Chapter 363: Chapter 363: The family’s headache
The clinking of glassware had faded, and the last of Serathine’s staff was dismissed for the night. Lucas had retired upstairs under Serathine’s gentle insistence and Windstone’s efficient supervision, leaving Trevor alone with his thoughts and the echo of laughter from the dining hall.
He had just poured himself a finger of whiskey in the sitting room when a voice as cool and imperious as polished steel reached him from the doorway.
"Trevor Fitzgeralt. My study. Now."
He turned, unsurprised, one eyebrow lifting at the sight of his grandmother framed in the amber light of the corridor. "Technically, Serathine’s study and you know, most people preface that with ’please.’"
Cressida arched a perfect white brow, the corner of her mouth twitching. "Most people," she said, "aren’t me. And Serathine isn’t foolish enough to stop me from borrowing her study when necessary."
Trevor sighed, swirling the whiskey in his glass before setting it down. "Of course not. God forbid anyone stop you from commandeering foreign territory."
She gave a dry hum of approval. "You learned well. Now move."
He followed her down the hall, the soft tap of her cane against the marble punctuating each step. The lights were low, the manor settling into that late-night quiet that always felt too still to be peaceful.
Inside the study, the scent of paper and faint perfume hung in the air. Cressida didn’t sit; she simply turned toward him, the lamplight gilding the sharp lines of her face.
"You’re going to tell me why you’ve been dodging your mother’s calls," she said without preamble.
Trevor blinked, then groaned. "You dragged me in here for that?"
"Yes," Cressida said crisply. "Because when the woman I hate most starts pretending she’s maternal, it’s never for the sake of affection. It’s business."
"Grandma, believe me, I know." Trevor set the glass down with calculated care, the clink loud in the quiet study. "Hence the silence. She wasn’t thrilled our wedding went over so well after that disastrous dinner. Let them rot; everything but the title of Marquess is in my name."
Cressida’s eyes glittered, half-approval, half-warning. "You prepared for this?" she asked quietly.
"Prepared," Trevor said. The single word held no swagger, only the cold precision of someone who had already anticipated fifty moves ahead. "I’ve set the legal buffers, the private trusts, and a cage of offshore protections no whisper can touch. I’ve seeded the board with allies and secured nondisclosure clauses that would make a lawyer weep. If she tries to move, she’ll find her hands empty."
A slow, approving smile crossed Cressida’s face. "This is why you are my favorite grandson."
"And because I look like my grandfather," Trevor added, taking another measured sip.
"That too." Cressida’s pale eyes glittered with the same hard amusement his violet ones often did. She paused, thoughtful. "What if... I make you Marquis of Fitzgeralt. I’m old, and I’d like to watch her wrenching outrage when the papers print it."
Trevor froze mid-sip, lowering the glass with deliberate care. "You’re joking."
Cressida tilted her head, the movement regal, faintly predatory. "Do I look like a woman who jokes about succession?"
"Sometimes," he said slowly, "but only when you plan to watch the fallout from a very comfortable distance."
Her mouth curved, sharp as a blade’s edge. "Exactly. And tell me that wouldn’t be worth it. Imagine her face when the official gazette prints your elevation, the title she’s been clawing after for over thirty years landing neatly in the hands of the son she tried to disown."
Trevor’s grin was slow and dangerous. "You’re vicious, Grandmother. I love it."
"I’m efficient," Cressida corrected. "Viciousness is simply good manners in our family." She leaned back slightly against the desk, cane balanced in one hand, her voice dropping to something softer, still cutting, but fond. "You’ve already built more than any of them ever could. Might as well wear the crown to match."
Trevor chuckled, swirling the last of his drink. "I’d thought you’d keep the title until the bitter end, the press would call it the eternal reign of the Marchioness of Ice."
"Darling, the press already does," Cressida said with a shrug. "And I rather like the sound of it. But I’m not sentimental about power, only about legacy. The name Fitzgeralt should mean something again, and you’ve earned the right to decide what that is."
He studied her for a moment, something almost solemn flickering beneath the amusement. "You’re serious."
"Deadly," she said. Then, after a heartbeat, "And before you ask, no, this isn’t charity. It’s strategy. If she wants to fight, she’ll have to go through the Marquis himself. And I’d very much like to see her try."
Trevor’s lips curved, slow and certain. "You realize you’re giving me every weapon I’ve ever wanted."
"I’m aware," Cressida said. "Just make sure you use them elegantly."
He raised his glass one last time in salute. "To elegance, then. And to making her life a waking nightmare."
Cressida’s smile was pure frost and satisfaction. "Now that," she said, "is a toast worthy of a Fitzgeralt."
Trevor lingered just long enough to finish his drink after Cressida’s declaration, then set the glass down with a quiet click that sounded more like a decision than a farewell.
"I’ll let you handle the paperwork," he said lightly.
Cressida smiled, thin and sharp. "Already done."
Of course it was.
He left the study to the echo of her cane striking marble, the cadence of someone pleased with her own cleverness. The manor was half asleep by then, chandeliers dimmed, servants long gone to their quarters. His footsteps were soft against the carpeted hall as he made his way toward the guest wing Serathine had insisted he and Lucas use for the night. Something about ’family bonding’ and ’staying close so I can keep an eye on both of you.’
He wasn’t sure which woman terrified him more: his grandmother with her strategic brilliance or Serathine with her disarming warmth that somehow achieved the same results.
When he slipped into the bedroom, the lamps were still low. Lucas was curled up against a mountain of too-soft pillows, reading something on his tablet that he immediately lowered the second Trevor walked in. His green eyes flicked up, sharp even through the drowsiness.
"You look smug," Lucas said, voice faintly hoarse. "Never a good sign."
Trevor loosened his tie and leaned against the doorframe. "Cressida just promoted me."
Lucas blinked. "To what? Family headache? You already hold the position."
"Marquis of Fitzgeralt."
For a beat, Lucas just stared. Then his expression shifted, not quite shock, not quite horror, but something caught between resignation and disbelief. "You’re serious."
"Apparently, so is she." Trevor crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, undoing his cufflinks with casual precision. "The paperwork’s already drafted. She wants to announce it publicly."
Lucas groaned and flopped back into the pillows, dragging one over his face. "No."