Chapter 10: Chapter 10: Confirmation and relentless sister
Chris didn’t have any idea when time passed so utterly fast, but he woke up to his own annoying phone ringing.
He groaned, dragging a hand across his face before fumbling for the device buzzing insistently on the nightstand. The blinds were half-open, streaks of morning light cutting across his room, across the half-finished sketches scattered over his desk, the mug of coffee that had gone cold sometime around midnight, and the jacket he’d dropped carelessly over the back of a chair.
The screen lit up, and he squinted.
Mia.
Of course. Even years later she was still the one waking him up at dawn.
"What do you want?" Chris muttered, voice low and gravelly, as though the words themselves resisted being dragged out of the dark.
"You’re alive," Mia said in a rush, breathless and guilty. "Good. Listen, I need a huge favor. A life-saving, family-saving, no-questions-asked favor."
Chris rubbed his temple, pale skin catching the soft light. He was twenty-six now, though some days it felt like seventeen had never ended. The day their parents didn’t come home, the day Andrew took their world on his shoulders, the day he decided he’d never add to that weight.
"Mia..." His tone was already heavy with suspicion. "It’s six in the morning. Who died?"
"No one," she rushed. "But if you don’t help me, I might."
That almost drew a smile out of him despite his irritation. "Go on."
"I can’t take my shift tonight at the Fitzgeralt wedding," she blurted. "I..." She hesitated, then admitted, "My heat came early. And it’s bad this time, Chris. I can’t even stand without wanting to claw my own skin off. You’ve got to cover for me."
He leaned back against the headboard, black hair falling across his forehead, his black eyes narrowing. He could picture her even without the video, cheeks flushed, braids a mess, pacing her room like she always did when she was nervous.
"Mia..." he repeated, softer this time.
"Please," she begged, her voice cracking around the edges. "I already told the coordinator you’d go. They’re expecting you. It’s just serving, nothing complicated. I’ve taken this extra shift over my job because it pays really well."
Chris narrowed his eyes, shifting the phone against his ear. "How well?"
There was a pause on the other end, a pause that Mia would have only when she was guilty of something.
"Mia." His tone dropped, warning in the single word.
"1000 crowns," she admitted at last; the word rushed out like a confession. "They’re paying double now for anyone willing to work the Fitzgeralt wedding. Apparently Grand Duke doesn’t want any third-party servers in the main hall."
"1000 crowns?? Are you mad? That’s a three-month salary for one night!"
Chris pushed the heel of his hand into his eye socket, trying to decide if he was still dreaming. His sketchbook and half-dead pens stared at him from the desk like silent witnesses.
On the other end, Mia’s silence was loud. Then, meekly, "That’s why I said yes. Chris, it’s safe. It’s nobles, not smugglers or slum lords. You’ll just carry trays and pretend you don’t exist. You’re good at that."
"Wow," he muttered dryly, scrubbing a hand down his face, "remind me to thank you properly for the compliment."
Chris’s scowl faltered. She still knew exactly which strings to pull: the voice, the timing, and the guilt of being the older brother who’d promised Andrew he’d keep her safe. That was the real weight pressing against him now, sharp and sudden.
He blew out a slow breath. "You’re relentless, you know that?"
"Thank you," she said brightly, as if he’d already agreed.
"I didn’t say yes."
"But you will." Her confidence rang clear, irritating and fond in equal measure.
Chris pinched the bridge of his nose, the silence stretching long enough for Mia to start humming under her breath, a nervous habit, but this time it carried the smug rhythm of someone already celebrating victory.
"Fine," he muttered at last, dragging the word out like it cost him blood. "I’ll go."
Mia squealed, the sound so sharp he had to hold the phone away from his ear. "I knew it! I knew you wouldn’t let me down."
"Don’t get used to it," he warned, though the edge in his voice was thin, worn down by fatigue and her persistence. "One night, Mia. That’s it. And if I get stabbed by some overexcited noble, I’m haunting you personally."
"You’ll look good in the uniform," she teased, ignoring his threat entirely. "Tall, dark, broody, perfect background decoration."
"Wonderful. Reduced to furniture already." Chris swung his legs over the side of the bed, staring at the chaos of his desk, the sketches he hadn’t finished, and the life he’d been pretending was enough. "What time am I supposed to be there?"
"Six. They’ll give you the details when you arrive. Don’t be late, or they’ll kill me."
Chris sighed, long and slow. "If they kill you, I won’t have to cover your shifts anymore."
"Oh, right." She snapped her fingers like she’d just remembered. "Send me your measurements for the uniform; they’ll have it ready when you get there. And don’t be late, the buses leave from the city center straight to the manor."
Chris pinched the bridge of his nose. "Wow. The duke is either really paranoid, or he has no concept of money."
"He loves his spouse!" Mia shot back, scandalized. "You have no ounce of romance in your bones. You know his mate is a dominant omega."
"I’ve seen the news," Chris muttered, voice flat. Of course he’d seen it, Trevor Fitzgeralt, a dominant alpha, marrying into a spectacle that had gripped the empire for months. Tonight wasn’t just some wedding; kings and even the Emperor himself were said to be attending. Chris was about to walk into the lion’s den armed with nothing but a tray.
Chris let the silence drag a moment longer, then exhaled through his nose. "Fine. I’ll send the damned measurements."
"I knew you loved me," Mia sing-songed.
"I tolerate you," he corrected, already scrolling to his notes. "Don’t make me regret this."
"You won’t," she promised brightly, and before he could change his mind, the line clicked dead.
Chris dropped the phone on his chest, staring at the ceiling as the blinds shifted faintly with the morning breeze. The quiet pressed in. His sketches were waiting, his coffee was cold, and now, apparently, he was going to spend his evening serving canapés to royals.
He should have left it at that. But his thumb drifted back to the screen, opening the search bar almost without thinking. Lucas Fitzgeralt. He’d heard the name enough times to recognize it, the Fitzgeralt omega who had turned society upside down.
Chris typed it in, then hesitated, jaw tightening. Curiosity was dangerous. Too much attention left trails, and he didn’t want his name caught in the dragnet of people obsessed with the Grand Duchess.
Still, his fingers didn’t delete the words. Instead, he added another, news. Nothing too direct, nothing that would flag him as more than casually interested. Just enough to skim the surface.
The page bloomed with headlines, each one louder than the last. Ash-blond beauty of House Fitzgeralt. The green-eyed omega who rewrote the laws of court. Photographs caught Lucas mid-step beside Trevor, posture deceptively relaxed, though his gaze was anything but, striking green eyes sharp as glass under the lenses. Married at barely eighteen. Chris’s mouth pulled into a thin line at that. Confirmation, if he needed it, that dominant omegas weren’t left to breathe on their own the moment adulthood struck.
He scrolled further. Misty. The name stood out like a bruise. Execution for high treason and human trafficking, her face, cold and unrepentant, splashed across the screen. And in every article, tied to her, the boy she had tried to sell. Twice.
Chris’s thumb slowed as he skimmed the lines. Lucas, her son. Adopted at the last possible moment by Serathine D’Argente, snatched away before Misty could push him any further down the market chain.
And then the speculation, always there, never proven. Emperor Caelan’s son. The timing, the resemblance, the whispers too persistent to die. Officially the court didn’t declare anything yet, fueling the rumors.