CHAPTER 209: CHAPTER 204: THE CEREMONY OF SPITE (1)

Gabriel’s eyes narrowed. "That’s oddly reassuring, coming from someone who talks like I might spontaneously combust if I stub a toe."

The physician gave him a look so dry it might as well have been flint. "You’re an omega carrying the first imperial heir in a generation while tethered to the most possessive alpha the Empire has seen since the founding dynasty. I’d say combusting is low on the list of probable outcomes."

Gabriel snorted. "Charming."

The physician gave him a knowing look. "Do try not to gut a deputy in the next hearing just because he blinks too loudly."

"That happened already, immediately after my first day in the palace. I don’t think it’s the pregnancy."

The physician didn’t miss a beat. "Then consider this your chance to blame it on the pregnancy. You’ll be amazed what people will excuse when there’s an heir involved."

Gabriel gave him a blank look. "You’re weaponizing my womb."

"Technically, I’m weaponizing perception of your womb," the physician replied, utterly unfazed. "Very different."

Gabriel stared. "I have no idea whether I’m impressed or horrified."

"Both are appropriate."

With a sigh, Gabriel adjusted his robe and retrieved the tonic bottle from the table. "Fine. I’ll drink the suspiciously glowing vial of virtue and not murder anyone in court."

"How much time do I have before it is public?"

"Depends, for the Emperor and inner court, between 1 and 4 hours. For the entire Empire, six months."

Gabriel stared at him. "That’s a very specific range."

The physician lifted a brow, perfectly calm. "Welcome to the palace, Your Grace. Secrecy here is measured in hours, gossip in seconds, and your schedule in public expectation."

Gabriel tipped his head back with a dramatic groan. "Four hours, huh? That’s barely enough time to burn my robe and flee the country."

The physician handed him the vial again with the patience of a man accustomed to imperial dramatics. "Drink."

Gabriel did. Grimacing. "Still tastes like despair."

"It’s working, then."

A pause.

"Does Damian know?" Gabriel asked, quieter now.

The physician’s tone gentled—just a little. "He suspected. He’ll know before the hour is out."

—

Gabriel stepped out of the examination room with the posture of a man who had just been told he was both alive and under surveillance. Again. The faintest trace of mint clung to the back of his throat from the tonic, which had the distinct aftertaste of crushed ether and regret.

Edward, ever punctual, stood precisely where Gabriel had left him. Hands folded behind his back, face carefully blank. A tablet rested under one arm like a ceremonial weapon.

"Don’t say it," Gabriel muttered, eyes narrowing as he approached.

Edward tilted his head, expression unreadable. "Say what, Your Grace?"

"Anything. I don’t trust your tone. Or your breathing. Or your ability to look that smug with no visible emotion."

"I assure you," Edward said mildly, "I am not smug. Merely... prepared."

Gabriel stopped in front of him, robe swishing with a bit more menace than fabric should carry. "How prepared?"

"The kind that begins with tea in your chambers and ends with the Imperial Tailor crying into a bolt of ceremonial fabric." He extended the tablet like an execution notice. "You are required to grant your presence at the ceremony of engagement of Elliot with Princess Anya. His Majesty will be joining you at the reception."

Gabriel stared at the tablet like it had personally offended him.

"I just found out I’m pregnant, and your brilliant solution is to throw me into a party celebrating the two people I despise most?"

Edward didn’t blink. "You will be heavily guarded. And seated."

Gabriel let out a slow, theatrical breath through his nose. "That’s not the comfort you think it is."

"You’re the Consort," Edward said smoothly. "You’re required to smile, wear something stunning, and crush enemies with grace."

"Find Alexandra and Irina. I won’t suffer alone."

—

The throne room had been converted—temporarily and tragically—into a ceremonial hall. Ether lights shimmered in soft rose and gold, looping along the carved arches like garlands spun from diplomacy and denial. The high windows glinted with winter sun, but there was nothing warm about the atmosphere.

Gabriel stood beside the inner dais, posture perfect, jaw locked, and expression honed to a blade’s edge. His robe was black with silver thread, sharp-lined and floor-length, the colors chosen not out of mourning, but out of spite.

He had polished his rings until they gleamed like warning signs. His hair had been styled with faint curls at the ends. He looked like the definition of imperial poise.

He felt like setting the place on fire.

"You’d think," Gabriel muttered out of the corner of his mouth, "that as the Consort, I’d be allowed to skip watching a forged engagement between a disgraced count and a desperate princess."

Alexandra, standing to his left and dressed like emerald revenge, barely hid her smirk. "Oh, you are allowed. You’re just useful here. Like a warning beacon. Or a loaded weapon."

Irina, to his right and looking soft in icy lavender, leaned in a bit closer. "You’re doing amazing. Terrifying, but amazing."

"I should’ve been at home," Gabriel hissed. "With a blanket. Possibly a dagger."

"You’re halfway there," Alexandra replied lightly. "You’ve got the look of someone who might stab a duke and look good doing it."

They all turned slightly as the doors at the far end opened with pompous ceremony. Trumpets sounded. Fools were crowned.

Elliot stepped in first, dressed in formal white and pale gold, looking like a caricature of grace. His smile was stretched too thin. The smarm clung to him like perfume.

Then came Anya.

All silk and performance, she walked slowly down the aisle like a martyr draped in florals. Her hair was braided high, her dress scandalously modest, and her expression... blissful, if one didn’t look at her hands clenching her skirts.

"She hates this," Irina whispered.

"So do I," Gabriel replied, smile untouched. "But I wasn’t given a choice either."

"And where is His Glorious Majesty while we’re here pretending not to care?" Alexandra asked sweetly.

"Off handling real politics," Gabriel said flatly. "Or avoiding me because he knows I’ll castrate him for sending me here."

"You’re glowing, though," Irina offered, trying to soothe him.

"I’m radiating rage," Gabriel corrected. "That’s different."

They moved into the next stage of the ceremony, with the herald announcing the formal terms of union. The contract was read aloud. Gabriel watched as Elliot’s eyes flicked toward him—once. Too fast. Too nervous.