By some divine miracle, Elliott had managed to make a small dent in the food pile. Even some of the surface of the plate—covered in intricate golden designs—was visible now. It was, frankly, a victory. As good as he could manage.
And then—dessert was served.
There were various sweet dishes, but the centerpiece was clearly the chocolate and raspberry pastries. Delicate, flaky, cruelly decadent.
Elliott's eyes went to them the moment the servants brought the tray in. His gaze held longing—palpable, deep longing. Like he was staring at a presumed-dead, long-lost lover. One he thought he'd never see again, only to be reunited under the cruelest circumstances.
Gabriella's eyes followed his gaze and understood immediately. She knew Elliott's sweet tooth better than anyone.
"No," she said firmly, before Elliott even had a chance to gesture to a servant.
Elliott's eyes widened.
This was cruelty. Unprecedented, heinous cruelty. After enduring the dreadful dinner—with peas, mind you—he deserved the pastries.
He looked at her with the pure indignation of a royal watching their birthright being snatched from them.
Aiden, ever the rebellious one—and also terribly weak against Elliott's eyes—intervened.
"He's earned it."
Elliott, ever-suffering, seemed to have a moment of clarity. He could have the entire damn plate if he wished. With a single word. He tried to assert authority.
"I am the Emperor—"
He was promptly, ruthlessly, shot down.
Apparently, he held no real authority in this particular matter. He could not, in fact, have the entire plate with a single word.
The standoff—ahem, negotiations—continued between Gabriella and Aiden.
Aiden leaned forward, elbows braced on the table, his expression firm. A loyal knight defending his monarch's dignity. "He ate some of the beans."
Gabriella arched a brow, unimpressed. "Three bites."
"That's three more than last week."
"A miracle," she deadpanned.
Aiden tried again. "He ate the other dishes!"
"He ate the mashed potatoes and broth. Not exactly a well-balanced meal."
Elliott, wisely sensing Aiden's weakening argument and the possibility of his future withdrawal, decided to send reinforcements—in the form of his best pleading look.
Big mistake.
Aiden's breath hitched.
It was the eyes.
The wide, unfairly long-lashed eyes glimmered with just the right cocktail of emotions—innocence, sorrow, the faintest tinge of betrayal—to make Aiden's own emotions spin out like a carriage on black ice.
Aiden's logic crumbled like a poorly constructed sandcastle meeting the tide. He was out of arguments. But not defeated. Never defeated.
"At least he tried," he muttered. "As they say, effort matters more than the result."
"No one says that."
"Well—I'm saying it now," Aiden shot back, stubbornly. Still not defeated. His persistence was admirable, really. If also a little misguided.
Gabriella's gaze flickered between Elliott and Aiden, lips pursed.
Elliott's eyes were still fixed on Aiden. And the boy—clearly not immune to the eyes like she was—had completely folded, and would continue to defend Elliott no matter how nonsensical his argument became.
You could not reason with a lovesick man. Gabriella knew this.
"...You're indulging him," she said flatly.
Aiden scowled. "He's sick," he replied, as if that explained everything.
"He's spoiled."
Aiden immediately sprang to Elliott's defense like a knight shielding his beloved from baseless slander. "He certainly is not!"
Elliott, sensing her resistance weakening, let out a sigh. Sad. Fragile. Noble. The sigh of a dethroned queen mourning the state of her fallen kingdom.
"I could die," he murmured.
Gabriella's expression was flatter than a wooden board. "You're not dying from the lack of sugar."
"You don't know that, Mother."
And that was when Elliott saw it. The crack.
The momentary shift in Gabriella's stern resolve.
Gabriella Lancaster was surrendering—though not completely. She exhaled sharply through her nose.
"...Fine."
Elliott brightened instantly.
"—Half a pastry."
Elliott's un-brightened just as fast.
Before he could voice his many, many grievances, Gabriella fixed him with the look.
The look that said don't test me, I dare you.
Aiden, ever the idealist and loudest defendant of Elliott's honor, wanted to argue. Wanted to defend Elliott's right to a whole pastry. But something in Gabriella's gaze told him this was already a generous compromise.
He wisely chose the road of pragmatism. He reached for a pastry and, with practiced ease, drew his dagger—because apparently subtlety was dead because Aiden's dagger killed it—and split it cleanly in half.
"There."
He placed the slightly larger half on Elliott's plate, a silent act of comfort.
Elliott stared at it like it was a broken relic of a fallen empire.
"This is injustice," he muttered.
Gabriella deadpanned, "Eat it or lose it."
And Elliott, tragically, ate it.
He nibbled on the very inadequate, meager prize with all the tragic but last-standing dignity of a deposed monarch whose kingdom had been annexed by a laughing enemy.
From across the table, Gabriella caught Aiden's eyes. She was staring at him intently. Calculatingly.
She raised a brow. You're weak, her expression seemed to say.
Aiden met her gaze, inwardly bristling. I'm pragmatic, he replied silently.
Gabriella rolled her eyes.
It was clear she didn't believe that. Not even a little.
Keep telling yourself that, her look said.
Aiden pointedly ignored it.