CHAPTER 221: CHAPTER 216: CITRUS DIPLOMACY

A few hours later, the imperial salon was radiant with light and quiet beauty.

Gabriel had helped plan this.

The curtains were sheer and lemon-colored, catching the early afternoon light in a buttery glow. Silver trays shimmered beneath covered dishes, and floral arrangements featured orange blossoms and small white roses—elegant, refined, and deeply offensive to Gabriel’s stomach. The scent of candied citrus hung in the air like a weapon dressed in lace.

And now it was his personal hell.

He stood near the tall windows, one hand around a glass of mint-laced water, his other resting lightly against the back of an armchair as if he might collapse with any sudden scent. The air was sweet and floral, saturated with orange blossom and candied citrus peels. He swallowed, trying not to feel every note of it.

Across from him, Irina was arranging the last of the name cards with an excited gleam in her eyes. She wore soft green, her hair pinned with tiny pearls shaped like lemons—eager, earnest, and so proud of her contribution it was hard for Gabriel to hold a grudge.

Next to her stood Princess Sofia Lyon, poised and quiet, watching everything with the same attentiveness Gabriel remembered having at that age. She and Irina were of the same age, seventeen, but where Irina shone with enthusiasm, Sofia wore her grace like a veil. Crisp navy blue silk and silver jewelry, dark braids woven into a crown—already bearing the weight of court expectations.

Gabriel straightened when Sofia looked his way.

"You must be Princess Sofia," he said, his tone warm but measured. "I’m honored to finally meet you."

Sofia curtsied with perfect precision. "I’ve been curious about you."

Gabriel arched a brow. "Hopefully not in a way that requires an apology."

"No," she said. Then, after a moment, he added dryly, "Although your reputation is... vivid."

From across the room, Alexandra’s laughter bubbled up behind her wine glass. "He earns it daily."

Gabriel sipped his mint water with all the restrained fury of someone pretending to enjoy a spa while internally battling his stomach. "Thank you, Alexandra. As always, your support is blinding."

Julian arrived moments later, impeccably dressed, a list of final seating arrangements tucked under his arm. He greeted Crista and offered a short, approving nod to Irina and Sofia before turning his attention to Gabriel.

"You look paler than usual," he noted.

"It’s fashionable," Gabriel said flatly.

Crista, nearby, simply smiled as she adjusted a dish of sugared grapefruit slices. "He’s hiding nausea behind wit. It’s a Lyon family trait."

"I’m not a Lyon," Gabriel muttered.

"Not yet," Crista said, entirely too cheerfully.

Irina looked up from the final centerpiece. "Gabriel helped plan this," she said brightly to Sofia. "He chose the flowers himself. He even approved the citrus infusion blends—before he realized the smell would try to kill him."

Sofia blinked. "He what?"

Gabriel exhaled like a martyr. "I liked the theme yesterday. Today I’d rather host a banquet in a pit."

Crista chuckled. "Pregnancy," she said, as if that explained everything—which, in truth, it did.

Julian handed Gabriel a folded cloth napkin, crisp and lemon-scented. "You’re about to meet twenty of the sharpest-tongued women in the Empire. Shall I cancel the tea and replace it with a small fire?"

Gabriel, seated but far from relaxed, glanced up and arched a brow. "Tempting, but no. The Emperor would come at the end of it to meet the guests."

He exhaled. "If I faint, tell them it was from delicate nerves. Not pregnancy. Not treason. Just the usual omega fragility they’re so fond of."

Julian tilted his head. "If you faint, I’ll tell them the tea was poisoned and send them all home."

Gabriel actually laughed—soft, brief, the kind that didn’t make it to his eyes but felt real enough to count. "You’re getting meaner."

"I’m married to your brother," Julian replied evenly. "I’ve had practice."

—

The salon was glowing.

Sunlight filtered through the lemon-colored curtains. Crystal teacups gleamed. The citrus blossom arrangements were trimmed with surgical precision, the pastries perfectly balanced between sweet and acidic. Everything was ready.

And Gabriel—Gabriel—was the picture of composure.

He stood near the center of the room, back straight, posture elegant, dressed in layered cream and pale green with gold embroidery that caught the light every time he moved. His hair had been freshly brushed, his signet ring gleamed on his finger, and when the first noblewoman curtsied before him...

He smiled.

Not a smirk. Not a slow, dangerous baring of teeth.

A smile—gracious, refined, and deeply unsettling in its sincerity.

"Lady Ellisen," he said, offering both hands as if the woman hadn’t spent the last two weeks flirting with scandal. "What an exquisite brooch. Paisian-cut emeralds?"

The woman blinked. "Y-Yes, Your Grace."

He smiled brighter. "Stunning. Do tell me where you found them. I’ve been looking for something similar for my sister-in-law’s birthday."

The rest of the room was still adjusting.

Alexandra, seated with a teacup half-raised to her lips, froze.

Julian’s brow twitched. Subtle, but unmistakable.

Crista looked amused, as if she’d known this would happen all along.

Irina, seated near Sofia, leaned in and whispered a very confused, "He’s not hexing anyone."

Sofia blinked. "Why would he be?"

Edward stood off to the side near the refreshment table, arms folded, watching the proceedings with the grim patience of a general tracking a storm. His brows furrowed slowly the longer Gabriel remained serene. Regal. Effortlessly civil.

Suspiciously civil.

Gabriel floated from group to group like he was born to it, handing off compliments like sharpened silver, nodding at the appropriate moments, and making conversation with every duke’s daughter and widow with the same calm that once dismantled half the tribunal during a political inquisition.

He offered citrus scones to the Countess of Meredale.

He asked Lady Chantal if her garden had survived the frost.

He complimented a viscount’s wife on her stitching.

And not once did he mention nausea, vengeance, or setting anything on fire.

Sofia leaned closer to Irina. "Why is everyone so... tense?"

Irina chewed her lip, eyes wide. "Because he’s usually... not like this. Not unless he’s planning something."

Sofia frowned. "But he’s being... perfect."

"That’s why we’re worried.