The sun rose over the Imperial Palace with all the smugness of someone who definitely knew a scandal had just been born under its light.
Birds chirped. Curtains fluttered in the soft morning breeze. And somewhere, bells rang melodiously in the distance—completely unaware they were interrupting a scene that belonged in either a romance novel or a very expensive lawsuit.
Inside a gilded chamber, a bed—once perfectly made and untouched—was now in shambles. Silk sheets tangled like they'd fought in a duel, pillows on the floor like fallen soldiers, and clothes... scattered like petals from a very chaotic flower.
And there, smack in the middle of the chaos, was Lucien.
Naked. Glowing. Sprawled like a satisfied cat that had just ruined the royal furniture.
He blinked at the ceiling. Then again. Then—
"…OH NO."
A loud thud followed. Lucien had tried to get up and ended up crashing to the floor, limbs protesting and dignity sobbing in a corner.
"WHAT HAPPENED?! Where am I? Why am I—naked?! Why does my back hurt?! WHY DO I FEEL LIKE I RAN A MARATHON AND LOST?! AND—"
Lucien's voice rose an octave as he looked down.
And then froze.
Because between his thighs—glorious, scandalous, and very much not G-rated—was something… sticky.
"…What the f—" He recoiled like he'd touched hot oil. "WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?!"
Panic. Real, chest-clenching, sweat-summoning panic washed over him like a biblical flood.
He blinked.
Then blinked again.
Then whispered in horror, as if saying it out loud would summon a sex demon, "Don't tell me I had a…" His throat dried. "…One-night stand?"
The phrase alone made his skin crawl and his soul attempt to self-destruct.
His eyes darted around the room like a criminal trying to find an escape route. His brain, meanwhile, was buffering at 1 KB per second, spinning in a blue screen of emotional death. And sweat—oh, that sweet dramatic sweat—started pouring down his forehead like a literal Niagara Falls of shame.
Slowly, like a man preparing to see a corpse, he turned toward the bed.
"Please be empty, please be empty, please—"
TA-DA.
Totally. Empty.
Not even a silver hair on the pillow.
Lucien exhaled like a dying opera singer. "Thank God."
He collapsed backward, sprawled on the floor in all his naked shame, arms wide, legs flopped, inner dignity in ruins. Then he squinted at his own body.
"…Still, why the hell am I naked?"
His gaze dropped again.
Back to the scene of the crime.
To the stickiness.
To the soreness.
To the undeniable, inescapable proof that something had gone down.
Something intense. Something sweaty. Something that should've been a mutual decision between sober adults—not whatever fever dream he'd lived through last night.
And then…
The final thought slammed into him like divine punishment.
His lips parted. Eyes wide.
"…Don't tell me I…" He whispered. "…M-masturbated… while I was drunk?!"
Silence.
The room offered no answers. Only expensive decor and heavy shame.
Lucien sat up, hugging his knees.
"I am the disgrace of the empire."
A long, tragic sigh escaped his lips.
Then, with the determination of a man planning his own funeral, he stood up—wobbly, sore, and still blinking in disbelief—and began collecting his clothes from around the room like a shameful treasure hunt.
"Let's get out of here before that stupid, golden male lead emperor executes me for…" he glanced down again, face burning, "…for masturbating alone in the middle of the imperial palace."
Then—
CREEAAAK.
The doors opened.
And like a shame-riddled raccoon escaping a noble's kitchen, Lucien dashed out barefoot, down the polished hallway, cape flapping like a tragic hero escaping the stage.
"Operation: ESCAPE THE SIN SITE—commencing now!" he hissed to himself.
Little did he know…
Two floors above, a silver-haired man was sipping tea, watching him from a balcony with narrowed, crimson eyes.
"…He left without remembering a damn thing." A long pause. "Idiot."
The silver-haired man lifted his cup and sipped, his voice flat. "Whatever. Just a one-night mistake."
Another sip. His crimson eyes narrowed.
"It's not like he's an omega... to take responsibility."
Meanwhile, outside the palace, Lucien flung himself into a black carriage like a man escaping a war zone.
"Go! Anywhere but here!" he cried to the startled coachman.
Back on the palace balcony, a voice broke the quiet, laced with judgment and morning irritation.
"Well, well. There you are."
The silver-haired man didn't need to look. That tone could belong to only one man. He took another sip, then finally turned his head, slow as death.
Standing behind him was the golden-haired headache himself and the main lead of the damn story.
Emperor Adrien Soleil.
The silver-haired man exhaled like he had just smelled rotten fruit. "The only face I didn't want to see this early in the morning."
"I heard that, you bastard," Adrien snapped, arms crossed.
The silver-haired man side-eyed him. "It's unbecoming for an emperor to curse."
"And it's unbecoming for the Grand Duke of the Empire to disappear halfway through the ball when I needed him."
That's right.
The man Lucien had accidentally clung to, kissed, stripped in front of, and seduced in a drunken haze of "ocean-scented romance" was none other than—
Grand Duke Silas Virellian Rynthall.
Also known as:
The King's Blade.
The empire's shadow.
The war-hardened tyrant who slit throats like he was slicing bread. The man who commanded legions with a single glare. The cold, beautiful monster that nobles prayed would never remember their names.
Adrien pinched the bridge of his nose. "I should've known you'd be hiding here."
"Drinking tea at the palace balcony peacefully isn't hiding," Silas replied dryly.
"You disappeared before the end of the state ball," Adrien said, stepping forward. "You left me to deal with those insufferable Northern lords."
"I had a headache."
"You always have a headache when nobles speak."
"Maybe nobles should stop speaking."
Adrien threw his arms up. "Saints, why do I even bother—?!"
But Silas wasn't listening anymore.
He ignored the emperor of the empire like he was some background noise at a tavern—unimportant, forgettable.
His crimson eyes had drifted beyond Adrien, narrowing as he watched a black carriage roll through the palace gates, shrinking into the distance.
Gone.
The corner of his mouth twitched—an almost frown.
Then, under his breath, he muttered,"Why does it suddenly feel like the start of a much bigger problem?"
"HEY!—Are you even listening to me?" Adrien snapped, clearly fed up.
Silas exhaled, long and slow, like the weight of the world had just climbed onto his shoulders.Without looking back, he replied flatly,"Yeah, yeah. I am."