CHAPTER 427: CHAPTER 427: THE BIRTHDAY TRAP

The gala had come faster than either of them wanted.

One moment, Lucas had been sitting in the nursery in oversized pajamas with breastmilk on one sleeve and dry shampoo in his hair, and the next, he was being herded into a dressing suite lined with velvet, gold-trimmed panic, and a very specific number of outfit options that all screamed: ’you are not allowed to be normal anymore.’

"You could have told them no," Trevor said mildly, adjusting the cuff of his tailored shirt like a man who absolutely did believe in saying no to imperial logistics.

Lucas, still glaring at the array of formalwear like it owed him child support, replied, "I did. Twice. Then Cressida sent a gift basket. You know how I feel about strategic gift baskets."

Trevor didn’t even blink. "There was foie gras in it. You caved."

"I caved because she attached a note threatening to redesign the gala theme if I didn’t cooperate. She said it would be ’nautical spring.’ With pastels."

A pause.

Trevor looked vaguely alarmed. "...She wouldn’t."

Lucas locked eyes with him. "You want to risk it?"

Silence.

The royal dressing attendants didn’t speak. They didn’t have to. Their hands moved like fine instruments, adjusting lapels and checking stitching with the same reverence usually reserved for sacred relics or volatile compounds. Lucas let them finish pinning the last collar with a sigh of surrender and glanced toward the gilded mirror.

The man staring back at him looked like someone who ran multinational negotiations before breakfast and only cried in elevators with security locks. The dark green waistcoat shimmered subtly under the lights, edged with pale gold embroidery too fine to photograph properly. His hair had been styled back, let loose at the sides to soften the sharpness of his jaw, and someone, probably Windstone, had chosen a pair of emerald cufflinks he didn’t remember owning.

"I look like I married into organized crime," Lucas muttered.

"You did," Trevor replied, perfectly composed, then added, "though, to be fair, you also run it now."

Lucas considered flipping a brooch at him. Settled instead for sighing again and reaching for Sebastian’s pacifier, which was clipped to his belt like a secret weapon.

Outside, the manor had already begun to transform. Nobles had arrived in diplomatic clusters like designer fungi: regal, perfumed, and vaguely toxic. Imperial guards were stationed with discreet precision along the walkways, while the courtyard had been layered with lanterns and soft lighting that whispered elegant celebration and don’t touch anything unless your family has a crest.

Lucas glanced at the balcony doors, the faint sound of music drifting up from below. "They’re all here, aren’t they?"

Trevor stepped beside him, their shoulders brushing. "The entire imperial family. Most of the nobles. A few opportunists disguised as diplomats. And someone, I’m assuming Lucius, sent five crates of blood orange champagne labeled absolutely not a bribe."

Lucas tilted his head. "It’s working."

Trevor turned toward him fully, eyes dropping for a second to Lucas’s hands, then lifting back to his face. "You don’t have to smile. Not if it feels fake."

Lucas blinked. The lights softened. "You’re assuming it doesn’t."

"I know it does. But that’s not your job tonight."

"What is my job?"

Trevor leaned in, brushing his lips against Lucas’s temple, just briefly enough to not smudge the carefully applied highlighter. "Looking terrifying. And wanted."

Lucas rolled his eyes but didn’t move away. "So... the usual."

"Exactly."

Downstairs, the doors to the ballroom opened.

The music shifted, the scent of citrus and power rolling in with the tide of people, and Lucas exhaled once, tucked the pacifier a little deeper into his coat lining, and walked toward the sound of his name being announced, clear, proud, and drenched in expectation.

—

The descent down the grand staircase felt different now.

Three years ago, it had been chaos dressed in couture. Lucas remembered the first time they’d walked this same path together, when Serathine had blackmailed Trevor into being his escort for a gala neither of them had wanted to attend. He remembered the tailored suit he’d worn back then, the way the collar itched, and how the air had felt too thick and expensive. He’d felt like an ornament dragged out for display, armed only with brittle wit and a thousand rehearsed smiles. Trevor had walked beside him like a man accepting a temporary assignment: polite, elegant, and unreadable.

Trevor and Serathine were his only hope for a normal life away from Ophelia and Misty and he was right.

Now...

Trevor stood beside him like he was the reason the entire ballroom had been built in the first place.

Their hands didn’t touch, but the space between them hummed with their love. Lucas’s loungewear had been replaced with imperial-level finery, but it was the weight of the past that made his spine straighten, the memory of walking these stairs in borrowed confidence and the realization that, this time, he didn’t have to fake it.

A few steps from the bottom, Trevor leaned toward him just slightly, his voice low.

"Are you thinking about that first gala?"

Lucas didn’t look at him. "No. I’m thinking about setting it on fire."

Trevor huffed, amused. "That’s a yes."

"I still have the original cufflink she gave me," Lucas murmured. "The one she said would ’catch the attention of any alpha stupid enough to forget your face.’"

"You did catch mine," Trevor said, tone soft. "Eventually."

Lucas exhaled. "I dissociated in your arms, but now everyone involved was dealt with."

"Efficiently," Trevor agreed. "And with flair."

The corners of Lucas’s mouth twitched. "It was a good party."

"A good party," Trevor said gently. "But a bad ending, then."

Below, the ballroom had blossomed into full imperial spectacle, lanterns aglow, gold-threaded banners catching the light, and nobles arranged in the most diplomatic interpretations of hierarchy and hunger. At the top of the room, the doors were still open from their arrival, and somewhere in the crowd, Lucas could already hear his name whispered behind flute glasses and faked laughter.

He didn’t brace this time.

He didn’t tuck his emotions behind a palace mask or smooth his voice to something palatable.

Instead, he glanced sideways at the man who had never once looked away, even when Lucas wasn’t entirely there, and said, with perfect calm:

"Let’s get it over with; Sebastian is waiting for us."

Trevor smiled like he’d waited years to hear that.