For several seconds, neither of them spoke.

Then Sylvia slowly set down her glass. "Well."

Thomas closed his eyes.

"I am sorry," he said.

"For what? Him? Please. I’ve met worse."

His eyes opened.

Sylvia reconsidered. "Actually, no, I haven’t. I just wanted to sound worldly."

Despite everything, Thomas laughed again.

This time the sound was almost helpless, worn through with shock and exhaustion and the strange relief of a blade finally pulled free.

Sylvia looked at him, and her chest did the stupid, dangerous thing again.

Absolutely not, she told herself.

Thomas Lancaster had just ended a political mating arrangement in front of her, was likely about to be dismantled administratively by multiple governments, and came with more emotional consequences than any sensible woman should approach without protective equipment.

Unfortunately, Sylvia had never claimed to be sensible.

Thomas looked at the door Andrea had slammed, then back at her. "I should go after him."

"Do you want to?"

He was quiet.

Then, softly, "No."

Sylvia picked up the wine bottle and poured him another half glass. "Then don’t."

Thomas stared at the glass.

"That is terrible advice."

"No," Sylvia said. "It is temporary advice. Later, you can be noble and responsible and write your awful report and speak to every terrifying woman who raised or governs you. Right now, you can sit down and drink the wine you are paying for."

Thomas looked at her for a long moment.

Then he sat.

Sylvia pushed the glass toward him.

"To being done with his shit," she said.

Thomas’s mouth curved slowly.

He lifted the glass.

"To being done," he agreed.

—

Andrea made it three corridors before he stopped pretending he was calm.

The private wing of the Alaminan palace was all polished stone, glass, discreet cameras, biometric locks, and staff moving with tablets tucked against their chests as if modern efficiency could somehow civilize the rot under royal skin. The lights were recessed into the ceiling in warm strips, the windows were treated to block drones from filming inside, and every decorative surface looked expensive enough to become a diplomatic incident if broken.

Andrea nearly broke the console table anyway.

He stopped with one hand braced against the marble edge, breathing too fast through his nose while his reflection stared back at him from the dark glass wall opposite.

Discarded.

His fingers curled against the stone until the fine leather of his gloves creased.

Thomas Lancaster had said he was done with his shit.

Thomas.

Calm Thomas. Patient Thomas. Soft-eyed, enormous, obedient, predictable Thomas who had spent months accepting silence as if it were a language he could someday translate into affection.

Thomas, who had waited.

Thomas, who should have continued waiting because that was what men like him did when handed something rare and beautiful enough to make them grateful.

Instead, he had stood in that blue parlor with a half-empty glass of wine and a beta woman laughing at him, and he had thrown Andrea away as if the arrangement had been his to end.

Andrea’s mouth twisted.

’No. This isn’t going to happen while I just watch.’

He was Andrea Vale. A dominant omega of Alamina. Educated, valuable, and polished enough that rooms noticed when he walked in, and powerful families calculated when he smiled. Houses had negotiated for him before Thomas ever appeared with his earnest eyes and gentle nature. Alphas had watched him across receptions as if one glance from him could change their family future.

He had not been raised to be discarded by an inferior dominant alpha from Rohan because Thomas had finally discovered pride where his longing used to be.

And Arion.

Andrea pushed away from the console table and continued toward his suite, his access bracelet flashing green against the scanner before the private doors slid open soundlessly.

Arion, sitting behind that sleek black desk, speaking with cold, decisive cruelty as if Dean had made him better. That was happening when a dominant omega handed everything to their alphas. The alphas became cocky.

Dean.

The name burned worse than it should have.

Dean had arrived with no grace, polish, patience, or knowledge of how royal courts were supposed to be run. Dean who growled at etiquette and yet somehow had people call it honesty. Dean, who’d been treated like a bargaining asset by his own grandfather, and who still walked through Alamina now with Arion’s ring, Arion’s protection, Arion’s future, as if humiliation had missed him entirely.

It had not.

Andrea knew that now.

Andrea had proof.

His family archive had never been as clean as his parents liked to pretend. Old encrypted transfers survived when they should have been deleted. Copies of sealed proposals sat buried in private servers because ambitious people rarely destroyed useful dirt. Caelan’s circle had spoken to too many families while trying to place Dean where his biology would be useful. Not publicly, of course. Never directly enough to become scandal by itself. But enough to know Dean had been mentioned as a stabilizing solution for multiple alphas, and Thomas Lancaster had been contacted.

Thomas had refused Caelan’s terms from some sense of honesty and loyalty to his friendship with Arion.

Andrea had kept that information hidden for months, providing a small, cold comfort beneath his tongue whenever Thomas looked at him with unbearable patience. A reminder that Thomas had not been given him because Andrea was chosen first. A reminder that he was not the only one reduced to function in a world that pretended biology was destiny.

Andrea’s breathing steadied, but anger did not leave. It merely organized itself.

An interesting idea came to him.

His suite lights came on automatically, soft gold over cream walls, glass partitions, dark wood, and a private workstation built into the far wall. His attendant stood from the small sitting area, phone in hand, expression carefully neutral.

"My lord?"

"Leave."

The attendant’s gaze flicked to his face, then to the tension in his hands.

He bowed and left without asking questions.

At least someone still understood survival.

Andrea waited until the door locked behind him before crossing to the workstation. He opened the secure drawer beneath it and removed a slim black data drive, then placed it into the reader with precise, controlled movements.

The system requested authorization.

Andrea pressed his thumb to the scanner.

Then his eye.

Then typed the old password his father had once used for archived diplomatic correspondence.

The files opened.

Caelan’s proposal appeared on the screen in clean, formal language that made the entire thing look civilized.

That had always been the true genius of people like Caelan. They could put a leash in a document and make it look like governance.

Andrea knew how to use this. Let the media know about the proposal; let them know Thomas accepted, but the entire plot had fallen because of Caelan’s death.

Even if it’s not true, their reputations would plummet in the eyes of the civilians.