CHAPTER 176: CHAPTER 171: LUNCHEON (2)

Max looked like he’d just been slapped with a wine-soaked napkin. "Oh no."

Christian mouthed, We’re so dead.

Behind them, Damian approached with all the subtlety of a storm in formalwear—polite, well-dressed, and impossible to ignore.

Astana and Captain Leslie Decker followed at a discreet pace behind, both expertly pretending they hadn’t heard a thing.

"I take it the wine is working," Damian said lightly, eyes on Gabriel leaving with Crista.

Damian turned fully toward them now, expression mild—too mild.

Max cleared his throat. "It was all in good fun."

Damian’s gaze drifted from Max to Christian with all the serenity of a man weighing his next execution.

"You seem free enough to discuss medical matters over wine," he said, voice clipped.

Christian groaned quietly. "This luncheon has already cost me a full afternoon of work. I’m going to be behind for days."

"I thought this was better than dealing with Anya," Max added helpfully, swirling his wine in a way that said, Do not execute me; I’m charming.

Damian arched a brow. "So you would rather gossip about my consort’s medical records than celebrate Christian’s extended freedom?"

Christian didn’t miss a beat. "Extended freedom is a myth. I’m already late to a meeting that was rescheduled three times so I could sit here and contemplate fruit shaped like imperial symbols."

Max jabbed his fork into a suspiciously symmetrical strawberry. "I still think it’s an insult. This one looks like the Ministry of Agriculture."

Damian looked down at the table, at his brothers, and then briefly closed his eyes in what could have been an ancient prayer of patience.

"I asked for twenty minutes of peace," he muttered, mostly to himself.

Christian leaned in, eyes glittering with mischief. "You’re the one who made Gabriel a consort. What did you expect? Silence?"

Max grinned. "He’s half the reason we’re still entertained. The other half is watching you try to look unaffected every time he breathes."

Damian didn’t respond. He didn’t have to.

His gaze had already drifted toward the balcony.

A steward approached Crista with a quiet word, one that seemed urgent based on the subtle tilt of her head. She gave Gabriel’s arm a soft pat and muttered, "Stay out of trouble for five minutes," before turning to follow the summons.

Gabriel, for his part, leaned his elbows on the balcony railing like a man deciding whether to survive the rest of the luncheon or simply launch himself into the nearest fountain.

Inside, Max tracked the shift in the room like a seasoned predator watching two rival beasts head for the same stretch of unguarded territory.

"Oh no," he said under his breath.

Christian, still nursing his third plate of appetizers and emotional damage from earlier, looked up. "What now?"

Max didn’t look away from the balcony. "Look left. Grand Duke Daniel Rhine. Anya’s uncle. Sharp coat, bright blue eyes, expression like someone just insulted his wine collection."

Christian’s brows rose. "That’s never good."

"And now," Max continued, voice tight with dramatic dread, "look right. Elliot. Foaming at the mouth. Probably rehearsing an insult in iambic pentameter."

Christian groaned. "Please tell me one of them will be discreet."

"They’re nobles," Max said. "They think volume is for commoners but venom is hereditary."

Daniel Rhine moved quickly and gracefully, but with purpose. Before Elliot could even fully detach from his own table, the Grand Duke had reached the balcony steps and greeted Gabriel with a half-bow, the kind that acknowledged status while carefully reminding everyone of his own.

Gabriel turned toward him with a flick of his eyes and returned the bow with elegance and familiarity. They knew each other.

"Your Grace," Daniel said, his voice smooth as polished marble. "The Empire never fails to provide spectacle, but today’s performance may be my favorite."

Gabriel didn’t smile. He rarely did. But there was a flicker of something beneath the surface—wry, subtle, tired.

"You always did enjoy politics served cold."

Daniel’s mouth curled slightly. "It’s more palatable than Paisian wine these days."

Gabriel’s fingers tapped lightly against the railing. "Then I hope today’s luncheon is to your taste. I assume you came to deliver commentary or condolences?"

"Neither," Daniel said. "Today is strictly personal. We didn’t see each other in... almost six years?"

"Indeed..." Gabriel said quietly. "Time flies."

Daniel smiled faintly, and something in his posture shifted—just enough to ease the air between them. Less Grand Duke, more old acquaintance. "I’m still amazed by your skills, Dominie."

Gabriel froze—not outwardly, not with a jolt or flinch—but inwardly, something pulled tight.

He hadn’t heard it spoken aloud in years. Not since the night the palace burned and the rebellion crossed from whispers to war. It wasn’t a title or a rank. It wasn’t noble. It wasn’t even real.

It was the pseudonym he wore like a mask. The one he’d used to send messages through rebel networks, to negotiate secret arms routes, to move pieces across the board while the world believed he was dead or silent or simply too young to matter.

It was the name that made empires fall.

And the name that built the one Damian now ruled.

Only three people in the Empire knew what Dominie meant.

Damian.

Crista.

Edward.

And they guarded that knowledge like it was forged in iron.

But Daniel had spoken it without hesitation. Smoothly. Intimately. It was as if he had once walked alongside Dominie, not as an enemy or traitor, but as an equal.

Gabriel’s hand had stilled against the railing. His wineglass remained untouched.

The breeze brushed his collar, cool and unwelcome.

How many more knew?

How many more were still watching?

And how many of them thought Dominie still had something left to give?

Daniel’s voice lowered, calm and knowing. "I’m not here to ask something from you."

Gabriel turned his gaze toward the Grand Duke, sharp and silent.

"I’ve heard that you somehow lost your memories..." Daniel continued, the weight of each word carefully measured. "And I wanted to give back at least something."

There was no urgency in his tone. No warning. Just quiet intent, like someone placing a sealed letter on a table, knowing it would be opened when the time was right.

Gabriel didn’t blink. "And that something is...?"

Daniel smiled softly, too tired for politics and too direct for subterfuge. "First, I will make my moves soon. Anya’s fall had helped my position more than I hoped." He sighed.

Gabriel stayed still. He somehow knew. The king, Daniel’s brother, was despised by many; now it was his turn to fall.

Then Daniel said, low and without theatrics:

"Don’t trust Lucius."