Chapter 30: The Grip of the Past

More silence.

It stretched long enough for tension to seep into the air again, for a few of the closer guests to pretend they weren't listening while tilting slightly in their silks and formal collars.

Then Misty exhaled, lips curving into something brittle.

"You are a really ungrateful child," she said, not loud—but loud enough. The kind of sentence meant to wound and be heard. "You wouldn't have survived your first decade without me. And now, dressed in borrowed silk, you dare stand here like any of this was your doing?"

Lucas didn't move.

She leaned in, just enough for her words to reach him and no one else—at least in theory.

"Either you want to admit it or not, you're still under engagement with Count Christian Velloran," she continued, her voice sweet and low, curling with malice like perfume gone stale. "That contract isn't dead. Not in every jurisdiction. And when the truth leaks—because it will—you'll be a scandal, not a prince."

She let the threat bloom for a moment.

Then: "Do you think being the Grand Duke's prospective fiancée is any different than this?"

Lucas looked at her.

Slowly. Without blinking. The kind of look that wasn't a reaction, but a reckoning.

Then, in a voice carved from ice and quiet fire:

"Yes."

Just that.

It didn't need to be louder.

It didn't need to be followed.

And yet Misty laughed—low, knowing, brittle at the edges like a glass already spidered with cracks. "I really did try to raise you properly," she said, chin lifting slightly, like defiance worn as a last accessory. "Too bad. You'll understand one day. When you have your own child. When you learn what it means to protect someone too fragile to survive on their own."

Her gaze flicked down, cold and pitying, as if she hadn't just been stripped bare in front of half the court.

"Ophelia," she called, with the same affected calm she used to serve tea before a tantrum. "Let's give your brother some space. He has guests to impress."

Ophelia, silent, cast one last look at Lucas—a mirror of fear and envy tangled into something shapeless. Her hand clutched her mother's sleeve as they turned, their white dresses trailing behind them like ghosts still trying to haunt a house they no longer owned.

"She ran away the moment she saw me," Trevor said, voice low as he approached from behind—no ceremony, no warning, just the steady rhythm of his footsteps joining Lucas's silence.

Lucas turned to see him, Trevor's purple eyes eerily still. 

"She's always been good at that," Lucas murmured. "Disappearing when someone stronger steps in."

Trevor stepped beside him, gaze fixed on the crowd where white silk vanished between polished shoulders and murmuring courtiers. "And Ophelia?"

Trevor didn't smile. He didn't scoff. He just nodded once—slow, thoughtful, as if Lucas had handed him a truth that didn't require embellishment.

"She is her little lapdog."

Lucas's voice wasn't cruel. Just exhausted. Like he'd run out of space in his chest for softness when it came to that side of his blood. No fire behind the words—only ash. Dry and done.

"She always watched," he added, eyes still trained on the place Misty and Ophelia had disappeared into. "When it was convenient. When it didn't cost her anything. And when it did, she looked away."

Trevor's jaw tightened slightly. Not in anger, not directed at Lucas, but in that quiet, internal fury reserved for those who'd survived too much to let silence keep burying things.

"I've seen that look before," Trevor said quietly. "From people who were told they had no choice but to stand by."

Lucas let out a breath—barely audible. Like the pressure behind his ribs had finally cracked, just enough to let something out.

"I need some air," he murmured.

Trevor didn't move, didn't argue. Just asked, gently, "Do you want me to come with you?"

"No," Lucas said, shaking his head once. "I'll be on the balcony."

Trevor nodded—nothing offensive in his stillness, only something steady, something that said, I'll be here when you come back.

Lucas stepped away.

The music faded as he moved toward the tall glass doors. Past gilded tables and velvet laughter, through the layered scent of wine, perfume, and politics, until all that was left was the quiet hush of night.

He stepped out into the cool air. April in the capital was still unkind, still caught between frost and bloom, and the marble beneath his shoes held the cold like memory—sharp and silent. Above him, the sky arched wide and pale, pinpricked with stars; the city stretched below in gilded silence, its lights flickering like distant promises already broken.

There were small groups talking in hushed, polished tones—fur-lined cloaks tucked around champagne flutes, laughter softened by gloves and etiquette. Lucas nodded to each one as he passed. Brief. Polite. Detached. He didn't stop. Didn't slow.

Not until the rail met his palms.

The stone bit into his hands, and for once, he let it. Let the chill settle into his fingers, into the thin linen seams of his sleeves. The music behind him faded into velvet noise, strings dragging something courtly and old across the floor.

The wind moved through the terrace like a warning—cutting, uninvited, and laced with a hint of winter's retreat. It curled around the edge of his coat, dragged through his hair, caught at the sharp line of his jaw.

And he stood there, still.

As if the quiet might be enough to keep him upright.

It wasn't. Not really.

Not with the scent of Misty still clinging to the memory of his skin, not with the lingering weight of too many eyes measuring him with interest that had nothing to do with who he was and everything to do with what he might be worth.

He didn't want to admit how hard it was—how much effort it took to stand tall, speak clearly, smile just enough. To nod at strangers who thought they understood him, to host a celebration that felt more like a coronation of someone he hadn't finished becoming.

He hadn't finished becoming.

And Misty—Misty had seen that.

Had smelled the space where he was still rebuilding and tried to slip in through the cracks.

He knew her well enough to understand: the way she mentioned the media wasn't a coincidence. It was a threat dressed in lace. It meant she had more. That she was desperate. And desperate people—especially ones like her—were always dangerous.

Lucas exhaled, and it clouded in the cold. He rubbed his fingers together briefly, the tips red and stiff from leaning too long against the stone rail.

Time to go back.

Back to the firelight and string music. Back to Trevor and Serathine and the safety their presence gave him—even if he didn't always know how to ask for it.

He turned to return inside.

The lights beyond the glass shimmered with the warmth of strings and candlelight, but the air around him had chilled again. He rubbed his fingers once more against the linen edge of his sleeves, ready to step back into the ballroom—

And collided with someone.

A shoulder. A breath. A presence.

He stepped back instinctively, just short of a stumble.

A hand caught him.

Not urgently. Not violently. Just… with too much ease.

Lucas's spine locked as fingers settled against his waist—not possessive, not overt, but familiar in a way that made his stomach lurch.

He looked up.

Steel-grey eyes.

Calm. Curious. Slightly amused. A stranger's face dressed in the bones of a nightmare.

Lucas's body reacted before his brain did. Not outwardly—he didn't flinch, didn't gasp—but something inside him froze. As if all the years between now and then collapsed in a breath.

The hand released him.

"My apologies," the man said. His voice was smooth. Polished. A diplomat's son. "I didn't mean to startle you."

Lucas didn't answer. Couldn't.

Christian Velloran.