Chapter 18: Negotiations (1)

Lucien was just beginning to drift into the blissful half-conscious state of a man who fully intended to sleep until someone physically removed the mattress from under him, when the sound of someone sprinting down the hallway shattered the peace.

Knock-knock-knock—BANG.

Sir Richardson burst in with the haunted eyes of a man juggling ten flaming documents.

“My lord!” he wheezed, clutching the doorframe like it owed him money. 

“They’ve come.”

Lucien cracked one eye open, regretting it instantly.

“Who?” he croaked, his voice dry from sleep and residual humiliation.

“If it’s the pallbearers then tell them to come tomorrow, I am too tired to get into a coffin just yet.” 

“The representatives,” Richardson gasped. 

“The ones who responded to our letters—House Delcrosse, Merriweather, Harth, even those snobs from Glaivewater with their scented ink and God-forsaken interest in heirloom pears. They’re here. In the drawing room. With ledgers. And monocles. Now.”

Lucien lay still for a moment, mentally reviewing his sins from both his current and previous lives to determine which one warranted this kind of punishment.

“…Of course they are,” he muttered, face sinking deeper into the pillow. 

‘Why wouldn’t they arrive today? The one morning after I spent two hours being forcibly converted into a jogging corpse by a woman built like a marble statue and just as merciful.’

Richardson didn’t seem to hear the complaint. 

“They’ve brought… retainers. With lists. Detailed lists,” he whispered, horrified. 

“Of preferred tea blends. And coffee origins. Do you know what a ‘citrus-forward finish’ is? Because I certainly don’t!”

“Stars preserve us,” Lucien grunted.

“Anyway, I must organize refreshments before one of them has a taste-based tantrum. Good luck!” 

And just like that, Richardson was gone—vanishing down the hall in a swirl of administrative panic and cravat flaps.

Lucien stared at the ceiling.

‘This body is a scam.’

Everything ached. 

His calves were locked. 

His thighs whimpered with every twitch. 

His ribs felt like they’d been repurposed as xylophone keys during yesterday’s run with Vaelira. 

The girl had moved like a panther. 

Lucien had moved like a drunk librarian with polio. 

By the end of it, he’d seriously considered faking death just to avoid a second lap.

‘Twenty years of sedentary living, he thought grimly. And now I’m paying interest on everyday Lucien spent dilly dallying.’

Groaning, he sat up. 

Or tried to. 

His lower back performed a tragic solo and his shoulders gave an ominous pop. 

“Reincarnation, they said,” he muttered internally. 

“A fresh start, they said. Not ‘congratulations, you’ve been reborn with the stamina of a sleep-deprived intern and the flexibility of a bent paperclip.’”

Still, he had to get up. 

His entire plan hinged on these merchants. 

Their support would legitimize the orchard, keep Vaelira’s standing intact, and more importantly, keep Lucien from ending up stuffed in a wine barrel by political rivals.

He dragged himself out of bed like a shipwrecked sailor crawling onto shore. 

Every step to the washbasin was a negotiation with his knees. 

Every button he fastened on his shirt came with a prayer and a wince.

The mirror mocked him. 

Pale skin. 

Shadows under the eyes. 

A cravat tied with the elegance of a frightened raccoon.

He stared at himself.

“You are Lucien Crowley,” he whispered. “Heir to…something. Probably. You survived death, rebirth, and Vaelira’s cardio regimen. You can survive this.”

Silence.

“…You are also fifteen minutes away from having to bluff your way through an economic discussion with people who’ve probably patented their own signature handwriting.”

He straightened his jacket. 

Almost fell over. 

Righted himself. 

‘Confidence. Poise. Denial. That’s how nobles do it, right?’

Needing guidance, or at least help navigating the hallways without collapsing, he spotted a passing maid—a young girl with a stack of linens and the nervous energy of someone who’d just witnessed a duel over a salad fork.

“You,” Lucien said, trying to sound dignified instead of barely upright. 

“Could you please escort me to Lady Vaelira’s quarters?”

The maid froze.

Her face twitched. 

Her eyes went wide as she silently absorbed his request.

She did not speak.

But inside her mind, fireworks went off.

‘He’s going to her. First thing in the morning. Rumpled hair, breathless… oh saints, is that a love bite? No—no, it’s just a bruise. Wait, or is it?’

Lucien tilted his head. 

“Everything all right?”

She nodded. 

Fast. 

Too fast. 

Then she turned with robotic precision and began walking.

‘He’s so bold. Is this why Lady Vaelira looked smug all week? I knew it. I knew there was something going on. The orchard isn’t the only thing blooming this season.’

Lucien, oblivious to the fanfiction forming beside him, limped after her.

One floor down, multiple representatives were currently engaged in civil war over tea strength.

And he had no idea how to brew anything except existential dread.

***

Lucien knocked once and stepped inside before he could lose his nerve.

Vaelira was seated by her window, sunlight catching in the silver of her hair as she paged through a thick, leather-bound book. 

She looked up the moment the door opened, her gaze sharp, her posture precise as always.

“You survived the morning,” she observed. “A miracle. Shall I alert the temple and have your likeness painted for the archives?”

Lucien shut the door behind him with a tired sigh. “Only if they’re willing to capture the limp. I’d like future generations to appreciate the historical accuracy.”

Her lips quirked, just slightly, but she said nothing more as he crossed the room and eased into the chair across from her, careful to groan as little as possible.

“I see you’ve dressed,” she remarked, as if surprised. 

“Is this a symptom of fever, or has the estate finally run out of sleepwear?”

Lucien glanced down at his attire—wrinkled, slightly uneven, but technically formal. 

“Desperation does strange things to a man’s dignity. This morning I was dragging myself across the floor like an injured deer. Now I’m wearing a waistcoat. Life is strange.”

“Mm. The waistcoat is crooked,” she replied. 

“But the suffering suits you.”

He gave her a pained smile. 

“Flattery. How rare.”

There was a brief silence. 

Vaelira returned her attention to her book, but Lucien didn’t move.

She spoke without looking up. 

“So? What brings you here? I assume you haven’t come to share notes on horticulture.”

Lucien leaned forward slightly. 

“The merchants have arrived. Several of the houses who wrote back—Merriweather, Arloine, Thorne—have sent representatives ahead of schedule. They’re currently being entertained by Richardson and the better part of our tea reserves.”

Vaelira raised a brow, unimpressed. 

“Then I’m sure they are in excellent hands. You may leave me out of it.”

Lucien blinked. 

“…No. That’s—actually why I’m here. I need you at that table.”

“I see. You’ve come to deliver a request dressed as an invitation.”

“A formal one, if that helps.”

“It doesn’t.”

He sighed and pressed on. 

“I need someone there who knows how to speak their language. Nobility. Commerce. Passive aggression concealed behind lace fans. I can talk circles around idiots and bluff through swordplay, but this is politics with sugar on top.”

Vaelira didn’t respond. 

She merely turned another page in her book.

Lucien hesitated. 

Then added, more carefully, “You’re the only person they’ll take seriously. You carry the blood, the posture, the reputation… You know what to say, and more importantly, when not to say it.”

“And you?” 

She asked, still not looking up.

“I mostly say the wrong thing at the wrong time and hope my smile looks expensive enough to distract them.”

At that, she looked at him, expression unreadable.

“You want me to play escort to your self-deprecating debut.”

“I want you to help make sure this orchard has a future,” he replied, quieter now. 

“I can handle discomfort. But I can’t handle watching everything we’ve done so far get dismissed because I didn’t know the proper fork to use at brunch.”

Vaelira considered him for a long moment. Her voice, when it came, was mild. 

“Still not a compelling argument.”

Lucien inhaled slowly.

Then, very softly, he added, “…It would help. Just having you there. I know I hide behind jokes, and maybe I’m not as polished as the men who usually sit at those tables, but I’m trying. And the truth is… when you’re in the room, I don’t feel like I’m completely out of my depth.”

That silenced the air between them.

Vaelira watched him. 

No mocking retort. 

No glib rejoinder. 

Just a long, quiet look.

Finally, she closed the book with a faint snap, stood, and reached for her overcoat.

“I suppose it would be unsightly to let you die in front of titled guests.”

Lucien blinked. 

“That’s a yes?”

“Don’t ruin it by getting emotional,” she replied crisply, adjusting the cuffs of her coat. 

“Let’s make our entrance before Richardson bursts a vessel trying to distinguish rosehip from hibiscus.”

Lucien stood, slower than her but straighter this time. 

“Thank you.”

She didn’t respond. 

But as she turned toward the door, her steps were just a touch slower—enough for him to walk beside her.

***

The corridor leading to the negotiation room stretched ahead like the path to an execution chamber—carpeted in muted red and dread.

Lucien winced with every other step, muttering beneath his breath about the vengeance of lactic acid. 

Vaelira walked beside him with a graceful stride, her posture regal, her expression unreadable.

“Do you always walk this fast?” 

Lucien muttered.

“This is normal pace,” she replied. 

“You’re simply adjusting to what we common folk call ‘being upright.’”

“I’ve been upright since breakfast.”

“You were slumped against the bannister groaning like a widowed pirate. I assumed rigor mortis.”

Lucien cast her a sidelong glance. 

“Your sympathy wounds me, truly.”

Vaelira smiled faintly.

“I’m here, aren’t I? Consider it a miracle granted.”

They stopped before the tall double doors of the estate’s meeting chamber. 

Behind it, a cacophony of voices filtered through—heated, overlapping, and growing louder by the second.

Lucien looked at the wood like it had insulted his ancestry.

Vaelira adjusted one of his lapel folds with the precision of a tailor and said, calmly, “Take a breath. Straighten your spine. And remember: they’re more afraid of being undercut than they are of you.”

Lucien gave her a flat look. 

“Breathing hurts. And so does straightening my spine.”

She raised an eyebrow. 

“Then fake both. Confidence is just well-disguised agony.”

Lucien inhaled. 

Instantly regretted it. 

“That tracks.”

Vaelira pushed open the doors.

The room exploded into view like a nest of furious peacocks in velvet.

One of the merchant delegates—House Arloine, judging by the excessive rings—was shouting about the tea being “inferior leaf dust fit for a sickly goat.” 

Another, from House Merriweather, waved a folded cloth napkin in the air like it was a dueling glove. 

A third had cornered a trembling maid and was furiously explaining the difference between northern and southern cinnamon infusions.

At the far end, Richardson looked like a ghost that had been through a second haunting. 

He held two trays of cups, three documents, and a quill in his mouth. 

His eyes met Lucien’s. 

They screamed, ‘Why have you forsaken me?’

Lucien coughed.

No one heard.

He coughed again—louder.

Still nothing.

He coughed a third time, this one drawing some heads.

Then he actually coughed, bent over slightly, and hacked like a cursed noble dying of poetic illness.

“Oh,” he rasped, “I think I saw the underworld for a second.”

Vaelira, unmoved, stepped forward and raised her voice. 

“Gentlemen.”

The noise faltered.

“Good morning,” she said crisply.

“Now that the host has arrived, we may begin this… enlightening discourse.”

All eyes turned to Lucien. 

He wiped his mouth with a handkerchief like a war veteran, nodded at the gathered representatives, and somehow managed to straighten his spine another inch—through sheer spite.

“Shall we?” 

He said, smiling with only some internal bleeding.

The room fell into a strained, polite silence. 

The kind that comes right before the bloodletting.

Vaelira took her seat next to Lucien with the calm of someone who knew exactly which contracts had loopholes and which guests had weak bladders. 

Lucien on the other hand had the expression of someone somewhere between diplomatic poise and profound regret.

Let the games begin.