Chapter 134: Chapter 134: Past Lunch

Rafael changed quickly into something simple, like he’d decided he wouldn’t give the day the satisfaction of becoming a performance. A soft blue shirt, dark trousers, and house shoes made Peter look faintly pleased, as if Rafael choosing comfort counted as a moral victory.

He tied his hair back with a clip because if he left it down, Gregoris would touch it, and Rafael did not have time to be distracted again.

Not with Layle waiting.

Not with the shape of their family shifting under their feet.

Gregoris remained in the bedroom, unbothered and infuriatingly calm, as if he hadn’t personally committed a crime against the concept of morning. He caught Rafael at the door with a hand at his waist.

Rafael exhaled, leaned in, and stole a brief kiss, because he was not going to pretend he didn’t want it. Not with a man built like sin and smelling even better.

Then he left before he could be tempted into staying.

The sitting room smelled like fresh coffee and something sweet. Biscuits. Peter had delivered them like an offering to keep the peace.

Layle was already there.

He stood near the window at first, hands loosely behind his back, posture relaxed but alert in the way heirs learned young. His suit jacket was draped over one arm, shirt sleeves rolled up, like he’d come straight from somewhere official and refused to let the house turn him into a visitor. He turned the moment Rafael entered, gaze sweeping him head to toe in a quick, automatic assessment.

Then Layle’s expression shifted.

Amusement flickered across his face, quick and familiar, the kind that only existed between brothers.

Rafael’s shoulders tensed. “Don’t.”

Layle’s brows lifted, green eyes glinting with mischief. “Don’t what?”

Rafael narrowed his eyes. “Whatever you’re about to say.”

Layle looked deeply entertained by that alone. He stepped away from the window and toward the couch, taking the coffee with a casual ease, then pausing as if he’d just noticed something truly fascinating.

Rafael’s face heated. He could feel it. His neck. The edges of his ears. The lingering warmth had no business following him into a conversation with his brother.

Layle’s gaze lingered on Rafael’s mouth for half a second too long.

Then Layle’s smile widened, slow and wicked in a way that made Rafael want to throw a biscuit at him.

“I have to ask,” Layle said.

Rafael’s eyes sharpened. “You don’t.”

Layle ignored him with the confidence of an older brother who had survived Delphine and therefore feared no one. “Did I interrupt something?”

Rafael stared at him.

He stared longer.

Then he chose violence with dignity. “You’re early.”

Layle’s laugh was quiet, pleased. “It’s past lunch.”

“It’s barely lunch,” Rafael snapped.

Layle’s eyes gleamed. “That’s not what Peter said.”

Rafael went very still. “Peter speaks too much.”

Layle’s grin turned outright. “Peter doesn’t speak too much. He just speaks at exactly the wrong time for you.”

Rafael’s mouth went tight. “Layle.”

Layle raised both hands in surrender, still amused. “Fine. Fine. I won’t tease.”

He let the silence breathe for a beat, like he was giving Rafael a chance to recover what was left of his dignity.

Then his gaze shifted. The mischief stayed in the corners because Layle was Layle, but the weight underneath it surfaced.

“I didn’t come here to talk about your sex life,” he said dryly. “Even if you insist on making it the first thing I notice.”

Rafael’s eyes narrowed. “Layle.”

Layle leaned forward and reached into the inside pocket of his draped jacket. He pulled out a slim folder – thick enough to be annoying, neat enough to be official – and set it on the table between the coffee and the biscuits like the paper itself disgusted him.

Rafael’s posture changed as he knew very well that there would be something he wouldn’t like.

Layle watched him for a second, expression smoothing into something practical. “She’s buried.”

Rafael didn’t respond immediately. His throat worked once.

Layle’s voice stayed even, but there was a rough edge at the end that he refused to acknowledge. “Two days in the ground and the vultures have already started circling. You know how it is.”

Rafael’s fingers curled lightly, then relaxed. “You said this was about inheritance.”

“It is.” Layle tapped the folder once. “Her will. And… Father’s, too.”

Rafael’s gaze snapped up. “Father’s?”

Layle’s eyes widened, not amused this time, but as if he was calculating how much of Rafael’s bitterness was armor and how much was a bruise that never healed.

“Close,” he said. “And I hate that you can predict her from the grave.”

Rafael’s laugh was short and flat. “I’ve had years of practice.”

Layle exhaled through his nose, then flipped the folder open again. The paper wasn’t just any paper; it was official vellum threaded with faint ether-ink that shimmered when the light hit it wrong, the kind used when people wanted words to bite and endure.

“It’s not phrased as ’marry in the right circle,’” Layle said. “Mother had better taste than being honest on record.” His mouth tightened. “It’s phrased as ’ensure the stability of the House through an appropriate union.’”

Rafael’s eyes went cold. “Appropriate.”

“Yes.” Layle pointed to the clause, and the ether-script flared faintly beneath his fingertip, an old ward, passive but stubborn, designed to prevent change. “And if you don’t comply, the assets tied to your name don’t pass to you. They pass to a trustee.”

Rafael’s jaw clenched. “A trustee that just happens to be one of her friends.”

Layle’s smile turned humorless. “Worse. A distant cousin with a hungry title and no shame. “The type of man who would call it duty while spending the money.” He paused, then added, quieter, “The clause is built like a trap.”

Rafael stared at the documents like they were alive.

In the etherlight, the seals were more than wax: thin filaments of power braided into the Rosenroth crest, the imprint of Delphine’s signature woven into the warding the way a scent could stain a room long after the person left.

“So she built herself a puppet even after she died,” Rafael said.

“She tried,” Layle corrected. “Legally, it’s messy. Magically, it’s annoyingly well done. She paid for a scribe who knew how to make a clause cling.” His eyes hardened. “But clinging isn’t the same as unbreakable.”

Rafael’s fingers flexed, a controlled urge to crush something. “And Father’s will?”

Layle’s gaze flicked up, steady. “Father left you something directly, everything clean and no hidden conditions.”

Rafael blinked once. “Then why—”

“Because,” Layle said, and the word came out sharper than he intended, “Mother was the executor.”

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