The car door closed with a soft, final click, muffling the background noise of nobility like a soundproofed confession booth. Lucas exhaled, long and slow, then slumped sideways into the buttery leather seat like a man escaping death by champagne flute.
Trevor didn't speak at first. He let the silence stretch, content to watch Lucas melt into the upholstery like an overworked aristocrat in exile. Only when the driver turned down the side avenue and the estate skyline reappeared did he glance over with a knowing smile.
"So," Trevor began, voice all silk and danger, "remind me to have the windows at the luncheon venue replaced. I think a few cracked under the pressure of you glaring."
Lucas didn't move. "Trevor."
"Yes, love?"
"If you make me go to one more of these events, I will fake my own death."
Trevor looked utterly unbothered. "You'd do it well. But Cressida would track your corpse halfway across the continent for posture violations."
