The Fake Son Wants to Live [BL]

Chapter 252: Chapter 252 - Wedding plan

The midday meal ended with the quiet clatter of spoons and forks being set down, the warm scent of fruit wine and flower glazes slowly fading as plates were cleared by silent, efficient attendants.

Bian reached to pour Dican another ladle of fruit broth, smiling sweetly as always, when the Emperor placed his cloth napkin aside and looked up—his golden eyes settling first on his son, then drifting meaningfully toward Bian.

"Well then," he said with a casual air, though there was a certain deliberate tone behind it, "Dican, I believe it’s time we begin wedding preparations. With the scale we intend, it will take about twenty days for the guests to arrive and the palace to be set. Or... would you rather it be sooner?"

Dican visibly froze. Just for a second—but Bian noticed.

Before the silence could stretch too long, Bian leaned forward with a bright, eager grin. "It will be best if it’s sooner, Your Highness," he said cheerfully.

The Emperor raised a brow, amused. "If that’s what you wish, then we shall prepare something intimate. We can have the ceremony even by tomorrow."

Bian’s smile faltered—only slightly—but the minute shift was noticeable to anyone who looked close enough.

He paused, thinking quickly. No. No, he didn’t want an intimate wedding. He wanted one as grand as the heavens themselves. One where he’d walk down the marble aisle wearing the imperial crest. One that would be broadcast across the empire, so everyone—from nobles to outlanders—would know he was no concubine tucked away behind veils, but the rightful Prince Consort.

But... if he insisted now, it would seem greedy. Displeasing. Dican might push back again.

He bit his lip softly, then nodded. "It’s okay, Your Highness. We shall have the wedding twenty days later, then."

The Emperor looked a little puzzled at the sudden change, but nodded graciously. "As you wish." His eyes then turned to Dican, who hadn’t spoken a word since the topic came up. "And what about you, Dican?" he asked with a light-hearted smile. "Not excited about the wait?"

Dican looked up abruptly, almost like someone waking from a dream. "I... Sorry, Father. I was distracted. What were you saying?"

"We were discussing your wedding with your mate," the Emperor said patiently, "and the preparations. It will take twenty days if we’re inviting all the provinces and their delegations."

"No," Dican said suddenly.

The room stilled.

Bian, who had just reached to lace his fingers with Dican’s again, stopped. His hand hovered mid-air before awkwardly resting on the table.

"No?" the Emperor echoed, blinking.

Dican cleared his throat, trying to smile. "I mean... why make it so grand? It’s too much of a hassle. Our love doesn’t need all that." He looked toward Bian, forced smile still in place. "Let’s have an intimate wedding. Just us. Quiet."

He didn’t know why, but the thought of a grand wedding—of golden halls, of ceremonial vows and parading his love before the entire empire—made something in his chest twist painfully. It should’ve been a moment of joy. But instead, a quiet ache throbbed beneath his ribs. It wasn’t Bian he saw when he closed his eyes. It wasn’t Bian’s laughter that echoed in the corners of his heart.

A silhouette haunted him—flickering like a memory he never lived. A young man, back turned to him, with messy, sun-bleached hair and a defiant stance against the wind. Dican didn’t even know who he was. He had never met someone like that. And yet... that figure lived in his chest, refusing to be buried. Why did his heart long for that ghost more than the mate sitting beside him?

He felt like a terrible partner. A fraud in love. With guilt burning like acid, he tightened his grip on Bian’s hand, trying to convince himself that this was enough—that this was right.

Bian, on the other hand, was seething beneath his perfect smile. What the hell is this bastard doing? Why was he suddenly voicing his opinion now? The salve—he had applied it not even an hour ago! Wasn’t it working? Why was he pushing back against a grand wedding?

But not a single drop of venom showed on his face. With the grace of a true actor, Bian leaned in closer, his lips curled into an angelic smile, resting his head lightly against Dican’s shoulder. His fingers curled around Dican’s arm like ivy—gentle, devoted, and impossibly tight.

Qungya who was sitting opposite them watched all this and trembled ever so slightly. He leaned close to the old man and whispered, "Scary man is having a scary smile again..."

Old Man Lin heard it, and his eyes slowly shifted to his grandson. Bian’s smile was the same one Jian had used to make—at least, at first glance. But Jian’s had always been full of warmth. Hope. This one... this one had layers.

Lin’s chest tightened.

He had raised this boy with his own hands. Every meal, every bath, every scrape on his knee. He had nursed him when he was sick, taught him how to scrub rice clean, told him bedtime stories. When did he become this?

Was it something I did? Was it how I raised him?

No... He shook his head. He had raised Jian too. And Jian didn’t have a single cruel bone in his body. Jian had always been gentle, always concerned about others. Then why...

Why is Bian like this?

His heart began to hurt. And the thought rose unbidden:

Is it because Bian is truly... my grandson?

Lin closed his eyes in silent pain.

Maybe... maybe Bian had inherited more from her. That treacherous smile. That ability to act. That uncanny ability to twist a situation.

His thoughts drifted back decades—back to his youth, when he was still the most handsome man in their little town. Girls used to bring him lunch and sweets, hoping to catch his eye. But he had no time for romance then—not when he had two sick parents and a field to till.

Until she came.

She had just moved in from a neighboring village. Her looks were ordinary, plain even—but her kindness... it had felt like a miracle. She helped cook. Helped feed his parents. Took care of them when he went to work in the city. She smiled gently. Never raised her voice. It seemed natural, inevitable, when he married her.

But it was all a mask.

A year later, he found out what had been happening behind his back. How she’d hit his mother when no one was looking. How she fed them rotting food while keeping fresh meals for herself. By the time he learned the truth, it was too late. His parents had passed from illness—or perhaps neglect.

He had lived with that guilt his whole life.

And now, watching Bian’s beautiful face and that gentle smile that masked a thousand sharp thoughts, Lin couldn’t stop the wave of dread rising in him.

He’s our grandchild, Lin thought, as though that might explain it. He’s her blood too. He never was a good person...

"Are you alright, Grandfather?" Quangya asked, tugging gently on Lin’s sleeve.

Lin opened his eyes, startled. He reached to pat the boy’s hand with a trembling one of his own. "Yes, child. Just tired."

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