Chapter 342: Chapter 342: Soap opera (3)
By the time Windstone returned with a second tray, this one laden with cutlery and a silver carafe of coffee, Lucas had already decided his office was cursed. The air was too warm, his pulse too fast, and every voice around him sounded like nails on glass. If he stayed in that chair another five minutes, someone was going to be insulted.
Trevor, who could read him better than any monitor, leaned down until his mouth was near Lucas’s ear. "Before you strangle a guest," he murmured, cedar and amusement wrapping around the words, "let’s move this to the dining room."
Windstone caught the cue immediately. "Lunch is ready," he announced in his calm baritone, as though the entire scene had been scheduled. "If everyone would follow me."
Alistair pushed off the wall, muttering something about popcorn. Benjamin snapped his phone shut and rose with the languid grace of a catwalk model, adjusting his burgundy cashmere as though they were heading to a gala rather than a hastily convened truce meeting. Mia glanced at Lucas, still looking shaken but obediently standing. Lucius fell into step behind her, expression unreadable again.
Trevor’s hand brushed the back of Lucas’s neck once, a quiet grounding touch, before he moved ahead of him. "Come on," he said over his shoulder. "We’ll feed them and maybe they’ll stop talking long enough for you to breathe."
Lucas stood, smoothing his sweatshirt as though it were armor. "If they don’t," he muttered under his breath, "I’m changing the Wi-Fi password and locking them out of the kitchen."
Windstone heard and, to his credit, did not smile. He led the small procession down the wide corridor, past tall windows spilling afternoon light over polished floors. Staff melted away as they passed, clearly briefed on who was allowed where. The scent of fresh bread and roasted vegetables drifted ahead of them from the dining wing.
By the time they reached the long oak table set for lunch, Lucas had regained enough composure to take the head seat without gritting his teeth. Trevor pulled out the chair for him with a small, knowing smile, then sat at his right hand. Alistair and Benjamin settled opposite each other; Mia hesitated, then chose a place as far from Lucius as the seating allowed. Lucius took the chair directly across from her anyway.
Windstone began to pour water into crystal glasses. "Shall I serve the first course?" he asked, as if nothing about the morning had been unusual.
"Yes," Lucas said, folding his hands on the table and inhaling slowly through his nose. "Serve everything. Quickly."
Benjamin leaned forward, eyes glittering with mischief. "So," he said brightly, "does the soap opera continue over appetizers, or do we have to wait for dessert?"
Lucas pinched the bridge of his nose. "Windstone," he said without looking up, "if you have any duct tape..."
Trevor laughed under his breath, cedar rising like a quiet cloud between them. "Eat first," he advised. "Threaten later."
Benjamin had barely taken his seat before he began rearranging the table as if it were a runway. He pushed the water jug two centimeters to the left, shifted the bread basket so the light hit it better and, with a flick of his fingers, untwisted Mia’s napkin into a perfect fan. His burgundy cashmere shimmered every time he moved.
"Honestly," he said, adjusting his bracelets, "if I’m going to sit through a royal scandal, at least give me a decent backdrop. Someone fetch candles."
"Benjamin," Trevor said warningly.
"What?" Benjamin blinked, all false innocence. "I’m elevating the brand."
Lucas set his fork down with a quiet clink. His green eyes had gone from tired to glacial, a sure sign the thin thread of patience was gone. "Enough," he said, voice low but sharp enough to slice through the chatter.
Even Benjamin stilled.
Lucas leaned forward, fingers steepled, and aimed his stare at the two people opposite him. "You," he jabbed a finger at Lucius, "are going to keep it in your pants until you learn how to speak like a human being instead of a stockbroker. And you," he swung his gaze to Mia, "are going to stop treating every offer like an insult and at least listen, or, Saints forbid, take his money and build something useful with it."
Mia’s mouth opened, then shut. Lucius looked as though someone had yanked his tie.
"I’m done refereeing," Lucas went on, savage in full pre-heat hormonal self. "I’m sore, I’m hungry, and if either of you makes me cancel another meeting for this melodrama, I will personally throw you into the ornamental lake. Talk to each other. Work it out. Now."
Silence fell around the table. Benjamin covered his mouth, eyes sparkling like a delighted child at a fireworks display. Alistair leaned back, one hand over his mug to hide his smile. Trevor simply sat at Lucas’s right, the cedar scent a quiet, supportive undertone.
Lucius cleared his throat, voice low. "I...apologize for the approach," he said, still looking at Mia rather than Lucas. "I do like you. I meant to protect you, not trade you."
Mia stared at him, cheeks flushed, but managed, "You have a terrible way of showing it."
"Then let me try again," Lucius said, softer.
Benjamin dropped his hand and sighed theatrically. "Finally," he murmured. "Some dialogue. This might actually be worth dessert."
Lucas picked up his fork again. "Good," he muttered. "Now eat. And if anyone raises their voice above a conversational tone, I’m switching to decaf and banning all of you from my estate."
Benjamin gave a tiny, mock gasp. "Decaf? That’s barbaric."
"Try me," Lucas said without looking up, slicing neatly into his food.
Across the table Mia and Lucius exchanged a glance that was less like a duel and more like a truce. She took a tentative sip of water; he adjusted his cuffs, clearing his throat as though rehearsing words. The din of cutlery and muted conversation began to replace the earlier tension.
Alistair reached for the bread basket and murmured to Benjamin, "You do realize you’re narrating this like a reality show."
Benjamin flicked his napkin open with a snap. "Darling, I’m not narrating. I’m curating. This is art."
Trevor leaned back in his chair, one arm draped across the back of Lucas’s. "You’ve created a monster," he murmured to him, cedar and amusement curling in his voice.
"I didn’t create anything," Lucas said dryly, still not looking up. "I just put them all in one room and told them to behave."
Trevor’s thumb brushed the inside of his wrist, a quiet grounding touch. "And look at you," he said softly. "Running your own soap opera."
Lucas huffed a small laugh despite himself. "Pre-heat hormones and all," he muttered. "They’re lucky I haven’t killed anyone yet."
At the far end of the table Lucius began, haltingly but sincerely, to explain himself again; Mia listened without interrupting. Benjamin, for once, stayed silent, eyes bright as if he’d just scored front-row seats.
For the first time since the confrontation started, the room felt less like a stage and more like a dining room again.