CHAPTER 40: AUNT RIGHTS AND SILAS FRIGHTS

[Imperial Capital—Some Dessert Shop, Later That Chaotic Entrance of Seraphina]

Somewhere, a bell chimed.

Somewhere else, a pile of branded shopping bags whimpered under the weight of bankruptcy.

And inside the softly lit, dangerously aesthetic dessert shop known as "Crème & Crown," two women sat like warring kingdoms mid-duel.

Empress Elise: Regal. Icy. A velvet knife with a teacup.

Lady Seraphina: Sharp. Red-lipped. Eyes glowing with designer vengeance.

And in between them...

Lucien.

Curled in his velvet chair like a dainty squirrel at a royal tea party. One hand rested dramatically on his chest. The other lifted a macaron to his lips like it was his final meal before execution. His curls bounced. His eyes sparkled.

Was he scared?

Absolutely not.

Because in his heart... he felt like a dramatic female lead in a historical romance where two powerful rivals fought for his affection.

"P-Please," Lucien whispered theatrically, dabbing his nonexistent tears with a napkin embroidered in gold. "Don’t fight because of me..."

He let his lashes flutter. His lips quivered. His voice trembled with award-winning fake sorrow.

Internally? He was screaming with joy.

"I can’t believe I’m living this moment," he thought, barely containing the smug squeal rising in his chest. "I like it... hehehehe."

Both Elise and Seraphina turned to look at him.

There was a long pause.

A mutual blink.

Then—

"...I think he’s glowing more than he should," Seraphina muttered, narrowing her eyes.

Elise sighed, adjusting her crown-pin like she was recalibrating patience. "Absolutely suspicious amounts of glow."

Lucien tried to look confused and tragic. He failed. Sparkles radiated from his cheeks like a galaxy being born.

Then Elise straightened her spine and smiled politely, the way royalty does when they’re about to verbally murder someone.

"Ahem," she began, her tone silken with lethal composure. "You may be his cousin, Lady Seraphina... But I was the first one who was told about his pregnancy."

Lucien nodded guiltily into his crème brûlée.

"And secondly," Elise continued, with a little clink of her teacup, "we are not just friends."

She leaned forward slightly, eyes glinting. "We are pregnant, besties."

The table went dead silent. Even the macarons stopped being colorful for a second.

"One womb connection to rule them all," Elise added softly, like it was a sacred vow.

Lucien froze, the other macaron halfway to his mouth, and Seraphina twitched like someone had insulted her bloodline.

Elise nodded. "And it’s already decided—our children will be best friends. They’ll share toys. Memories. Secret tunnels in the royal library."

"And if destiny wills it," she continued dreamily, "they might even marry."

Lucien choked on his dessert. "Huh? Marriage?!"

"Shhh," Elise patted his hand. "It’s called vision, darling."

Lucien blinked, then leaned toward her in a whisper. "Can we at least let them be born first?"

Seraphina, meanwhile, looked like her soul had combusted in slow motion.

She stood. Pursed her lips. She fluffed her hair like a lioness preparing for a court battle.

"Let’s not forget I am soon-to-be a child’s aunt by blood," she snapped. "A title you cannot buy, bribe, or sequin-bedazzle, Your Majesty."

Lucien made a squeaking noise.

"I come with natural aunt rights," Seraphina declared, rising to her full, villainous height as a mysterious wind blew through the dessert shop’s open window—though no one remembered it being open.

She tossed her hair like a L’Oréal ambassador possessed by drama."That includes exclusive baby-holding privileges, unfiltered life advice, unlimited embarrassing childhood stories, and—" she leaned forward, eyes sparkling with wicked glee, "—naming suggestions."

Elise froze mid-sip of her rose-cinnamon boba latte. "Na—naming suggestions?" she echoed, the way someone might say "armed invasion."

Lucien raised one hesitant hand from his mango mousse. "Um... I think Silas and I will be the ones naming our baby—?"

Seraphina didn’t even blink. She just whipped her head in his direction like a hawk targeting a field mouse."Shut up," she snapped, as if that settled the matter.

Lucien shut up immediately. His spoon hovered mid-air. The mousse trembled.

"...And by Silas," Seraphina continued coolly, "you mean... Grand Duke Silas?"

Lucien nodded, cheeks puffed. "Yes. That Silas."

Seraphina’s eyes narrowed. The room got colder.

"Well," she said, slow and silky, "it doesn’t matter... unless he tries to steal my aunt’s rights."

There was a long pause.

And then—Elise suddenly stood.

Like a queen about to smack down in a palace court. Her gown swirled with suspicious wind (again, where was it coming from?!), and her voice was as sharp as a tailor’s needle dipped in sass.

"Heh," she said. "Do you know, Lady Seraphina..."

A pause. A wicked smile."I am going to be Lucien’s bridesmaid."

Seraphina went stock-still. Her pupils shrank. Her pearls shuddered. She turned her head toward Lucien so slowly, so ominously, it looked like it should’ve been soundtracked by a cello.

"IS. SHE. RIGHT?" she asked through clenched teeth.

Lucien shrank back into his chair. "I-I—uh—um—yes—but it’s not a competition, Seraphina—?"

"NOT A COMPETITION?!" she shrieked.

Every spoon in the café clinked. A teacup cracked.

"You let her be your bridesmaid before asking your own cousin?! Do you remember who taught you how to braid your hair? Who used to fake faint during tutoring so you could sneak out?!"

"Well—No—!"

"DOESN’T MATTER!"

Elise smirked behind her tea, unbothered, already doodling wedding ideas in the whipped cream with her spoon.

"Well, Lady Seraphina," Elise said airily, swirling her teacup like she was stirring a plot twist, "perhaps if you’d spent less time bullying nobles and more time planning bridal showers, you could’ve been the one who was first informed about Lucien’s pregnancy and his marriage."

Seraphina twitched.

Like a chandelier right before it falls in a haunted ballroom.

Lucien, meanwhile, was going very still. Like squirrel-in-the-road still. Because now he could feel it.

The tension.

The danger.

The undeniable vibe that he was seconds away from becoming the innocent casualty of a full-scale women’s catfight. The kind with flying heels, insult-daggers, and possibly a cake weaponized as a projectile.

He clutched his dessert nervously.

And then—

"LUCIEN!"

Lucien’s head snapped toward the sound like a K-drama heroine mid-confession.

A royal carriage had pulled up just outside the dessert shop. The doors swung open in glorious fashion (possibly helped by a knight with stage experience), and out stepped—

Grand Duke Silas and Emperor Adrien.

Lucien’s entire being filled with joy. His soul lit up like a festival lantern. He had never been so grateful for male presence in his life.

He immediately stood. Grabbed his dessert plate like it was a baby he had to protect. And then—ran. In slow motion. For drama. And for wobblebean safety.

"My soon-to-be-dear husbanddddd!" Lucien cried out, flinging himself into Silas’s arms like a towel-swathed anime protagonist. "What took you so looooong?!"

Silas caught him with ease, eyes widening at the phrase dear husband.

Lucien snuggled into his chest, shameless and sparkling. "I missed you. I felt like I hadn’t seen you in agessss. Literal ages. Prehistoric. Jurassic."

Silas beamed like a toddler given ten cookies. "You missed me that much?"

Lucien nodded with exaggerated emotion. "Very muuuuuuch."

In the background, several imperial knights, shop attendants, and Seraphina internally screamed the same word:

CRINGE.

But Emperor Adrien? He wasn’t watching them.

No.

He was watching Elise.

And as he saw Lucien leap dramatically into Silas’s arms, he turned toward his empress with hopeful, sparkly anime eyes. A wind blew through his coat. He opened his arms wide.

Waiting.

Waiting for Elise to run to him like in every romantic fantasy.

Elise, however, didn’t move. She just walked over.

Calmly.

Gracefully.

With terrifying intent.

Adrien straightened his back, arms still open like a hopeful coatrack.

Elise got closer.

Closer.

Closer.

Adrien braced himself for the hug.

And then—she sidestepped him.

Walked straight past.

And yanked Lucien away from Silas’s arms like she was rescuing a stolen heirloom.

"Are you trying to suffocate my Lucien to death, Grand Duke?" she said coolly, possessively. "He’s not a plush toy. He needs air."

Lucien blinked, already being marched back toward the carriage.

"Wait, but I was being cherished—!"

"No time," Elise said briskly, adjusting his scarf and holding his dessert for him like a queen-mother. "You’ve been overly handled. Come along."

And with that, she guided Lucien into the carriage with all the grace of a royal kidnapper.

Silas just stood there, hands out, expression frozen like someone who just got left hanging mid-proposal.

"Did..." he murmured, staring into the breeze, "did she just call him...my Lucien?"

A pause.

The wind howled.

A flower petal floated past.

Emperor Adrien, arms still wide open, hadn’t moved an inch. He looked like a romantic statue that the museum forgot to give emotional closure.

The carriage door slammed shut behind them.

And all that remained... was wind.

Two powerful men—an Emperor and a Grand Duke—stood abandoned on the cobbled path. Arms empty. Dignity leaking. Rejected, in perfect stereo.

A single petal fluttered past.

Somewhere, a bird sang an awkward tune and then immediately regretted it.

Seraphina stood frozen, her eye twitching—not from defeat, no no—but from something much more chaotic: jealousy. Or maybe rage. Or perhaps the slow, creeping realization that she had just lost round one of a battle she hadn’t known she’d started.

She smoothed a wrinkle from her gown like it was a war tactic.

But elsewhere—just beyond the fluttering lace curtains of the dessert shop, past the cobbled square and golden spires of the city—

Something stirred.

A man cloaked in worn silver-white robes stood at the edge of the square. His face was shadowed beneath his hood, posture calm—too calm. His hands, clasped like he was mid-prayer, trembled with restraint. Around his neck gleamed a faded pendant of the old faith—one long thought dormant in the capital.

He had been watching.

No one had noticed him.

But he had seen everything.

His eyes locked onto the carriage disappearing down the avenue, his voice a low rasp barely carried by the wind.

"So..." he whispered. "He’s really pregnant."

The breeze curled around him like smoke.

A pause.

Then the corner of his mouth curled upward in a knowing smirk—cold, sharp, and reverent.

"A rare male omega..." he murmured. "How divine."

He turned slowly.

Robe rustling.

Sandals brushing ancient symbols carved into the stone beneath his feet.

"It must be reported to the High Priest," he said, vanishing into the crowd like a bad omen dressed in faith.

The city bustled on.

Unaware.

Unready.

And far, far too busy throwing diamonds and drama to notice that fate had just turned a very old, very dangerous page.