CHAPTER 379: CHAPTER 379: THE END OF A DREAM (1)

The amber caught the morning light just right.

It sat in the middle of Trevor’s desk, polished smooth, the small butterfly inside suspended in a world of gold. Light from the tall windows stretched across it, fractured through the resin, and scattered over the dark grain of the desk like flecks of honey and flame.

The city outside hummed with the usual rhythm of cars, voices, and a courier drone flying by the high windows, but everything inside felt still. The office smelled faintly of bergamot and paper, of the espresso cooling beside his keyboard, forgotten an hour ago.

Trevor sat behind the desk in his shirt and vest, the charcoal suit jacket hanging carelessly over the back of his chair. The top button of his collar was undone, the silk tie loosened just enough to let him breathe. He should have been working. The digital display on his screen blinked with unread messages, reports stacked in patient silence.

But his eyes never left the amber.

Lucas had placed it there a few months ago, a teasing smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "A butterfly caught in honey," he’d said. "A fitting metaphor for you."

Trevor had laughed then, that quiet, indulgent sound reserved only for Lucas. Now, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or pray.

He turned the amber between his fingers, the edges smooth and warm from his skin. The butterfly inside looked alive, wings mid-motion, as if time had been paused mid-flight.

He thought of Lucas, of the soft sound of his laugh in the mornings, of the way he curled into him on the couch, of the quiet wonder in his eyes when they’d first talked about the child. Their child.

There had been life growing between them. Proof that something good could come from all the chaos they’d survived.

He felt... lucky. Terrified, but lucky.

The sound of a door opening broke the calm.

Trevor didn’t look up at first; he knew that only Windstone would enter like this. "If that’s the Baye delegation again, Windstone, tell them I’ll..."

"Sir."

The tone was wrong, flat, and quiet, like he was afraid of disturbing the temporary peace of their small family.

Trevor’s fingers remained on the amber, clenching it as if it were a lucky charm. He looked up.

Windstone stood in the doorway, his posture too stiff, his expression drained of its usual dry patience. His tie was crooked. His gloves were gone. His face was pale.

Trevor’s pulse skipped. "What happened?"

The silence stretched. Windstone’s throat worked once before he spoke. "Sir, you should sit down."

Trevor was already on his feet, the chair scraping back sharply. "Is it Lucas?"

Windstone hesitated. That was all it took. The room tilted. The air turned cold.

"Tell me," Trevor demanded, voice tightening. "Now."

Windstone’s composure cracked just slightly. "The Duchess... there were complications." His voice wavered once before steadying. "Dr. Elaine arrived as soon as the symptoms began. He’s alive, my lord."

Trevor exhaled, a sharp, fractured sound. "Alive," he repeated. His hand braced against the desk, knuckles white. "Then why do you look like that?"

Windstone lowered his gaze. "The pregnancy did not survive."

The words hit like a physical blow. The air left his lungs. There was no sound for a moment, just the distant hum of the city below and a faint buzz from the overhead light.

Trevor’s mouth parted soundlessly. His chest rose once, then stalled, the next breath refusing to come. He blinked, as if the world had shifted out of focus, then again, sharper but no less unreal.

"No." The word was soft, more disbelief than denial. "No, he... he was fine this morning. He said he felt better. He..."

Windstone didn’t speak. His silence was answer enough.

Trevor’s hand slipped from the desk. The amber fell, struck the edge, and rolled to the carpet, catching a line of light as it came to rest near his shoes.

He sank to a half-step crouch before realizing what he was doing, fingers trembling as he picked it up. The butterfly inside looked unchanged, trapped mid-flight, perfect, and impossibly still.

His vision blurred. He blinked hard. Once. Twice.

He straightened slowly, shoulders tense, his expression hollowed out. The calm he’d built his life on was fracturing, hairline cracks spidering under his skin.

He didn’t feel anything... He didn’t feel when his mate was in danger? What was happening?

"Where is he?" His voice was hoarse, almost unrecognizable.

Windstone swallowed. "In your suite. Dr. Elaine has sedated him. She said he’s resting... And that is normal..."

Trevor nodded once, too fast. His movements turned mechanical, jacket first, yanked from the chair, then the tie, tightened with shaking hands. His reflection flashed across the glass of the framed city view, purple eyes wide and red at the edges, the mask slipping.

He looked like a man holding himself together through sheer muscle memory.

"Get the car ready," he said, already moving toward the door.

Windstone stepped forward quickly. "Sir..."

Trevor turned, and for a moment, all of that precision, all of that poise, collapsed. His eyes were wide, raw panic barely contained beneath the veneer of control. "If something happens to him before I get there, Windstone..."

"It won’t," the butler said softly. "He’s stable. But, sir... please. He shouldn’t see you like this."

Trevor’s throat worked, the words caught behind it. He pressed his palms against his face once, drawing in a slow, shaking breath, then dropped them again, his expression carved back into something steadier. Not calm... just masked.

"I’ll be fine," he said. It was a lie, but it was all he had.

He left the office in silence, the doors closing behind him.

The amber still glowed faintly on the desk, half-lit by the winter sun. The butterfly inside remained intact, beautiful, frozen, and untouchable.

And somewhere far above the city, the man who had always controlled every outcome found himself walking faster, then faster still, because the one thing he couldn’t control was slipping through his fingers.