CHAPTER 32: CATCH ME IF YOU CAN: LINEN EDITION

[Rynthall Estate—Grand Staircase, Morning After the Great Awakening]

Lucien was bundled in no less than four blankets—no, scratch that—he was rolled like a gourmet sushi platter, currently being carried down the stairs in Silas’s stupidly muscular arms like a delicate dumpling with trust issues.

And he was utterly dumbfounded.

"You know..." he began, peeking out of the layers like an angry burrito. "I have endured kidnapping, got whacked on the head, slipped into a ten-day hibernation coma, and fought off a serial-killer baker with a spatula."

Silas looked down at him mid-step, utterly calm despite cradling a fully-grown man wrapped like a festival offering. "Yes, my love. You mentioned all that. Twice. What’s your point now?"

Lucien huffed. "The point, Sir Stoneface, is—I CAN WALK BY MYSELF RATHER THAN BE ROLLED AROUND LIKE AN EMOTIONAL MAKI ROLL!"

He tried to wiggle indignantly, which would’ve been effective if it didn’t look exactly like a grumpy caterpillar trying to do jazz hands in a burrito cocoon.

Behind them, Alphonso and Marcel followed dutifully. Alphonso, ever the polished butler, let out a subtle chuckle behind his gloved hand.

Marcel, however, clutched his notebook dramatically to his chest and whimpered, "Poor Lord Lucien... he rolled like sushi..." He wiped a tear with his sleeve as if he were witnessing a historical tragedy.

Silas, unfazed, continued walking. "Fredrick said you needed complete care and absolutely no strain. Therefore—no walking."

Lucien’s face twisted. "Therefore—you carry me around like a royal vegetable all day?"

"Exactly," Silas said, proudly tightening his hold. "My royal carrot roll."

Lucien grumbled, going limp in Silas’s arms like a bowl of overcooked egg noodles abandoned in a heatwave. His head lolled dramatically against Silas’s chest. "He treats me and my Wobblebean like we’re TIME BOMBS. Ughhhhhhhhhh. Next thing you know, I’ll be bubble-wrapped and labeled ’Handle With Tragic Tenderness.’"

Around them, the maids whispered behind silver trays and polished spoons, the gossip thick in the air like perfume.

"Is that really our Lord Stoneface actually... smiling?"

"Did he just tuck the blanket under his chin?"

"I swear I saw him blush. I’ve waited forty years for this day."

Even the oldest maid, a wrinkled woman named Maud with a cane and more stories than hair strands, let out a giggle that sounded suspiciously like a squeaky hinge.

"Ohhh, look at him. My icy lord has melted like butter on a skillet! Hooo!"

Silas, as always, ignored the chaos like a dignified granite statue in love, gently placing Lucien onto a velvet dining chair as if setting down a crown jewel.

Lucien, still wrapped in four blankets like a judgmental spring roll, sat in regal silence for a grand total of three seconds.

Then he leapt up like someone had inserted espresso directly into his veins.

"MARCEL!" he bellowed, yanking off the first blanket with the flair of a magician pulling a tablecloth. The second flew into the air like a flying carpet. "GET RID OF THEM. ALL OF THEM. I WANT THEM GONE. I WANT THEM DEAD. I WANT THEM BURNED!"

Before the final blanket even hit the floor, Marcel—bless his chaotic heart—dived forward with the reflexes of a possessed baseball champion. He caught all four layers midair, spun like a ballerina, and dashed out of the dining hall, yelling at top volume:

"I’LL BURN THEM, MY LORD! FOR HONOR! FOR FASHION! FOR DRAMA!!"

Alphonso blinked. Silas blinked. One of the maids dropped a tray.

Lucien casually dusted imaginary lint off his robe as if blanket disposal via indoor sprint was a completely normal breakfast ritual.

"...Did that just—?" Silas began.

After Alphonso’s brain finished buffering like a broken phonograph, he finally snapped to life and shouted, "CATCH HIM!"

One of the maids snapped a salute and sprinted out of the room like a soldier chasing a particularly flamboyant war criminal. The echoes of distant yelling and running feet bounced down the marble corridors.

And just like that... the Baron’s butler and the Grand Duke’s maid staff were engaged in an impromptu game of ’Catch Me If You Can: Linen Edition.’

Meanwhile, Lucien had dramatically sat back down on the dining chair, one leg folded over the other like a noble cat who ruled over kingdoms and crockery.

He leaned back, eyes half-lidded, voice smooth as velvet and twice as dangerous.

"So..." he purred, examining his fork like it owed him money, "what’s on the duke-ly menu today? And don’t say boiled vegtable again or I’ll fake a faint right here. I swear it."

Silas, still mentally staggering from the Lucien-induced chaos tornado that had just blown through the room like a dramatic opera hurricane, finally found his voice. "Lucien, you’ll catch a cold."

Lucien blinked at him like he just spoke in ancient squirrel. Then, without responding, he slowly turned to glance out the enormous, gold-framed window behind him.

The sun outside was not just shining—it was blazing with the fury of a thousand judgmental ancestors. A pigeon passed the window and promptly fell mid-flight, wings stiff, landing on the ground like a feathery omelette.

Lucien deadpanned. "Silas. The birds are literally falling out of the sky, fully roasted. If anyone’s going to catch anything today, it’s me catching fire. I’m going to die at this rate."

Silas opened his mouth, "But—"

Lucien, without even looking, picked up a butter knife and pointed it at him with aristocratic menace. "If you utter one more word... I. Will. Not. Marry. You."

Silas froze like a deer caught in a chandelier shop. "Did...you say you’d marry me?"

Lucien finally turned, biting into a piece of bread like it was an ancient ritual, and nodded solemnly. "Yes. I have thought. A lot. And I have decided—" he raised the bread like it was a scroll from the heavens, "—to marry you."

Silas’s soul left his body for a full three seconds before returning with a hopeful sparkle. "You’ve really thought about it? Like—actually thought?"

Lucien licked some butter off his thumb, nodded again, and replied with a face so straight it could cut diamonds. "Yes. I considered everything. Every detail. Every future possibility."

Silas leaned in, utterly smitten and totally forgetting about the blanket. "What did you decide? What made you want to marry me?"

Lucien put the bread down. Turned toward him slowly. Paused for effect.

And said, "M.O.N.E.Y"

Silas blinked. Once. Twice. Like he was buffering again.

"That’s it?"

Lucien, completely unbothered, shrugged. "Yes. You’re rich, devastatingly handsome, the father of my child, and—most importantly—you have a wine cellar bigger than my entire ancestral estate. What else does someone need, Silas?"

Silas considered this for a long moment. Then solemnly nodded as if Lucien had just explained quantum physics. "Well... You’re right. It all checks out."

Lucien grinned, victorious, and reached for a croissant like a prince accepting tribute from conquered lands. "Exactly. I’m a practical man, Silas. Romance is great, but wealth is forever."

Silas watched him in mild despair and whispered under his breath, "Why do I feel like my future husband is gold-digging me?"

Silas blinked as he watched Lucien absolutely demolish his breakfast like a starved gremlin at an all-you-can-eat royal buffet. There was jam on his cheek, croissant crumbs in his hair, and an expression of pure, unapologetic joy on his face—and yet, somehow, he looked absurdly cute doing it.

Silas leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, a hopeless smile tugging at his lips. He whispered under his breath like a man realizing a very expensive truth, "For the first time in my life, I’m just glad I’m a grand duke and stupidly, obscenely rich."

***

[Meanwhile Outside—Rynthall Estate, Sword Training Field]

The peaceful clang of steel and disciplined grunts of knights training in the early morning sun were abruptly shattered by—

"I WON’T LET MY LORD GET ROASTED ALIVE!!"

Marcel came sprinting across the lawn like a caffeinated ferret, a pile of four lavish blankets bundled in his arms like sacred relics. His eyes were wild. His hair was flying. His devotion? Borderline criminal.

Behind him, three maids tore across the estate like a tactical unit mid-heist.

"MARCEL, STOP RUNNING!"

"GIVE BACK THE DUVETS!"

"YOU’RE SWEATING ON SILK, YOU MENACE!"

By the sword field, Elize paused mid-parry, blinking in awe as the chaos thundered past them. Damon, shirtless and drenched in training sweat, slowly lowered his sword, frowning thoughtfully.

"...Are they playing catch me if you can?" he asked.

Elize didn’t even blink. "It’s Thursday. I guess that counts."

Damon squinted. "Should we join?"

Before Elize could answer, fate intervened.

The sun—bold and unbothered—shone directly through the heavens and struck one of the embroidered blankets with the fury of a thousand fire spells. The gold thread shimmered... then sizzled.

Marcel didn’t notice. "I’M SAVING HIM! THE SUN SHALL NOT HAVE HIS MILKY OMEGA SKIN!"

A faint crackle was heard. Followed by a wisp of smoke.

Elize narrowed her eyes. "...I think the game just ended."

Damon, completely unfazed, nodded and turned around. "Let’s go back to training."

In the background, the maids shrieked as the blankets burst into gentle flames like a dramatic stage curtain. They scrambled for buckets, jugs, flower pots—anything—and finally managed to douse the inferno with a heroic splash of cold water.

SSSSHHHHHHHHH—!

Marcel stood, drenched, triumphant, and holding the charred remnants of luxury fabric like a battle-worn flag. "NOW—NOW MY LORD DOESN’T HAVE TO WORRY ABOUT BEING ROASTED ALIVE!"

The knights resumed sparring.

***

[Outside the Grand Gates – Rynthall Estate]

Just beyond the towering wrought-iron gates of Rynthall Estate, two well-dressed gentlemen on horseback had paused their journey. They stared in stunned silence at the distant scene unfolding on the manor grounds—maids sprinting, smoke rising, blankets on fire, a man dramatically screaming something about roasting, and knights training in the background like this was just another Tuesday.

One of them, a portly noble with an excellent moustache, cleared his throat. "...The Grand Duke’s estate has become oddly energetic these days."

The other, thinner and older with a monocle hanging off his brow, nodded sagely. "I agree. Last time I visited, the only thing on fire was the tea kettle."

"I agree."

And with that, the two men clicked their reins and trotted off down the road, the faint scent of burnt fabric still lingering in the breeze.