Chapter 26: The Heir of D’Argente

The Baye estate stood at the edge of the Capital's noble quarter, a sweeping manor of pale stone and black iron gates, its façade washed gold in the late spring dusk. Ivy curled along the walls like it had grown just to listen in on secrets. The gardens were geometric, pristine, and cruelly beautiful, with Serathine's influence visible in every detail.

Inside, the ballroom was filled with the quiet menace of power in tailored clothing.

The estate's grand foyer had been transformed into a palace of modern grandeur.

Soft golden light spilled from recessed fixtures in the marble ceiling, diffused by etched glass panels that scattered it like stardust across polished floors. Live strings hummed in the background, not old-world, but sharp and cinematic, built to echo in a room like this. Servers moved through the gathering with precise timing, offering sparkling drinks and hors d'oeuvres on silver trays that gleamed under the lights.

Conversation had quieted.

At the top of the stairs, Lucas exhaled.

The double doors opened.

The marble beneath his feet was cool and steady—nothing like the wild pulse under his skin.

Lucas stepped into the light with Serathine at his arm.

Gasps were immediate, but not loud. Polished, polite, barely-there sounds behind flutes of champagne and curated expressions. The elite knew better than to gawk.

But they did stare.

Lucas descended the staircase with measured poise, each step deliberate. He wore ivory, which had evolved to withstand the camera flash and cutting tongue. Silver-thread detailing caught the light in discreet intervals, echoing the House D'Argente crest pinned at his lapel. 

The Duchess of D'Argente walked with him, an empire wrapped in black garnet and satin, her expression unreadable and dangerous. 

At the foot of the staircase, the announcer adjusted the sleek mic clipped to his collar—discreet but high-end, already feeding into the soft speaker system laced throughout the ballroom ceiling. The sound system was tuned to elegance: crisp, refined, with none of the tinny echo of common venues.

He lifted a thin black tablet from the velvet podium, thumbed it open with a biometric flick, and began to read from the glowing screen.

The room stilled.

Everyone's attention was focused on the pair descending.

"On this day, in accordance with the Noble Succession Act of the Unified Empire, House D'Argente formally recognizes the full legal transfer of title, estate, and inheritance."

"Let it be known to the court, the Capital, and all connected dominions: former Lucas Oz Kilmer, now Lucas Oz D'Argente, is hereby named Heir Apparent of House D'Argente."

The tablet's surface dimmed as murmurs swept through the crowd. Cameras clicked. A discreet drone buzzed high in a corner, likely from one of the licensed noble media feeds. Even the staff stilled at their stations, watching the shift in hierarchy unfold like a newsfeed headline written in real time.

The announcer continued without pause.

"Henceforth, all Imperial registries, foreign charters, and noble communications shall recognize him under his new designation: Lord Lucas Oz d'Argente, future Duke of d'Argente."

"By her legal right, Her Grace, the Duchess Serathine Anna d'Argente, declares her heir bonded not by blood but by name, intent, and sovereign will."

The final line echoed not through marble halls or ancient stone, but through live feeds, closed-circuit press channels, and encrypted noble servers that broadcast to every power-watcher in the Capital.

Lord Lucas Oz d'Argente.

Future Duke.

The name fell like a thunderclap wrapped in silk.

People clapped. Processed. And the ones that still doubted the previous announcement recalibrated.

The sound was sharp and polite—measured applause from seasoned hands that knew how to signal approval without betraying emotion. But under it, a deeper current churned.

One senior viscount turned quietly to his aide and murmured, "Run a scan on all trade holdings connected to D'Argente. If he takes the seat, he takes the controlling shares."

The aide had already begun typing on his wrist display.

Up in the second gallery, a young noblewoman leaned against the carved railing, her gloved fingers curled thoughtfully under her chin. She wore sapphire blue, a tiara not quite modest, and the air of someone used to being noticed.

Her voice drifted, soft but meant to be overheard.

"He is so beautiful," she murmured. "A male omega? So rare. Exquisite."

Her tone lingered between admiration and something else—something heavy with implications, wrapped in the polite venom of court gossip.

Another lady beside her sniffed, half-jealous, half-intrigued. "Exquisite and dangerous. Duchess Serathine never adopts without cause. That boy's more than he looks."

"Oh," the first replied, voice velvet and knowing, "I'm counting on it."

From the floor below, Lucas did not glance up.

But he felt it.

The shift. The appraisal. The beginning of a new narrative—one he could not control but had already weaponized. His kind was supposed to remain quiet. Soft. Out of sight.

Tonight, he was none of those things.

He was heir. He was named.

And he was watching back.

Trevor leaned close, his voice barely audible above the orchestra's rise. "You've got three eyes on your lower back. One's from the gallery. Two are from ministers pretending to admire the architecture."

Lucas smirked. "Aren't you here as a shield?"

Before Trevor could respond, a third voice cut in—cool, amused, and unmistakably imperial.

"He is," said Lucius Thorne, stepping into view, hands in the pockets of his midnight-blue formal coat. "But you have to understand that nobles are more interested in his front than his back."

Trevor's jaw twitched. He didn't rise to it.

Lucas didn't turn. Not immediately. He took another sip of his champagne, then let his gaze slide to the side—calm, precise, and unimpressed.

"That's a bold statement from a man whose preferred view is the rear of power."

Lucius's smile curved, the kind that never reached his eyes.

"Touché." He tilted his head slightly, studying Lucas like he hadn't already done so a hundred times. "You were barely presented and they are already measuring you like a piece of meat. Should I get more violent?"

"No. I've told you this will happen," Lucas said, shrugging.

It was a practiced shrug, with only a twitch at the shoulder to indicate composure. But behind it, something coiled.

The kind of attention he drew tonight wasn't admiration. Not truly.

It was ownership in disguise. Hunger in silk. Power watched him like a product they hadn't yet priced.

It made his skin crawl.

But it was still better than the past. Better than being bought and placed in a locked room. Better than being touched without warning, without want. Better than smiling while dissociating.

He could stomach being their fantasy—as long as he was never again their possession.

Still, the weight of those gazes pressed at his spine, and despite himself, his grip on the glass tightened again. He didn't move away when Trevor stood half a step closer—but he didn't lean into it either.

He was still flinching. Still healing. Still rebuilding the person they thought they could break.

Then—

A shift.

A slow ripple moved through the ballroom crowd like a scent of lightning before a storm. Heads turned. Conversations faltered. Even the orchestra modulated its tempo, adjusting to something unsaid but felt.

The Crown Prince had arrived.