Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 358 - 352: Stationery shop in the Empress’s Office

The Empress’s Office looked like a stationery shop had exploded.

Letters sprawled across the marble table in elegant chaos: cream vellum, blush-pressed silk, and rice-paper scrolls laced in real gold. The air was thick with perfume and powdered wax, and somewhere near the fireplace sat a carved wooden box that had once been a cradle and now functioned solely as a pedestal for more letters.

Gabriel stood near the far window, expression unreadable, a cup of tea in one hand and a list of titles he never asked to inherit in the other. He wasn’t reading. He was counting.

Ten seconds. Twenty. A full minute since someone said his name again.

It didn’t last.

"This one has a lock of hair in it," Alexandra announced triumphantly, holding the letter up between two fingers like it had personally offended her. "A real lock. Of hair. From a baroness claiming her family line has fertility blessings."

Irina gasped, delighted. "Do you think it’s blessed hair or just... commemorative?"

Crista, seated with impossible poise near the end of the table, did not look up. "It’s desperation," she said calmly. "And mildly unhygienic."

Gabriel pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I liked it better when they all thought I was a scandal."

"You were a scandal," Alexandra replied sweetly, her eyes not leaving the ornate letter she was slicing open with a jeweled letter opener. "Now every noble tries to get in my graces and make me send you their loyalty..."

She dropped the card onto the growing pile of rose-scented flattery.

"...and possible marriage proposals." freёweɓnovel_com

Gabriel blinked. "For whom? The child isn’t even born and I’m bonded. Engaged."

Alexandra gave him a look over the rim of her teacup. "But not married."

Irina let out a soft gasp of recognition, glancing between them like she’d stumbled into a sacred noble rite she hadn’t studied for.

"And," Alexandra added, clearly enjoying this, "most of the old blood nobles expect you and the Emperor to quietly go your separate ways after the heir is born. Like they do."

Gabriel looked appalled. "I’m not an old duchess with a marriage contract and a conveniently separate villa."

"No," Crista said smoothly from her seat by the window, "but you are the first omega in centuries to carry the imperial heir and still sleep in the Emperor’s wing. Tradition doesn’t know what to do with that."

"I only hope Damian doesn’t hear this nonsense," Gabriel muttered, already knowing full well that if he hadn’t, someone would make sure he did.

"He already knows," Edward said calmly, sweeping into the room like a perfectly trained storm. His gloves were still immaculate, his expression the definition of neutral courtesy, with just the faintest edge of enjoyment beneath it.

Gabriel blinked. "Of course he does."

Edward set a small stack of sealed documents onto the less chaotic end of the desk. "In fact," he added, almost as an afterthought, "he kept almost all the marriage proposals."

Crista paused mid-sip.

Alexandra dropped her letter opener.

Irina made a small, delighted sound, like this was better than anything she’d found in the last ten scrolls.

Gabriel stared. "He what?"

Edward adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves. "Filed, catalogued, annotated. With names and house status. He’s quite thorough."

"I’m going to kill him," Gabriel said flatly.

"No, you’re not," Crista murmured without looking up.

"He said—and I quote—’If they’re bold enough to suggest it, I might as well know who to target first.’"

Alexandra wheezed. "That’s romantic, in a deeply terrifying way."

"It’s also Damian," Gabriel muttered, sitting back like the chair had betrayed him too. "He’s stockpiling rejection letters like they’re battle plans."

"Technically, they are," Edward said helpfully.

"I cannot believe I’m carrying his child."

"Do you want me to bring you the folder?" Edward asked, already knowing the answer.

"No," Gabriel said. "Burn it. Then burn the ashes."

Alexandra leaned over and whispered, "You do realize he probably laminated them."

Gabriel’s eye twitched.

Irina, still clutching a bundle of decorative rattle designs, whispered reverently, "I want a love like that."

Crista just smiled, the way only a Lyon could. "Be careful what you wish for, darling."

"Now," Gabriel said, setting down yet another scroll wrapped in desperate velvet, "that reminds me, Irina, are you still helping Christian?"

Irina froze, her hands halfway through untying a ribbon embroidered with miniature storks. Her expression wavered somewhere between pride and panic.

"I—um—define helping," she offered.

Alexandra snorted. "He means your suspicious presence at every single social event Christian has attended for the last month."

"I’m invited," Irina protested. "And it’s good practice. Networking. Diplomacy. Event pacing. I stood on the left of the Prince during that entire dinner in Lysene and didn’t spill a drop of wine."

"Impressive," Gabriel said blandly. "Especially since Astana was seated directly across from you."

Crista hummed behind her teacup, clearly already several steps ahead.

Irina’s cheeks flushed. "It was strategic positioning. The Empire appreciates visual balance."

"Visual balance?" Alexandra repeated, eyes gleaming.

"It was also the only angle Astana couldn’t avoid Christian’s gaze," Gabriel added, completely deadpan.

Irina sank lower in her chair.

Gabriel folded his hands, the slightest smile playing on his lips. "You’ve been acting as Christian’s human bait."

"I prefer the term ’ally’!"

"You’ve taken him to three exhibitions, two banquets, and the opening of a shipping route in the middle of a marsh," Alexandra reminded her. "Even I wouldn’t show up for that."

"I wanted to get him near Astana without forcing it!" Irina protested. "They need to talk. Properly. Like people. Not two terrified political symbols wrapped in five layers of court etiquette."

Gabriel raised a brow. "Astana looked like he was about to bolt from the museum when Christian complimented his handwriting."

Crista finally set down her cup. "He blushed."

"He turned purple," Gabriel corrected. "I had to step out to keep a straight face."

"I’m doing my best," Irina muttered under her breath, folding a congratulatory letter in half a little too sharply. "Honestly, both are stubborn. Seems to be a skill of the royal family."

Crista smiled faintly, like someone who had cultivated that skill over decades and had no intention of denying it.

Alexandra leaned back in her chair and gave Irina a pitying look. "You’re trying to pair an emotionally repressed prince with the most unflappable man in the palace. That’s not matchmaking. That’s siege warfare."

"I don’t want to pressure anyone," Irina said, flustered. "I just... think they’d be good for each other."

Gabriel hummed. "They would. If one of them ever admits to being human."

"Christian talks about Astana constantly when he thinks no one’s listening," Irina whispered.

"And Astana rearranged his entire calendar just to ’accidentally’ attend the gala after learning Christian would be there," Alexandra said with a smirk. "He then stood behind a column for thirty minutes pretending to read.

Crista, still the picture of elegance, sipped her tea and added, "It’s courtship by slow exposure. Very traditional."

Gabriel looked at the three of them, all clearly invested, all quietly scheming, and leaned back in his chair with a sigh.

"You do realize," he said, "if this ends in a disaster, I’ll be the one Damian blames."

Alexandra didn’t blink. "He won’t."

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