole face melted. "No. Don’t you dare. Don’t snort. That’s your ’I’m too cute to punish’ tactic and I won’t fall for it again—"

She yawned.

Lucien fell for it again.

"She has nerves of steel," he muttered. "We lost her for forty-five minutes. I thought she’d joined a traveling rogue circus."

"She’s three months old," Silas said with a soft laugh.

"She’s very advanced," Lucien snapped.

Then—

As Lucien stood, cradling her in his arms, she blinked open one sleepy eye.

Looked up.

"Oh, she woke up," Lucien mumbled.

And then she sniffed his chest.

Then lunged forward—

—and latched onto his shirt-covered nipple like a homing missile.

Lucien groaned, "The culprit is hungry now."

Silas chuckled, leaning down to kiss Elysia’s cheek. "She’s got impeccable taste."

Lucien shot him a look. "She has options. She has a pacifier. Blessed by three bored monks. Dipped in unicorn chamomile."

Silas just smirked and kissed Lucien’s forehead. "Maybe she just prefers you."

Lucien exhaled, long-suffering and fully in love.

Silas smiled, saying, "Alright. You go back to the chamber and feed her. I have to head to the Imperial Palace; I will be back soon."

Lucien smiled, saying, "Fine."

Silas gently took Elysia from his arms, brushing her soft hair back, and kissed her forehead, mumbling, "Daddy will be back soon."

Elysia, nestled snugly in Lucien’s arms, let out a sleepy little giggle—a bubble of joy, innocent and clueless.

And somewhere under the desk, that one rogue crayon rolled off the carpet with a soft plop, like it had finally surrendered to gravity and destiny.

The war was over.

***

[Rynthall Estate—Silas’s Office | A Few Hours After the Great Baby Vanishing]

But peace was a myth.

Because what they didn’t know...

Was that someone is coming back.

But for now—chaos had relocated itself to Silas’s office, where Lucien was currently seated dramatically slouched across from Silas’s massive oak desk.

Documents.

So many documents.

Stacked like tiny towers of doom. Some were enchanted. Some were cursed. Most were extremely boring.

Lucien stared at them like they were about to bite him.

Marcel, ever the loyal—if slightly too enthusiastic—Butler and secretary, stood beside him holding Little Elysia like a sparkly time bomb in royal diapers.

"My lord..." Marcel said politely, adjusting his gloves. "Please finish the trade agreement reports. We still have inheritance tax disputes and the poultry permit rebellion from the western orchards."

Lucien stared at him.

Then stared at the papers.

Then slowly tilted his head back and whispered to the ceiling, "This... This is clearly a human rights violation."

Elysia peeked down at her mommy over Marcel’s shoulder, sucking her pacifier like it was popcorn at a drama performance. Lucien locked eyes with her and dramatically clutched the armrests.

"This is not a job. This is not a duty. This is not even administrative torture—THIS IS A HATE CRIME AGAINST BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE."

Elysia blinked.

Sparkled.

Lucien flipped a page dramatically and yelled, "WHY DO I HAVE TO DO THIS?! I AM TOO ETHEREAL FOR SPREADSHEETS!"

Elysia flinched.

Then giggled.

She loved when Mommy yelled. It was like fireworks in sound form.

Lucien groaned, dragging his hand down his face and muttering like a prince on the verge of war, "House Armoire and House Rynthall are merged now... We are one! ONE! A singular cursed household of chaos and invoices! So WHY..."

He slammed a stamp onto a parchment with unnecessary force.

"...WHY must I suffer this alone?!"

Marcel cleared his throat gently. "Because, my lord... Lord Silas is out dealing with the eastern delegation. Callen is currently flirting with Lady Seraphina, who is at a noble party."

Lucien narrowed his eyes. "He’s planning his marriage with my sister while I ROT IN PAPERWORK PRISON?!"

Marcel shrugged innocently.

Elysia reached down, patted her mother’s shiny hair like she was saying, Do your taxes, peasant, and then shoved her pacifier into Lucien’s face like an offering.

Lucien froze. "Did you just... silence me with a binky?"

Marcel, biting back a laugh, offered, "My lady is simply encouraging you to finish the land dispute review."

Lucien let out the loudest, most defeated sigh in royal history. "Fine. Fine! I will read the cursed poultry permits. But if I see one more noble landowner claiming chicken-dueling rights, I’m burning down the entire orchard."

Elysia gave a celebratory wiggle.

Lucien rubbed his temples. "I didn’t train in diplomacy. I didn’t marry into mafia nobility. I didn’t birth a pacifier-slinging goddess just to become a glorified kingdom accountant."

Marcel smiled politely. "And yet, here we are."

Lucien dramatically slammed another wax seal. "Remind me to send a raven to Silas and tell him I’m eloping with a tree."

Elysia burped softly.

Lucien blinked. "You agree? Wonderful. She’s on my side."

And then—

THUD. THUD. THUD.

The thunderous sound of boots echoed through the marble corridor. Fast. Desperate. Definitely not elegant.

Lucien’s eye twitched. "What in the..."

SLAM!!!

The door burst open with the force of a dramatic soap opera plot twist.

"MY LOOOOOOOORD—!"

Alphonso skidded into the room like a panicked peacock in a windstorm. Elysia blinked. Lucien nearly dropped a quill. Marcel flinched.

Lucien was in shock. "Wow. Alphonso. That was loud enough to wake the ancestors. What happened? Is there a fire? An invasion? Another noble requesting chicken dueling rights?!"

Alphonso panted, hands on his knees, dramatic as ever. "He’s... he’s coming back!"

Lucien’s brows furrowed. "Who?"

Alphonso raised one trembling hand and said like he was announcing the arrival of a dragon overlord—

"Your father-in-law."

The room froze.

The chandelier above them seemed to flicker in fear.

Lucien blinked once.

Twice.

And then slowly, with the quiet confusion of a man who’s just been told he owns a pet tiger he’s never seen, muttered—

"...I have something like that too?"