[Armoire Estate]
Lucien lounged on the emerald velvet couch in the Armoire estate's grand meeting hall, legs crossed, posture the very image of aristocratic indifference, and expression thoroughly unimpressed. Moonlight poured in from the tall glass windows, casting him in a divine glow that clashed violently with the conversation.
Across from him stood Dr. Faelan Hawke, a man with the permanent expression of someone who'd just discovered a new species and named it after himself.
"Daily, one pill, my lord," Faelan instructed, carefully placing a small amber bottle into Lucien's waiting palm. "This will help regulate your pheromones. Especially since you seem to be leaking them like a cracked perfume bottle in a heatwave."
Lucien squinted at the bottle as if it had personally offended him. "It won't harm the little bean, right?"
Faelan blinked. "Little bean, my lord?"
Behind him, Marcel—the ever-loyal, ever-stressed butler—frowned deeply. "Little bean…?"
Lucien exhaled, long and suffering. "My baby. The one who took over my stomach and built a house there. Possibly added a porch. Might be planting tomatoes. I'm not entirely sure."
Faelan let out a delighted laugh and patted Lucien's shoulder like a proud uncle. "Oh! That little bean! Don't worry, these are perfectly safe for your baby. No porch damage, I promise."
Marcel, however, had gone alarmingly still.
"M-My lord…" he croaked. "What do you mean by… baby? Built a house? What, baby?!"
Lucien and Faelan turned to him in eerie synchronization.
They blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Thrice.
Lucien finally tilted his head and, in a tone one might use to comment on the weather, said, "Right, I forgot to inform you, Marcel."
Marcel blinked in confusion.
"I'M PREGNANT."
…
…
…
Marcel's brain gave a quiet clunk, like a carriage wheel hitting a loose cobblestone.
"YOU'RE—YOU'RE WHAT?!"
Faelan helpfully offered, "Pregnant. Currently gestating. With child. A whole fetus. Possibly kicking as we speak."
Marcel pointed at Lucien's (currently flat but morally offended) stomach and shrieked, "But—but you're a beta!"
Lucien gave a long, theatrical sigh. "Ex-beta. Fate apparently decided to flip my secondary gender like a pancake. Without asking."
Faelan, ever the scholar, nodded sagely. "Rare male omega. Correction: The only omega in the entire empire. A walking miracle."
Marcel nodded slowly, eyes wide, as if trying to convince himself this was normal. "I see…"
He didn't.
"WAIT. WAIT. WAIT—WHAT DO YOU MEAN PREGNANT?! WHEN YOU'RE JUST—JUST—CASUALLY SITTING THERE?! WHEN DID YOU HAVE A WHOLE BABY IN YOUR BODY?!"
Lucien groaned and covered his face. "Because my throat hurts and I'm exhausted from existence."
Then Faelan chimed in. "It's quite fascinating. Male omega pregnancies are exceedingly rare. This is practically a medical miracle. I've started a journal."
Faelan, far too excited, scribbled something in his leather journal. "Day One: Subject is pregnant, unimpressed, and mildly sarcastic. Displaying classic signs of omega indifference—"
"STOP WRITING!" Marcel shrieked, beginning to pace. "This is serious! You're with child! A child needs a nursery! A name! A—wait—WHO IS THE FATHER?!"
Lucien paused.
Marcel paused.
Faelan paused. For dramatic effect.
Lucien cleared his throat and began examining the wallpaper like it had never been more interesting in his life. "We… don't talk about that part."
Faelan chirped cheerfully, "We're waiting for Lord Lucien to, ah… recall the identity of the gentleman in question. Something-someone—during the Masquerade Party."
Marcel looked between the two of them like a man slowly drowning in disbelief. "So... you're telling me... My lord doesn't know who the father is?!"
Faelan nodded far too brightly.
Lucien avoided Marcel's eyes like a guilty cat.
"OH SWEET HEAVENS ABOVE!" Marcel wailed, clutching his chest like he was starring in a tragic opera. "This is not happening. This cannot be happening. I need holy water. A sedative. A priest—no—a bishop! Maybe an exorcist!"
Faelan calmly turned to Lucien. "My lord, I do suggest you get some rest. Pregnancy fatigue can hit hard, especially when your butler is acting like a live theater production".
Lucien stood up and adjusted his coat. "Agreed."
"I'll have a room prepared," Faelan said, bowing gracefully.
The two swept out of the room like nobles exiting a ball—leaving Marcel behind in a cloud of panic and crushed reality.
Marcel stared at the door. Then at the ceiling. Then at the couch where his now-pregnant lord had just been lounging like the Virgin Mary in velvet.
"I can't believe my lord is knocked up by some masked stranger," he whispered. Then louder, "I CAN'T BELIEVE MY LORD IS KNOCKED UP BY SOME MASKED STRANGER!"
And then, quietly, as the weight of it all truly hit him—
Marcel hiccupped.
Twice.
And began to sob dramatically into a nearby curtain.
***
[Meanwhile, at the Rynthall Estate]
Callen stepped out of the estate's office wing, a stack of paperwork clutched under one arm and exhaustion painting dark circles beneath his eyes. He halted mid-step when a tall figure came into view, standing near the hallway window, silhouetted by the pale moonlight.
"My lord!" Callen straightened and bowed at once, blinking in surprise. "You haven't slept yet, Lord Silas?"
Silas turned his head slowly, like a haunted painting coming to life. His midnight-blue robe was slightly wrinkled, his hair unkempt, and his sharp eyes were ringed with fatigue.
"No," Silas said simply, his voice a tired rasp. "I couldn't sleep."
Callen's brow furrowed. "Again? Are you having insomnia, my lord? You've been up three nights in a row. That's not normal. Should I call Dr. Emmerich?"
Silas waved him off with the grace of a wilting monarch. "No need. I'm not dying."
"But you're… twitchy, my lord," Callen noted, concerned. "You've been pacing the halls, staring out windows, and sighing dramatically—this morning you asked for pickled olives in hot milk."
Silas blinked, as if only just realizing that was, in fact, insane.
"…Did I?"
"Yes, my lord. The chef fainted."
Silas sighed, rubbing his temples. "I don't need a physician. I just… feel strange. Restless. Like something is shifting. Like something important is happening and I'm… missing it."
Callen gave him a cautious look. "My lord, those are symptoms of a nervous breakdown."
"I don't have breakdowns," Silas muttered, eyes stormy. "I cause them."
Callen opened his mouth, then shut it again.
Silas turned toward the office, his robe swishing dramatically behind him like a rejected opera villain. "I'll look into the smuggling case file until I collapse. Perhaps that will lull me to sleep."
Callen bowed again. "As you wish, my lord."
Silas paused at the threshold, gripping the doorframe for a moment longer than necessary before sighing heavily and mumbling under his breath:
"…What the hell is wrong with me?"
And with that, he vanished into the office, leaving Callen behind, deeply confused and wondering if perhaps he needed the physician instead.