Lucas sat on the edge of the bed, a cufflink balanced between his fingers, glaring at it like it had personally insulted him. The suit laid out across the coverlet was perfectly tailored, with the silk tie folded with military precision, Windstone's handiwork, of course. Somewhere beyond the closed doors of their suite, the manor buzzed faintly with preparations for the evening: cars being readied, menus finalized, and staff scurrying in polite silence.
Across the room, Trevor adjusted the cuffs of his shirt in front of the mirror. Dark suit, violet tie, hair perfectly combed, he looked every inch the head of House Fitzgeralt. Tall, immaculate, and annoyingly attractive. Lucas's green eyes lingered on him longer than was strictly dignified.
This was the problem.
He had two options:
