CHAPTER 395: CHAPTER 395: THOUGHTS

The Fitzgeralt manor was too quiet that afternoon.

It wasn’t the peaceful quiet of privacy, but the quiet with a pulse beneath it, as if the house was listening. The automated temperature controls hummed in the background, the faintest mechanical breath against the glass walls of Lucas’s office. Sunlight filtered through the high windows, bright and sterile, cutting sharp reflections across the metal trim of the furniture.

His tablet blinked with unread reports, half of them marked urgent. He hadn’t touched a single one.

Windstone had already told him everything.

Trevor was gone, called to the Duchess’s compound on "official business," which, in Windstone’s vocabulary, meant something dangerous enough to be redacted. Benedict had resurfaced, and Christian Velloran was involved.

That last name had made Lucas freeze.

He’d covered it quickly, nodded, thanked Windstone, and even smiled when the butler left. Then the door shut, and the silence came down like static.

Now he sat at the edge of his desk, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the glow of the city bleeding through the windows. The faint vibration of a passing car hummed through the floor, too distant to ground him. A half-empty mug of coffee sat cooling beside his laptop. He’d brewed it just to have something new to do while his mind was spiraling.

He couldn’t focus.

Every time he tried to read a report, the same thought surfaced again... Velloran.

The man who’d held his leash in another life. The name that used to taste like iron and breathless fear.

Windstone’s words had replayed themselves like a glitching recording:

"The Count claims he was under Benedict’s control."

Lucas leaned back in the chair, staring up at the recessed lighting. It cast perfect, even illumination across the room, Trevor’s doing, of course. No dark corners, no shadows deep enough for old ghosts to hide.

But that didn’t matter. They always found a way in.

If Velloran had truly been controlled by Benedict, if all of that cruelty had been nothing more than someone else’s programming, then Lucas’s nightmares belonged to the wrong man. The thought didn’t soothe him... it made everything worse.

He didn’t know which version of reality was worse: the one where Velloran chose to hurt him, or the one where he hadn’t chosen at all.

His reflection in the darkened glass looked detached, even professional. Blonde hair neat, shirt open at the collar, posture composed. But under that surface, his pulse was running too fast. His throat felt tight. He couldn’t tell if it was anger or the exhaustion that came after years of keeping it buried.

He stood abruptly and crossed to the window. The automatic tint adjusted to his movement, softening the glare as he reached for the control panel. Beyond the glass, the gardens stretched in clean geometry, with white stone walkways and structured hedges, and beyond them, the faint movement of security drones along the property line.

Even perfection could feel like a cage.

He exhaled, palms against the cold surface. The glass was smooth and impersonal, just like the wall of reinforced Plexiglas that had separated him from the world in another life. The sound of air filters. The smell of chemicals. The echo of a voice that had once said his name like it was an experiment, not a person.

’Sit still, omega. You’ll ruin the reading.’

The memory hit with no warning, leaving him momentarily weightless.

Was that Velloran’s voice or Benedict’s, speaking through him?

He didn’t know anymore.

The tablet on the desk buzzed softly with an automatic alert from Trevor’s security line. No message, just the signal that the Marquis had reached the D’Argente compound safely. Lucas’s stomach knotted. That signal always came when Trevor was walking into something serious.

He turned as the door opened with the soft hiss of the seals, followed by a familiar voice that carried equal parts composure and exasperation.

"Lucas," Alistair said, stepping in without waiting for an invitation. "Before you glare at me for interrupting, I’ll save us both time, it’s urgent, and yes, it requires your signature."

Lucas turned in his chair, tension easing slightly the moment he saw him. "Alistair Fitzgeralt, professional harbinger of paperwork. To what do I owe the honor?"

Alistair closed the door behind him with one hand, balancing a black folder under his arm and a tablet in the other. His suit jacket was unbuttoned, his tie slightly askew, small details that screamed Trevor sent me running again.

"Don’t start," Alistair said dryly. "I already had to argue with three departments and one very offended intern to get this file out of the Capital in time. I deserve a medal, or at least coffee."

Lucas gestured to the untouched mug on his desk. "Cold, but caffeinated. Take your pick."

Alistair made a face but crossed the room anyway, setting the folder down. "You’re lucky I like you."

"I know," Lucas said lightly, though his eyes were tired. "What’s this?"

"Trade authorization forms. Trevor filed them before he left this morning, something about securing the D’Argente corridor." He leaned on the edge of the desk, scrolling through his tablet. "The council won’t release the funds unless someone with Fitzgeralt authority signs off. Which, lucky for us, includes you."

Lucas skimmed the top document. Trevor’s handwriting threaded through the margins, smooth and annoyingly neat. "He never rests," he murmured.

"No," Alistair agreed, "and apparently neither do I."

Lucas smiled faintly. "It’s genetic. You all have a compulsion to solve the Empire’s problems before breakfast."

"That’s not fair," Alistair said. "Sometimes we wait until lunch."

That earned a quiet laugh from Lucas, small but real. He reached for the stylus, flipping to the signature page. "If this is what he’s working on with Serathine, I’ll sign it. But if it’s something else, something he didn’t tell me, he’s getting a very long lecture when he gets home."

Alistair’s smile softened, the teasing slipping into something warmer. "You sound like my aunt."

"Your aunt’s terrifying," Lucas said. "I take that as a compliment."

"Good," Alistair said, then hesitated. "I heard about Benedict."