Chapter 91: Chapter 91: Announcement

Over a month after Marin’s pregnancy announcement, Rafael was surprised by many things and, somehow, by none of them.

Gregoris had asked – no, imposed – that Rafael remain in his mansion. Rafael had every intention of fighting him over it. He even prepared several very sharp arguments. Unfortunately for his pride, the timing was disastrous. The imperial wedding came first. Then Gabriel’s coronation as Empress. The palace dissolved into controlled chaos, schedules, rehearsals, security layers, and ceremonial perfection, and whatever confrontation Rafael had planned was quietly buried under the weight of an Empire preparing to reinvent itself.

Which meant Gregoris was almost never home – at the Shadow base, the military headquarters, the palace, the imperial offices, or the cathedral where the coronation rehearsals were being drilled into perfection. Everywhere, in other words, everywhere except the mansion.

Rafael, in contrast, had a mercifully lighter schedule. Damian’s departments swallowed most of the ceremonial disaster whole, and Rafael had simply wished Astana good luck, handed over what he could, and vanished back into his own work with the efficiency of someone who did not want to be emotionally available.

The second surprise was that no one knew.

Marin had kept the pregnancy sealed behind medical confidentiality and professional threats. Gregoris had kept his mouth shut. Which meant that Gabriel, Alexandra, Irina, and Edward – his so-called team – were blissfully ignorant.

Which meant Rafael could not even be properly offended that they found out from third parties.

He would have to tell them himself.

This was, in his opinion, deeply unfair.

Delphine’s silence was worse.

No messages. No strategic visits. No hovering. No polite inquiries that were actually interrogations. His mother not reacting at all was deeply unsettling. It meant calculation. It meant that when she did move, it would be precise, elegant, and devastating for him, mostly.

Now, almost three months pregnant and blessedly spared morning sickness so far, Rafael stood in the imperial office of the newly officially married consort with Arik in his arms.

The baby was warm, heavy in that delicate, boneless way infants had, black hair already a soft mess and those unmistakable golden eyes blinking up at him with solemn curiosity. No one would have guessed the child was Damian’s without them. The child looked so cute and lovely, and the emperor was anything but that.

Gabriel was at his desk, drowning in post-wedding and pre-coronation documents. Alexandra and Irina were on the floor again, surrounded by gift boxes and ribbons, sorting with focused enthusiasm. Edward stood nearby, reciting household and security updates in his usual calm, precise tone.

It was… peaceful.

Which meant it was about to be ruined.

Rafael shifted Arik slightly when the baby made a small protesting sound, then looked at them. At his friends. His coworkers. His future witnesses.

There was no graceful way to do this.

“Gabriel,” Rafael said.

The consort looked up immediately. “Yes?”

Rafael drew a slow breath, steadying himself, one hand instinctively supporting Arik’s back.

“I am… expecting.”

For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

Then…

Alexandra froze with a tiny ceremonial boot in her hands.

Irina’s mouth fell open.

Edward stopped mid-sentence, the tablet in his hand lowering by a fraction.

Gabriel simply stared at him.

The silence stretched, thin and disbelieving.

“You’re what?” Alexandra finally breathed.

“Pregnant,” Rafael clarified, flat and unapologetic, as if discussing the weather and not detonating the emotional equilibrium of the room.

Arik chose that moment to yawn.

Edward was the first to recover enough to speak, voice carefully neutral. “Congratulations,” he said. Then, after a pause, “Should I… increase security protocols?”

Irina blinked rapidly. “You’re… wait, you’re serious?” She then pieced everything together. “Gregoris is the father?!” She yelled.

Alexandra made a small, strangled sound somewhere between a gasp and a laugh. “Irina…”

“Yes, Irina,” Rafael cut in calmly, shifting Arik slightly as the baby wriggled. “Your powers of deduction remain unmatched. Gregoris is, indeed, the father.”

Irina stared at him as if he had just informed her the sky had decided to fall.

“Gregoris. As in the Bloodhound of the Emperor. As in the Duke. As in the man who looks like he could intimidate mountains. AS IN THE MAN YOU SWORE YOU HATE?! DON’T TELL ME YOU ARE BONDED TOO!!”

Rafael wisely said nothing.

Alexandra’s gaze slid, slowly and inevitably, to Rafael’s nape, then to Gabriel, who didn’t look surprised in the slightest. She had bet it would happen on the night of her charity gala with Caelan. She had, in fact, put actual money on it.

She smiled, sharp and triumphant.

“Let me guess,” she said sweetly. “Around eleven weeks pregnant?”

Rafael closed his eyes for a second.

“Do not look so pleased,” he warned.

Alexandra’s grin only widened. “I told my husband you’d be impossible to miss after that night. He owes me money.”

Irina turned slowly toward her. “You bet on this?”

“Of course I did,” Alexandra replied. “This family expresses affection through wagers and emotional chaos.”

Irina made a small, wounded sound. “You placed a bet on our Rafael getting pregnant by the Emperor’s Bloodhound.”

Alexandra shrugged elegantly. “In my defense, the odds were excellent.”

Rafael opened his eyes and looked at her flatly. “You are impossible.”

“And yet,” she said, still grinning, “accurate.”

Gabriel folded his arms, studying Rafael with quiet attention, the amusement in his eyes tempered by something warmer. “Eleven weeks would explain the timing with the southern campaign and the shift in your schedule.”

Edward’s stylus paused. “That would place conception shortly after the charity gala.”

Rafael sighed. “Please do not reconstruct the timeline out loud. I am already living it.”

Irina blinked again, processing. “So you’re… bonded. To Gregoris, pregnant and not married. Does your mother know?”

Rafael grimaced.

“No,” he said. “Which is why I am still standing here and not being subjected to what will, in hindsight, be referred to as ’The Rosenroth Strategic Intervention.’”

Alexandra winced in sympathy. “Oh. She’s going to be terrifying.”

“Elegantly,” Rafael corrected. “With documents.”

Edward made a quiet note on his tablet. “We should prepare contingency protocols for Lady Delphine’s arrival.”

“You should prepare bunkers,” Irina muttered.

Gabriel finally stepped closer, gaze soft but sharp in that uniquely imperial way. “And Gregoris?”

Rafael adjusted Arik, who had begun gnawing thoughtfully on his sleeve. “Unhelpfully calm. Smiling, even. As if this is not about to detonate half the aristocracy.”

“That is his usual expression before things detonate,” Alexandra observed.

Irina looked between them, eyes wide. “So you’re bonded, pregnant, carrying the child of the Emperor’s Bloodhound, and your mother doesn’t know yet. And we’re between a royal wedding and a coronation.”

Rafael inclined his head. “Yes. The timing is, objectively, atrocious.”

Edward cleared his throat. “Do you require assistance with the announcement strategy?”

Rafael looked at him. Then at Gabriel. Then at Alexandra and Irina.

“I require,” he said, very calmly, “strong tea, a locked door, and at least one of you to distract my mother when she inevitably appears like a beautifully dressed storm.”

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