CHAPTER 88: DID YOU SAY... FATHER-IN-LAW?!

[Rynthall Estate, Silas’s Office]

The skies over Rynthall darkened.

Not because of rain.

But because of reputation.

Every noble in the region felt it—the shift. The whisper of a storm in expensive boots. A cold breeze of judgment. An invisible slap of ancestral disapproval. Somewhere, a duchess dropped her wine glass. Somewhere else, a baby stopped crying and started contemplating taxes.

Inside the estate, in the very heart of the chaos, Lucien stood frozen.

Elysia was in his arms, pacifier hanging from her mouth like a forgotten treaty. Her glittery eyes stared toward the horizon with the solemn wisdom of someone who had seen war. And possibly caused it.

Lucien turned slowly to Alphonso.

Then lunged.

He grabbed the man by his collar, shaking him with all the strength of a sleep-deprived parent on the edge of a noble breakdown. "WHEN—" Lucien’s voice cracked like a failing chandelier, "WHEN DID SILAS HAVE A FATHER?!"

Alphonso blinked.

"Um... from the day he was born?"

Lucien stared at him.

Deadpan.

Elysia copied Lucein and stared too.

Deadpan.

Then, like a man realizing the very foundations of his marriage were a lie, Lucien muttered, "But... he never mentioned it. Not once. Not even during our wedding. Or when I was pregnant."

Alphonso scratched his head. "Maybe... maybe he was too busy... you know... loving you... and caring for you... and building an enchanted nursery?"

Lucien froze.

Processing...

Processing...

And then—

"I WANT MY IDIOT HUSBAND BACK IN THIS ESTATE RIGHT NOW—!!!!!!"

His voice rang through the estate like a royal curse.

Elysia copied and roared too, "BAAA!!!!" (Well, a silent roar)

The chandeliers rattled.

Somewhere downstairs, a maid screamed and fainted.

Marcel ducked behind a curtain.

Lucien spun dramatically toward the open window, shook his fist at the sky, and roared, "YOU CAN’T JUST DROP A FATHER-IN-LAW OUT OF NOWHERE LIKE A SIDE CHARACTER WITH A BACKSTORY! WHO DOES THAT?! I’M TOO YOUNG AND TOO MOISTURIZED FOR THIS LEVEL OF ANCESTRAL PRESSURE!"

Elysia sucked harder on her pacifier.

Alphonso tried not to laugh. "I mean... it’s not like he’s a ghost. Or a vampire. Or a criminal—"

Lucien cut Alphonso off with a shriek so dramatic it might’ve cracked a window.

"WE DON’T KNOW THAT!!" he wailed, voice ricocheting off the walls like a panic spell gone rogue. "He’s Silas’s father! That means he could be anything!

What if—what if he walks in with a glittering cane, throws a million golden coins at my feet, and says, ’Leave my son. Take the child. Vanish like a scandal in the night!’"

Alphonso blinked. "...I-I don’t think he’s that bad, my lord."

Lucien spun on him, wild-eyed. "You never know!! What if he’s one of those cold, ruthless, patriarchal, dead-eyed noblemen who believe in emotionless marriages and haircuts with rulers?!"

Alphonso opened his mouth—then closed it.

Lucien threw his arms toward the ceiling. "What if he thinks I’m too emotional?! Too dramatic?! What if he hates how I moisturize?! What if he wants to replace me with a duchess who doesn’t believe in glitter?!"

Marcel, trying to help but clearly choosing violence, stepped forward and gently patted Lucien’s shoulder. "My lord... you’re thinking too much—"

Lucien turned to him like a banshee in royal silk. "Shut up, Marcel."

Marcel straightened. "Yes, my lord."

Lucien turned back toward the open window, the wind blowing through his half-unbuttoned robe like he was the lead in a tragic opera. His eyes shimmered.

"...Alright," he whispered, noble and devastated. "Before he tells me to pack my bags and go live in the mud... before he shatters my heart with a casually cruel father-in-law sentence... let’s be smart about this."

He clutched Elysia dramatically to his chest.

"We take the gold. The diamonds. Some maids. The horses. The heirlooms. The chandelier from the east wing. And we disappear."

Marcel gaped. "My lord, what?!"

Lucien pointed fiercely to Elysia, who blinked back at him with wide, innocent eyes.

"My girl. You’ll come with your mommy, right? You and me. We’ll live in a cottage. Grow our own herbs. Start a revolution if we must."

Elysia, serious as a high council judge, raised one fist in the air and declared: "BAA!!"

Lucien gasped and kissed her cheeks all over. "That’s right!! You should always support your mother in emotional warfare!"

Alphonso looked like his soul was trying to escape through his nose. "He’s... he’s thinking way too much."

Lucien ignored him and stood tall, Elysia still perched like a queen on his arm. "Marcel! Begin the emergency evacuation plan."

"What emergency evacuation plan?" Marcel asked, stunned.

"The one I made the day before I married Silas!" Lucien barked. "The one titled: ’If a Someone Appears Unexpectedly and Looks Like a Threat.’"

Alphonso clutched his forehead. "You actually made that plan?!"

Lucien whipped his head dramatically. "I PLAN FOR EVERYTHING," he hissed like a royal conspiracy theorist. "You think marriage is just about love and flowers? No. It’s survival. It’s war. It’s bedtime negotiations and unexpected relatives from the shadows."

Alphonso exhaled slowly like he was trying not to combust. "My lord... Why don’t you just calm down and wait for Lord Silas?"

Lucien blinked.

Paused.

Then narrowed his eyes.

"...That idiot husband of mine," he muttered darkly, clutching Elysia to his chest. "He’s the one at fault! I—I’m the innocent party here. I was just being beautiful and responsible and well-moisturized—and now suddenly I have an incoming father-in-law with unknown opinions and possibly a monocle!"

He started pacing again.

"If anything happens—anything—I will make sure Silas is punished. Not lightly. Not poetically. I will drag him by the sash and personally throw him to his dramatic destiny with his ’long-lost father’ while I escape with the baby and all the furniture."

Elysia, still in his arms, blinked up at him.

Pacifier in her mouth.

Expression completely unreadable.

And then...

She stared.

With that silent, knowing baby judgment.

Lucien glanced down at her.

"...What?" he asked suspiciously.

Elysia tilted her head.

Lucien frowned. "What’s with that look?"

She sucked once on the pacifier, then blinked slowly, clearly questioning every decision her mother was making.

Lucien gasped. "Are you asking if we’re not running away now?!"

Elysia remained silent. But the judgment was palpable.

Lucien sagged dramatically onto the nearest fainting couch. "Oh, my darling. My accomplice. My emotional support criminal. We were so close to freedom..."

Alphonso sighed. "She’s three months old, my lord."

"She’s a strategist," Lucien corrected. "She’s assessing the risk. She knows when to flee and when to strike."

Lucien now straightened his robe.

Lifted Elysia like a magical talisman. "...Alright. Plan change. We’re not fleeing."

Alphonso looked mildly hopeful. "Really?"

Lucien’s eyes gleamed. "We’re facing it."

Marcel blinked. "Oh?"

"With grace, dignity," Lucien said.

Pause.

"And subtle threats hidden in polite smiles."

He gave a feral grin.

Elysia giggled.

***

[Rynthall Estate, Night]

After a long day of dealing with nobles who wouldn’t shut up and papers that multiplied like cursed rabbits, Silas stepped out of the carriage and sighed, dragging a hand through his windswept hair.

"That was... exhausting," he muttered. "

He strolled up the grand steps of the estate, expecting silence and peace.

Instead, he was greeted by Alphonso, standing by the doorway with a strange expression—a twisted smile that hovered somewhere between pity and "you’re totally screwed."

Silas blinked. "Alphonso... what’s wrong with your face?"

Alphonso stepped forward with practiced grace, gently taking his coat like nothing was wrong. "My lord... Lord Lucien and the Little Miss are waiting for you in the dining room."

Silas narrowed his eyes. "Okay...?"

That was when Silas’s internal doom-meter began beeping. He rubbed the back of his neck nervously. "I—I see. I’ll... just go see them then."

"Godspeed, my lord."

Silas walked down the corridor.

Then stopped.

And shivered.

"...Why is it suddenly cold in here?" he mumbled. "Is the estate cursed? Did someone open the crypt?"

He hesitantly pushed open the dining room door—

And froze.

At the head of the long royal table sat Lucien. His robe pristine. His back straight. One eyebrow arched with the sharpness of a guillotine.

And on his lap?

Little Elysia, sitting like an empress-in-training. Arms folded. Expression mimicking her mother’s glare almost perfectly. Her pacifier hung from her mouth like a smoking pipe of judgment.

Lucien did not speak.

He stared.

Right at Silas.

Boring holes through his soul.

Silas laughed nervously. "My love...? Did I... forget an anniversary? A royal law? A birthday? Our wedding?!"

"Take a seat," Lucien said coldly. Calmly.

The kind of calm that made assassins look friendly. Silas, now pale, took the seat furthest away from Lucien—as far as noble dignity would allow.

Lucien didn’t blink.

He merely raised a hand.

"Marcel."

The butler stepped forward immediately. "Yes, my lord?"

Lucien didn’t take his eyes off Silas.

"Remove all chairs. Except this one."

Marcel flinched.

"...All, my lord?"

Lucien smiled tightly. "Every. Single. One."

Within moments, a panic of maids and footmen cleared the entire room of chairs like they were in a royal game of musical doom. Chairs were gone. Staff retreated like frightened peasants.

Now it was just Lucien, Silas, Elysia, and the crushing weight of marital judgment.

"I—I don’t know what I did, but I swear I love you," Silas said, half-pleading. "I haven’t even looked at anyone else! I barely looked at myself this morning!"

Lucien’s voice was soft.

Too soft.

"Take. A. Seat."

"I—I’m okay standing, my love—"

Lucien turned his head slowly, and Silas, sensing imminent danger, immediately sat next to him with the stiff obedience of a man on trial.

Maid returned with the food, setting plates down in silence as if they were landmines.

Lucien’s voice rang clear:

"Eat."

Silas nodded rapidly, hands trembling as he picked up his spoon. "Yes, my lord—I mean, my love—I mean, I’m sorry—"

He took a bite.

A nervous bite.

And that was when Lucien struck.

"YOUR. FATHER. IS. COMING. BACK."

Silas choked violently on his soup. He coughed. He gasped. He thumped his chest and turned to stone.

"What?!"

Lucien narrowed his eyes so sharply they could’ve sliced marble. "Let me ask you something, dearest husband. Why... after all this time... did I not know that I had a father-in-law?!"

Lucien leaned back slowly, holding Elysia with the composure of a queen and the rage of a volcano. Elysia copied him. She glared at her father, eyes narrowed, pacifier bobbing as if saying traitor.

Silas, pale and defeated, lowered his spoon.

"I’m doomed," he whispered.

Lucien didn’t respond.

But Elysia did.

"BAAA!!"

Judgment had been passed.