CHAPTER 391: CHAPTER 391: BREAKFAST AND ICE CREAM

The dining room resembled something out of a lifestyle magazine, with clean lines, muted tones, and sunlight streaming in through tall glass windows overlooking the gardens. A faint trace of coffee and polished wood lingered in the air, blending with the distant sound of city traffic filtering through the open balcony doors.

Lucas padded in barefoot, still damp from his bath, wearing one of Trevor’s white shirts that hung just a little too loosely on his shoulders. His hair was tousled, his steps were casual, and he wore a soft arrogance that stemmed from knowing the world would bend anyway.

Windstone was already there. He stood beside the table, tablet in hand, reviewing the morning schedule with his usual quiet efficiency. His gray hair caught the light like silver thread, and his pressed black uniform looked so sharp it could’ve cut glass. But the odd thing, the truly alarming thing, was that he looked content.

"Good morning, Your Grace," he said smoothly, his voice carrying the faint lilt of amusement.

Lucas blinked once, then frowned. "You’re in a good mood. Why?"

"I slept well," Windstone replied, folding his hands neatly behind his back. "And Chef managed not to burn the croissants this morning. Miracles must be acknowledged."

"That explains the optimism," Lucas said, taking his seat. "I was worried you’d been possessed."

The butler inclined his head gravely. "If I ever am, I assure you, I’ll notify the staff immediately."

Lucas smirked, but the gesture faded as his eyes drifted toward the opposite chair, Trevor’s chair, empty except for a leather folder, a folded newspaper, and a cup that had clearly been poured but left untouched.

"Late again?" he asked, though his tone made it clear he already knew the answer.

"By nine minutes," Windstone said. "Which, in His Grace’s defense, is earlier than yesterday."

Lucas hummed and reached for the teapot. His fingers brushed the porcelain rim, the warmth soothing against his skin. "In that case, I’ll celebrate his improvement with ice cream."

The butler blinked once. "I beg your pardon?"

"Vanilla," Lucas said calmly, as if it were the most natural order in the world. "With caramel drizzle. Maybe sea salt. You know, something civilized."

Windstone regarded him for a moment, the silence stretching just long enough to suggest silent protest. Then, with the calm of a man who had long surrendered to fate, he said, "Very well, Your Grace."

He turned to leave just as Trevor appeared in the doorway. His shirt was open at the collar, sleeves rolled up, and tie draped loosely around his neck like an afterthought. He looked dangerously composed, sleep-deprived, maybe, but infuriatingly handsome in the soft light.

"Windstone," Trevor said, eyes narrowing the instant he saw the butler heading kitchen-ward, "please tell me you’re not serving him dessert before breakfast."

Windstone didn’t even slow his stride. "If you’d like to confirm, my lord, you’ll have to catch me before I reach the freezer."

Lucas hid a smile behind his teacup. "You’re losing authority by the minute."

Trevor sighed, walking to his seat. "You’ve turned my entire household into accomplices."

"I inspire loyalty," Lucas said lightly.

"Mutiny," Trevor corrected, sitting down. "You inspire mutiny."

By the time Windstone returned, the coffee pot was half empty, and Trevor was halfway through a lecture about nutrient balance and morning sugar levels. He stopped mid-sentence when the butler set down a small crystal bowl in front of Lucas.

The ice cream gleamed in the sunlight, pale gold with a lazy curl of caramel drizzled across the top, a single mint leaf tucked in for presentation.

Windstone stepped back, perfectly composed. "Vanilla sea salt, Your Grace. I took the liberty of adding a caramel reduction. Chef insisted."

Lucas’s lips curved in quiet triumph. "Chef is a visionary."

Trevor looked up at Windstone, voice low. "You’re enjoying this."

"I assure you, my lord, I take no sides," Windstone said, tone polite, but the faint gleam in his eyes betrayed him. "However, I can’t ignore the craving of a pregnant omega. My life would be on the line."

Trevor leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms, his expression hovering somewhere between disbelief and reluctant amusement. "You’re not helping," he said dryly.

"I wasn’t aware assistance was requested," Windstone replied, utterly unbothered. "My duties are to maintain harmony within the household. Allowing His Grace to have ice cream at breakfast seems... efficient."

Lucas lifted a spoonful with deliberate slowness, the caramel catching the light like honey. "He’s right, you know. Harmony achieved."

Trevor exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. "This house runs on chaos and sugar."

"On elegance and compromise," Windstone corrected.

Lucas hummed in agreement, savoring his first bite. The ice cream melted instantly, sweet and cold on his tongue, and he closed his eyes with a sigh that was far too content to be innocent. "Perfect."

Trevor’s jaw tightened, though there was laughter buried somewhere behind the exhaustion in his face. "You realize you’re supposed to be eating actual food, right?"

"I am," Lucas said, gesturing with the spoon. "Milk, salt, and sugar are three food groups."

Windstone coughed delicately, the sound perfectly timed. "Technically, calcium and sodium are essential nutrients, my lord."

Trevor shot him a look that could’ve withered lesser men. "You’re walking a fine line, Windstone."

"An art I’ve mastered, my lord," the butler replied with the faintest bow.

Lucas chuckled softly into his teacup. "See? Everyone in this house is reasonable except you."

"I’m the only one keeping you alive," Trevor muttered, though his tone had lost its edge. He reached for his coffee, eyes flicking toward the documents stacked neatly beside his plate. "You have a checkup with Dr. Elaine tomorrow morning. And before you ask, yes, she’ll know if you’re skipping meals."

Lucas took another slow bite, pretending not to hear him. "I’m eating now."

"You’re eating dessert."

"Breakfast dessert," Lucas corrected. "It’s cultural."

Trevor arched a brow. "What culture?"

"Mine," Lucas said simply, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. "You married into it."