Valmont Series - Inheritance Code

Chapter 8.4 - Imperial Revival, Table for Two

A few minutes later, Aria stepped out of her Aura Suite — hair smooth, skin luminous, her loungewear precision-draped by the StyleForge to look effortless. Not a thread out of place.

She looked relaxed, maybe even lazy — but in that Avalon way where lazy meant engineered perfection.

Steam curled from lacquered bowls and crystalline domes. Glistening abalone. Foie gras dumplings. Truffle-laced har gow arranged like jewelry. Even the double-boiled bird's nest—something that should've taken hours—was presented flawlessly, the snow pear reduction still glistening with chilled gold.

She arched a brow, smirking.

This wasn't dinner.

It was a banquet.

One of Avalon's quiet luxuries: time bent for pleasure. Gourmet indulgence, accelerated by sovereign culinary technology. Of course.

"Dinner is ready, Your Majesty," he announced. "Prepared by the sovereign culinary gods of Avalon and... coordinated by your humble servant."

Aria glanced at the table, then back at him with a look that said you're insufferable — but her smirk gave her away.

She took her seat like she was accepting a throne.

"Flawless," she said. "As expected."

For a while, they ate in silence — the kind that only existed between people who didn't need to fill it. Every dish was perfect. Every texture, every temperature, every bite engineered to soothe without numbing.

"So..." he said lightly, slicing into a lacquered har gow as if the next words weren't waiting behind his eyes.

"What's the situation with Luc Raveneau?"

Aria didn't respond immediately.

Even the mention of his name sent a pulse through her chest — subtle, controlled, but undeniable.

Her heart betrayed her before she could silence it.

She reached for her tea — Tieguanyin, aged and nearly perfect — stalling just long enough to arrange her words like a defense.

"I don't know," she said finally, eyes fixed on the steam rising from her cup. "He said I belong to him. But in Avalon, that could mean loyalty. Politics. Possession. Protection. Anything."

Aiden raised an eyebrow, but didn't interrupt.

"I don't even know what dating looks like here," she added. "What counts as friendship. What counts as strategy. The rules feel... fabricated. I can't define it."

A pause.

"But," she went on, more quietly, "he stood by me. At the subcouncil. In public. He didn't flinch."

She didn't need to elaborate. In Avalon, that meant everything.

Aiden studied her for a moment longer, then asked the obvious question — the one that didn't sound like an accusation, just a mirror.

"Do you like him?"

Her posture didn't change, but the flush at her collarbone was instant — faint, elegant, impossible to miss.

She shifted her gaze, not abruptly — just enough to let the silence stretch. Her chopsticks moved with quiet precision, as if she were simply focused on the next bite.

"I think... he's an ally I want to keep close," she said evenly. "To survive Avalon."

Aiden didn't say a word.