Vanessa dipped into a low curtsy, the fabric of her skirt whispering against the marble floor. "Your Grace. Thank you for granting me an audience."
Lucas inclined his head by a fraction—no more. The stylus continued its soft rhythm against the tablet edge.
"I was told you had something to say."
"I came to apologize," she said, straightening slowly. "Formally. For my behavior at the garden event. It was... inappropriate. I spoke out of turn and in poor judgment."
Lucas set the stylus down without looking at her. "You’re not wrong."
Vanessa’s lips parted, just a moment’s hesitation, maybe surprise but she pressed forward. "I didn’t realize, at the time, how serious the circumstances were."
"Do you mean Trevor?" Lucas asked, finally lifting his gaze to hers. "Or your brother forcing you to apologize?"
The silence that followed cracked, brittle as ice.
Vanessa flinched—only slightly, but Lucas caught it.
"My brother..." she began, then stopped, regrouped. "Caesar advised me to offer a proper apology."
Lucas’s expression didn’t change, but the temperature in the room seemed to drop. "How noble of him," he murmured, each word sharpened like glass, "but he’s not the kind to let you go without punishment. Do you realize what would have come of you and your family if he wasn’t who he is?"
Vanessa’s breath hitched. Her gaze flicked to the floor, then back up—wary now, but still clinging to pride like a shield. "He wouldn’t—"
"He would," Lucas cut in, not loudly, but decisively.
Vanessa’s knuckles tightened around the folds of her skirt.
"I came here of my own will," she said quietly.
Lucas rose from the chair—not fast, but with the kind of precision that didn’t allow space for retreat. "Let me be clear, Lady Vassinger. You are in my suite. That’s not an invitation. It’s a mercy. You don’t come here to make amends for me. You come because Trevor gave you one last chance because Caesar begged for you."
Vanessa’s voice shook. "I never intended to offend—"
"You called me a whore."
Lucas’s words landed like a blade drawn too fast to see, but too slow to forget.
"Let’s not pretend," he continued, his tone silk-smooth and merciless, "that you didn’t know exactly what you were doing. You were angry over a canceled luncheon—a luncheon, Lady Vassinger—and thought you could claw back your pride by spitting venom where it was safest. You thought I wouldn’t bite back."
He took a slow step forward, the sound of his shoes against the marble echoing like a countdown.
"The only thing you regret," he said, "are the consequences."
Vanessa flinched, but he didn’t stop.
"You’re walking free today because Caesar begged. And because Trevor, in a rare moment of generosity, decided not to rip your reputation to shreds in front of the whole court." His voice dropped a fraction, almost intimate in its finality. "You’d do well to remember that mercy is not a habit in this family."
Lucas tilted his head slightly, the flush still faint on his cheeks from earlier, the scent of Trevor’s pheromones stubborn in the air—undeniable, inescapable. "Next time," he said, "I won’t wait for someone else to be gracious. Next time, I will write the headline. And I promise you, you won’t survive it."
Vanessa stood frozen, her fingers white-knuckled around the fabric of her skirt. For a moment, she looked like she might speak—defend herself, explain, beg—but the words never came. Whatever pride she clung to had cracked, and behind it was nothing but the realization that she was not the one holding power in this room.
She unclenched her fingers with force and dipped in a low curtsy. "Thank you for your generosity."
There was generosity—in the fact that she escaped with only warnings and a letter. In the fact that her name hadn’t already been fed to the press, her reputation carved open for the wolves.
But he wasn’t the type to feed on someone’s misery. Not even when they deserved it. Not even when they handed him the silver platter.
So he simply watched her leave, silent and expressionless, until the heavy door closed behind her and the scent of her nerves faded into the velvet hush of the suite.
Lucas exhaled, slow and deliberate, then turned his gaze back to the tablet resting on the armrest. He reached for the stylus but didn’t touch it—just stared at it, the same way someone might stare at a sword they hadn’t meant to draw. NovelHub
A quiet knock, followed by the soft click of the door opening.
Windstone entered with the poise of someone who had likely served tea to executioners. He carried a silver tray with a cappuccino—foam just barely dusted with cocoa—and a tall glass of water. No words, no comments. Just ritual.
He placed the tray down on the side table with careful precision.
"You look like a proud father," Lucas said, still not looking up, fingers spinning the stylus between them in absent, idle rhythm.
Windstone didn’t blink. "Only mildly sentimental. The child spoke his first threat today. I believe congratulations are in order."
Lucas huffed. "I don’t know who is more dangerous, you or your master."
Windstone tilted his head, his hands folding neatly behind his back. "That depends on the day. And whether or not you’ve skipped a meal."
Lucas rolled his eyes but sipped his cappuccino anyway, knowing full well that was a deflection in a butler’s suit.
"Trevor’s influence is showing," Windstone added. "Though I do admire the restraint. No overturned chairs. No screaming nobles. Just the quiet terror of knowing you mean every word."
Lucas arched a brow. "That was restraint."
"Terrifying," Windstone affirmed dryly. "I’m proud."
"Thank you," Lucas said, brushing a finger along the rim of the cup. "Do you know how much longer Trevor will be gone?"
"Depends," Windstone replied without hesitation. "On whether he decides to commit murder before lunch or after. If it’s before, I estimate fifteen minutes. If it’s after, you’ll have him back in time for tea."
Lucas gave him a look. "You’re joking."
"I never joke about murder schedules, Your Grace." Windstone straightened the silver on the tray, then added with the faintest hint of mischief, "He said he was only speaking with Dax and giving final instructions regarding your relocation. But the guards reported tension in the corridor. The sort that usually ends with broken furniture."
Lucas set the cup down, his tone wry. "So I should expect either a relocation or a war declaration by sunset."
Windstone inclined his head. "Both are plausible. I’ve prepared appropriate outfits for either occasion."
"Of course you have," Lucas muttered.