[Imperial Palace—Empress Private Garden, Night]
The garden was, in a word, ridiculous.
Lucien stared at a pond shaped like a phoenix eating its own tail, beside a bush that was—without a shred of doubt—trimmed into the shape of Adrien's disturbingly perfect profile.
"I'm not saying you're dramatic," he said slowly, balancing a crystal bowl of chocolate-covered pickles on his lap like it was a holy relic, "but this bush has a nose sharper than my mother's personality."
Elise plopped down beside him on a cushion that probably cost more than his childhood home and the neighbor's mortgage combined. Fireflies blinked lazily around them, the garden glowing as if the stars themselves had descended to eavesdrop.
"It's aspirational," she said, deadpan.
Lucien blinked. "The nose or the narcissism?"
"Both," she replied primly, lifting a honey-drenched lotus fruit like it was a royal decree. "And no judgment from a man who's literally licking whipped cream off seaweed, Lucien."
