Sera didn't blink.
She only stared at him, head tilted just slightly—enough to register the weight of his words, enough to let them settle between them like a dropped blade.
"Good," she said finally. The word was simple. Precise. "Then we're thinking the same."
Lucas's grip tightened around the spoon, knuckles pale.
"I blamed myself," he said, his voice quiet but jagged at the edges. "For not being useful. For not going into heat early enough. For taking suppressants. I thought I'd ruined myself. And I still don't understand why you help me now."
"I help you because Caelan asked me to. Why does he care now? Because there is another alpha interested in you. Well, not you specifically, but an omega with imperial blood and of age."
Sera's voice didn't soften. If anything, it sharpened. Like a scalpel finding bone.
Lucas stared at her, unmoving.
The words landed without ceremony—direct, clean, brutal. He appreciated that more than he should have. Pity was a poison he could smell before it even entered the room. This wasn't pity. This was politics.
He leaned a hand on the desk, the heat from the fire barely touching his knuckles. "So that's it? I exist now because I'm a resource. A conveniently timed asset."
"You always existed," Sera replied, tone crisp. "They're just late to noticing."
He laughed quietly. Bitterly. "They're not late. They ignored me on purpose."
"Yes," she said, and that was what made her dangerous. She didn't deny it.
Lucas wiped his cheek with the back of his hand again, though the tears had already dried. "And Caelan? What does he want now—besides a good PR move?"
"To keep you out of a stranger's bed," she said. "To keep you out of his enemies' hands. He doesn't trust the interest. Neither do I."
"That's rich," Lucas muttered. "He didn't seem to mind when Christian Velloran signed a four-year contract for my body like it was a business asset."
"He didn't know."
Lucas looked up sharply.
Sera didn't flinch. "He didn't know. Misty filed it under a provincial jurisdiction. She kept your heat status off all imperial registries. That's why you weren't formally recognized—by the palace, by the courts, by anyone who might've protected you."
She paused, looking at the contract on the desk.
"Misty made sure that you were invisible to the court and filled out a form giving up the rights as a Consort to have full parenting rights. She claimed that it is for your own safety and a right environment to develop."
Lucas stared at her, the silence between them taut as wire.
His jaw flexed once. Twice. Then his voice came, low and steady. "And they believed her?"
Sera looked at the contract again, her fingers tracing the edge of the desk, not the paper. "The form was convincing. She used language the Empire loves—sacrifice, modesty, shielding the weak. Claimed she was protecting a fragile, premature secondary gender awakening. The courts approved it without question."
"Because no one ever questions a grieving noblewoman with a tragic story," Lucas murmured, bitter.
"Yes. Especially when she's pretty, well connected, and so very good at playing mother." Sera's mouth curled in disdain. "And the registry? She filed a private heat declaration. Sealed it. You were logged as 'not yet presented.' By the time your first true heat would come, no one in the Capital would recall you as eligible."
Lucas exhaled sharply. "Which means I was never officially marked as an omega. She planned to sell me from the start?"
Sera didn't look away.
"Yes," she said simply. "She did."
The word landed with the weight of inevitability. Not shock. Not even grief. Just confirmation of a truth Lucas had always felt circling the edges of his life like a shadow.
"She had the papers ready before you turned twelve. Not for engagement. Not for protection. But for sale."
Lucas's hands curled slowly on the edge of the desk, knuckles pale.
"I thought…" he started, then stopped. He didn't even know what he'd thought anymore. That maybe Misty had changed? That the twisted affection she offered had meant something?
"That she was cruel but not calculated?" Sera asked, voice quiet. "That maybe she wanted a future for you, even if it was selfish?"
He didn't respond. He couldn't.
"She played the long game, Lucas. Fed the court a fragile boy's image while setting a price behind closed doors. And she would have gotten away with it all if there had not been another powerful noble on the verge of bonding with imperial blood."
Lucas's throat tightened.
Christian.
It always came back to Christian Velloran. Not love. Not desire. Power. Possession.
"Someone who could challenge the old line," Sera continued, her gaze flicking to the contract again. "Someone who would demand access. Legal custody. And push the Emperor to assert control before House Velloran got too bold."
Lucas's breath came slower now, steadying against the heat in his chest. "So Caelan moved to stop it."
"Yes. Quietly. Without scandal," she said. "Which is why I was sent. Not because I was the kindest option—but because I was fast."
Lucas gave a dry laugh, no humor in it. "So I'm a war precaution."
"You're a future no one predicted," Sera corrected. "And that makes you dangerous."
Lucas didn't know if he was supposed to laugh or cry, but he was void of the news.
"Who is the alpha?"
Sera spoke the name with the same elegance she used to deliver verdicts—cool, crisp, laced with consequence.
"Trevor Ariston Fitzgeralt. Grand Duke of the North."
Lucas blinked once.
That was a name with weight. Not gossip-circle notoriety like the Vellorans. Not the showy flash of social alphas clawing for court favor. The Fitzgeralts were old blood—older than even House Velloran. A legacy built on land, military power, and ruthless silence.
"A war general," he said flatly.
"Among other things," Sera replied. "He's Caelan's fallback. If the court tried to make you invisible again, the Duke would offer a bond. Formal. Legal. Public. It would render every other contract null."
Lucas swallowed hard, the taste of old bitterness rising in his throat.
"So I'm to be claimed. Just by someone more convenient."
"No," Sera said. "You're to be claimed if you allow it. That's the difference."
He looked up at her slowly.
"I know him; he is not interested in buying or owning you. His reasons are simpler than Velloran's; it's just his duty as the head of his house."
Lucas leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing.
"Duty," he repeated. "That word's been used to excuse a lot of things done to me."
Sera didn't flinch. She placed the bowl of ice cream gently on the table beside the contract, as if that could somehow balance the conversation.
"I know," she said simply. "But Trevor Fitzgeralt isn't Christian Velloran. He doesn't play at affection to control someone. He doesn't want your obedience, your bond, or even your body."
Lucas frowned, skeptical. "Then what does he want?"
Sera looked directly at him.
"To fulfill his duty and have a spouse from the D'Argente house. One on equal footing with him."
Lucas blinked, slow and deliberate.
"A spouse?" The word felt foreign in his mouth. Not because he hadn't heard it before—but because it had never once been applied to him.
He had been promised, positioned, and displayed. Never asked.
Sera nodded once, a flicker of amusement crossing her otherwise composed face. "Yes. A political match, but one without coercion. He asked if I had a ward that would be his equal at court. I gave him your name."
Lucas raised an eyebrow. "Not the name Misty gave me. Not the one on that contract."
"No," Sera said, tone iron beneath silk. "Lucas D'Argente. My ward. My heir. The court won't see you as anything less."
He looked down at the table—the contract, the untouched bowl of ice cream, his own hands still trembling with memory. For a second, the silence pressed in again, sharp and familiar.
And then he exhaled.
"Let him come," Lucas said again. His voice steadier now. "But I want to be the one who decides whether I say yes."
Sera smiled.
"And so you shall, darling. That's the point. You will meet him at your coming-of-age ball. That reminds me to take you on a shopping spree."