Chapter 185: Chapter-185

Heena gestured to the documents. “This is a parent-child blood severance contract. With this signed, you can completely sever all legal and familial connections to your sons. And I promise you: no matter what happens to them after that, your families will not be dragged into it. You’ll remain as honorable as you are now.”

The patriarchs’ faces went pale.

Because—except for Damien’s father, who had backup children—the other three had invested ’everything’ in these sons. They’d trained them from childhood, groomed them for success, poured resources into their development.

They looked at the documents and understood: if they signed these, they wouldn’t know when their sons might die. They wouldn’t be able to help or intervene. They’d be completely cut off.

“Your Majesty—” one started.

Heena raised her hand. “I’m not ’forcing’ you to sign. Don’t sign if you don’t want to.”

She paused, letting that sink in.

“But I promise you: this is the last chance I’m giving you, and only because you’re my aunt’s friends. If not for that connection, I wouldn’t even consider offering this option.”

Her expression became cold.

“After today, my obligation is done. I’ve given you a chance. Whether you take it or reject it, I don’t care. But after this day, I ’will’ drag your entire families into every problem your sons create. Every scandal. Every crime. Every mistake. Your families will share their consequences completely.”

The Duchess, sitting beside Heena, looked at the four men with a sneer.

“Come on, sweethearts,” she said mockingly. “Are you really thinking about this so hard?”

They looked up at her with clenched fists, not knowing what to say.

The Duchess continued, her voice taking on a patronizing tone: “If you have the palace, you can get another heir. But if you don’t have the palace—if your entire family is destroyed—what good is one heir?”

She looked at them, and then her eyes deliberately lowered toward a… certain part of their anatomy.

“It’s not like you ’can’t’ have more children. Have you forgotten that Lord Robert had a child at seventy-five? And you gentlemen aren’t even fully fifty yet.”

She smiled wickedly.

“You all have young wives. Mistresses. Plenty of options. One son is replaceable. Your family legacy is not.”

The room fell into tense silence.

The four patriarchs looked at each other, then at the documents, then at Heena and the Duchess.

They were trapped.

If they signed, they abandoned their sons—men they’d raised and invested in.

If they didn’t sign, they risked everything their families had built over generations.

Finally, Damien’s father—the one with the most backup children—reached for the contract.

“I need time to read this thoroughly,” he said carefully.

“Of course,” Heena said pleasantly. “Take your time. You have until the end of today’s meeting to decide.”

She picked up her tea again and took another sip.

“Now,” she said, “shall we discuss exactly what your sons have been accused of? I think you deserve to know the full extent of their… activities… before you make your final decision.”

The patriarchs’ expressions became grim.

This was going to be a very, very long day.

And at the end of it, they would have to make an impossible choice.

But Heena had planned it perfectly.

Because no matter what they chose, she won.

If they signed, their sons lost all family protection and could be dealt with freely.

If they didn’t sign, she had legal justification to go after the entire families.

Either way, the consorts were finished.

And the patriarchs were finally beginning to understand just how thoroughly they’d been outmaneuvered.

The Duchess caught Heena’s eye and gave her an approving nod.

’Well played, niece. Well played indeed.’

.

.

.

Larus stood in the doorway of the office, watching the servants carefully strip the south wall — every portrait unhooked, every nail pulled clean, the surface cleared with practiced efficiency.

The butler hovered nearby with the expression of a man watching someone defuse something that may or may not be explosive.

Larus pointed at the opposite wall.

“Break that one,” he said.

The butler turned. Looked at the wall. Looked at Larus.

“Your Highness,” he said carefully, “are you — I just want to confirm — are you *certain?*”

Larus looked at him with calm amusement. “The room on that side is larger than the storage space on this side. It has a better window. And Her Majesty’s intention was clearly to have a place to rest without crossing half the palace at three in the morning.” He tilted his head. “I’m simply finding a better wall to break.”

The butler looked uncertain. “But Her Majesty’s order was specifically—”

Larus reached into his inner pocket and produced a ring of keys.

He held them up.

Let them catch the light.

Jingled them once, with great deliberateness.

The butler stared at them.

The main keys. The full set. The ones Heena had placed in his hands on the wedding night with the same casual authority she did everything — as if it were obvious, as if there had never been any question.

“I am,” Larus said, with a grin spreading across his face, “the male empress.”

The butler blinked.

“In other kingdoms,” Larus continued, warming to this entirely, “the empress is the consort — she follows behind, she manages the household, she holds the keys. Here, that’s me.” He looked at the keys with visible delight. “I am the female of the situation. The male female. The—”

He started laughing at his own logic.

The butler, against every professional instinct, also laughed — a genuine, surprised sound that he immediately suppressed back into a dignified smile.

*Ah,* he thought, looking at this foreign prince standing in the imperial office jingling keys and laughing at himself. *That’s why she chose him.*

***

The work moved quickly.

Larus oversaw every part of it with the focused attention of someone who had been managing household staff since he was old enough to be trusted with it. He had Heena’s documents moved first — all of them, organized precisely as they’d been, handed directly to her senior secretaries who catalogued each stack before storing it under guard. He didn’t look at a single page.

The servants noticed.

Nobody said anything, but they noticed.

By the time the wall came down and the dust cleared, the room beyond revealed itself in the morning light — one side purple, the other deep blue, the ceiling white and vaulted and unexpectedly peaceful. The kind of room that had been made with intention, not just function.

Larus walked through it slowly.

He opened the balcony doors and fresh air rolled in, carrying the smell of the garden below. He looked out and realized with a small, warm surprise that the balcony faced directly toward the window of Heena’s office — close enough to see light in, far enough for privacy.

He stood there for a moment.

Then he checked the bathroom — large, well-appointed, only slightly smaller than the empress’s own — and came back out with a slightly puzzled expression.

He turned to the butler.

“This room,” he said, “is almost as large as the empress’s chamber.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“But every other room I’ve seen — including my own — is considerably smaller.” He looked around. “Why is this one different?”

The butler’s expression shifted.

Something warmer came into it, and something slightly older — the look of a man reaching back for a memory he kept carefully maintained.

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