Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 240 - 235: Dismantling Gracefully

"No," Edward said, without even the courtesy of hesitation.

Gabriel blinked. "No?"

"No," Edward repeated. "You refused the last three candidates, sent the fourth into tears, and the fifth into an early career change. Astana said, if you scare one more government secretary into a monastery, we’ll run out of applicants by spring."

Irina coughed into her hand to hide a laugh.

Gabriel tilted his head slowly, expression blank. "I don’t scare them. I correct them."

Edward’s voice was patient. "You corrected one by rewriting the entire budget formula in red ink across three documents and labeling it ’How to Not Embarrass Yourself at Court.’"

"It worked," Gabriel muttered. "The next report was accurate."

"Unfortunately, it was also anonymous," Edward replied, dry as dust. "So no one knows who to reward."

Gabriel threw up his hands. "Fine. No official board."

He turned toward Irina with a sigh that spoke of resignation and tactical defeat. "Irina, you’re in."

Irina straightened, stylus paused midair. "Wait—what am I in?"

"You’re on the secretary board now. Congratulations," Gabriel said, already moving. "Effective immediately, with a pay raise equal to the amount of silence you offer during meetings."

"I’m not paid," she said flatly.

"Then you’re overpaid," Edward murmured, checking his watch.

Gabriel ignored them both. "Edward, call Alexandra and Julian. They’ve both done this kind of administrative suicide before."

Edward gave a crisp nod, already halfway through pulling out his comm crystal.

Gabriel hesitated a second, then added, "And Rafael. Whatever his house name is."

Irina arched a brow. "Lord Rafael Roseroth."

"Yes. Him," Gabriel said, rubbing his temple like the mere memory gave him a headache. "The omega who stained your dress with wine and gained you a new wardrobe from me. Make him pay."

Irina grinned. "You’re assigning him to the board out of spite?"

"I’m assigning him to the board out of efficiency," Gabriel replied, flicking through the reports Edward handed him. "If I have to attend another committee without a functioning brain between departments, I want someone to glare at until they develop one."

"He tried to get Damian’s or Christian’s attention," Edward noted mildly, not even pretending to soften the blow.

Gabriel didn’t look up. "I’m aware. But he was also under his mother’s terror at the tea party—Delphine."

"She hovered over him like a fashion-forward executioner," Gabriel went on, flipping a page without interest. "Her gaze watched his every move without helping him."

Irina made a sympathetic noise. "She made him talk with Damian and Christian. Cruel for a first time in court."

Gabriel hummed, noncommittal. "Cruel and calculated. She knows how to play the game."

He didn’t look up from the document he was annotating, but his tone shifted—lower, more precise. "I saw Rafael’s academy folder. Impressive work. Top five in strategic theory, fluent in three dead dialects, and published a paper on post-war ether infrastructure. For someone raised to be a decorative background piece, he’s dangerously competent."

"So you assume he doesn’t want to be a doll," Edward said, nodding in quiet understanding.

Gabriel finally looked up, eyes sharp with something closer to insight than sympathy. "I assume his mother wanted him to be one. Which makes him useful."

Edward raised an eyebrow. "And being the second son of Count Roseroth?"

Gabriel’s voice dipped into something dry and amused. "That just makes it easier to recruit him without offending anyone too important."

Irina leaned back against the armrest of the couch, her grin unapologetic. "You really are building a team of underdogs."

"No," Gabriel said. "I’m building a team of people that have some spine. The kind that doesn’t snap just because someone with a title walks in the room."

Edward’s expression didn’t shift, but his silence carried a note of approval.

Irina scribbled something in the margin of her tablet. "What’s the team name?"

Gabriel stared at her.

She grinned. "What? If we’re a board now, we need a name. For morale."

Gabriel exhaled through his nose and muttered, "The Spite Department."

Irina laughed. "Perfect. I’ll make us a crest."

—

The air in the Imperial Office was sharp with stillness—too clean, too quiet, the kind of silence that hummed with protocol and the weight of watching portraits.

Gabriel stepped through the double doors at precisely the scheduled hour, Edward at his back, silent as always. The moment he crossed the threshold, the rhythm shifted. This wasn’t their private wing. This wasn’t late-night conversation or the warmth of shared breath beneath velvet sheets.

This was the Empire’s heart.

And at its center stood the Emperor.

Damian didn’t look up at first.

He was standing behind the long table of dark wood, scanning a thick bound report, a gold seal glinting at the edge. He didn’t wear his usual high-collared coat but the full imperial regalia—dark with embossed lining, the Lyon crest over his chest like a challenge.

He wasn’t alone.

The room was already lined with power—seated along the polished table were several key figures of the imperial court: ministers from the Education and Interior Ministries, two of the Empire’s high stewards, a judge from the Outer Provinces, and a stiff-necked chancellor from the Northern Academic Consortium. Their robes and insignias varied, but their eyes all tracked the same thing: the space Damian had not yet acknowledged—Gabriel.

Gabriel entered without announcement.

He didn’t need one.

He moved with quiet certainty, dressed in imperial navy and silver, the von Jaunez crest stitched in thread that caught just enough light to whisper, remember me. His posture was precise, his expression smooth, unreadable.

Some looked up when he stepped in. Some didn’t dare.

Edward followed one step behind, placing a folder at Gabriel’s designated seat. Gabriel didn’t sit.

"Your Majesty," he said calmly, his voice clear in the silence.

That made Damian glance up at last.

For a heartbeat, the mask slipped—just a flicker of something sharp and private. Then it was gone, replaced by the Emperor’s voice:

"Your Grace. You’re late by thirty seconds."

Gabriel raised a brow, biting the inside of his cheek to restrain himself. Not because the words stung—but because they didn’t. Because the smirk that nearly surfaced would have shattered the fragile decorum clinging to the room like frost on glass.

He inhaled slowly, letting it settle.

"Tragic," he replied coolly. "Will the Empire survive the blow?"

A few of the ministers stiffened. One cleared his throat awkwardly. The judge from the Outer Provinces blinked, as if unsure whether sarcasm in front of the Emperor was permitted under imperial law. ƒгeewebnovёl.com

Damian didn’t blink. But the line of his mouth twitched—almost imperceptibly.

"We’ll find out," he said.

Gabriel moved to his seat, his every step deliberately calm. The folder Edward had placed was already waiting, its seal bearing the Emperor’s crest. His fingers brushed it lightly before flipping it open with the same care one might use when handling a weapon that wasn’t finished cooling.

The silence thickened as he scanned the first page. The weight of half a dozen gazes clung to him, some wary, some skeptical, and a few openly doubtful. None dared speak first.

So Gabriel did.

He didn’t look up.

"Are there any objections," he asked mildly, "before I begin dismantling your precious bureaucracy?"