Lucas didn't sit. Didn't collapse. He simply stood there, watching the fire dance like it could somehow burn the truth out of the air.
His limbs went cold—cold with the realization that his past life, his hell, his quiet unraveling had never been a tragic twist of fate.
It had been a plan.
Her plan.
Misty's.
The only person he was supposed to trust. His own mother.
He could almost hear her voice now—sweet, perfumed, too light for the weight of the things she never said. The hand that smoothed his hair after each injection. The rehearsed lines about how special he was, how he had to stay patient, polished, and quiet.
Every kindness… had been an investment.
Every silence… protection for her interests.
And every failure he carried—his infertility, his heat that never came, the blame Velloran shoved onto his skin—wasn't a failure at all.
It had been engineered.
His mind felt hollow. So hollow it hurt.
Empty of sound. Empty of words.
The crackling of the fire was distant, faint—as if it belonged to another room, another version of himself that still believed in the warmth it gave.
He stared into it, gaze pinned, unmoving.
And then—
Warmth.
Serathine's arms wrapped around him without warning, firm and fierce. Not gentle—anchoring. As if she were holding together something that was already breaking. Her cheek pressed against his temple. One hand braced between his shoulder blades, the other around his ribs, solid as iron.
She didn't say anything.
Didn't whisper comforts or platitudes.
She simply held him.
She didn't know. She couldn't.
She didn't know that he had lived that plan.
That the hell they feared had already happened—in another life, in a locked room where no one came for him, where hope died gasping on heated marble and no one even noticed when his breath stopped.
She didn't know.
But she shielded him anyway.
And somehow, that broke him more than the truth had.
Because for the first time, someone didn't ask if he was okay—they just stayed.
He let the tears fall.
No sound. No collapse.
Just silent rivers carving down his cheeks as his face remained still, eyes fixed on the fire.
He mourned the boy he had been. The sweet, quiet, hopeful version of himself who had once believed that love could come from a mother's hand. That staying quiet meant safety. That being good meant being spared.
He mourned Lucas.
The Lucas who died in that estate, behind closed doors and locked windows.
And in the arms of a woman who'd claimed him not with blood, but choice, he let himself finally say goodbye to Lucas Oz Kilman.
—
The morning light filtered in slowly, painting the high ceilings of his chamber in pale gold and gray. The windows had been left open overnight; the scent of lavender and dew drifted in from the terrace garden. A soft breeze stirred the edge of the curtains, too delicate to be noticed—unless one had spent the night still.
Lucas hadn't moved much.
He had cried himself to sleep—quiet, wrecked, exhausted beyond measure.
But not alone.
Serathine had stayed beside him, seated in the armchair by the bed, unmoving as a statue. She hadn't spoken when the tears came, hadn't touched his hair, hadn't tried to name his grief.
She'd simply stayed.
And in that silence, something inside him had hardened—not bitter, but certain.
Now, the light touched his face.
Lucas blinked slowly, the ache in his chest still fresh, but no longer consuming. The numbness had receded, replaced by something cleaner. Sharper.
Direction.
He pushed the blankets back and sat up, breath steady.
There was no room for softness anymore. No space was left for pretending that survival was enough.
He wanted his revenge.
Not loud. Not messy. Not violent.
He wanted the kind of revenge that left names ruined in whispers, that turned invitations cold, that made every person who once smiled at Misty's lies refuse to answer her calls.
He wanted her to watch him rise—not as a tragedy, not as a mistake, but as a legacy she could no longer control.
He stood, feet bare against the warm floor, and walked to the mirror.
His reflection was a mess.
Eyes red. Hair unruly. Jaw tight.
But he looked more like himself than he had in years and this time he was going to ask for help and let himself receive it.
—
The table was already set by the time Lucas arrived—white linen, pale ceramic dishes, silver warmed to the touch. Soft fruits, poached eggs, black coffee in porcelain that felt older than the Empire itself.
Serathine was already seated at the head, dressed in dove gray silk and a robe too luxurious for anything as mundane as breakfast. Her hair was pinned up loosely, and she didn't look up until he took the chair beside her—without invitation, without hesitation.
It was the first thing she noticed.
"You're earlier than usual," she said, cutting a slice of fig.
Lucas didn't smile.
"I want to plan it," he said simply. "All of it. My debut. The narrative. Her destruction."
Serathine's gaze slid to him—not sharp, but steady. Measuring.
"Misty."
He nodded once.
"I want to control how she's remembered. I want her exposed publicly. For the contract. For the suppression. For everything."
He expected her approval.
Instead, she reached for her tea, stirred it twice, then said evenly:
"No."
Lucas blinked. "No?"
Serathine looked at him, finally—fully. Her expression softened, but it didn't lose its authority.
"The biggest revenge," she said gently, "would be for you to be happy."
He didn't answer.
She pressed on. "To be seen laughing in silk, adored and untouchable. For Misty to sit among the gilded court and watch every person she ever wanted access to… look through her while they look at you."
Lucas swallowed, but his throat was tight.
"And what if that's not enough?" he asked quietly. "What if I want her ruined?"
Serathine didn't flinch.
"Then let me ruin her," she said, her voice like a blade wrapped in velvet. "Let us do it. Let the whispers work. Let the law catch up. Let the documents speak. Let the court turn cold."
Her hand reached out, resting over his for the briefest moment.
"You've already done the impossible, Lucas. You survived. You walked back into this world unbroken. That is the part she can't survive."
He looked at her hand over his. At the way her rings shimmered in the sunlight. At the warmth she offered—not coddling, not soft.
Alliance.
And then—
He nodded.
Not because he gave up.
But because he understood now that letting others fight for him didn't mean losing control.
It meant sharing it.
And for the first time, he let himself lean back in the chair, lift his coffee, and say,
"Fine. Then spoil me."
Serathine's smile could have split kingdoms.
"Oh, darling," she said, "with pleasure.