[BL]Reborn as the Empire's Most Desired Omega
Chapter 103: The Art of Controlled Chaos

Chapter 103: Chapter 103: The Art of Controlled Chaos

"Then I don’t need politics. I need fire."

A new voice cut in—smooth, dry, and entirely unimpressed.

"So, I’m your excuse for unleashing your true nature?"

They both turned.

Lucas stood in the doorway, now dressed in a crisp cream shirt tucked into tailored black slacks, the fabric soft but structured, formal without being overdone. His ash-blonde hair had been swept back with deliberate care, though a few rebellious strands still brushed against his forehead. He looked calm. Collected. Dangerous in the way fire looks just before it spreads.

Dax’s gaze swept over him—once, then again.

"No," he said finally, rising from his chair with a lazy stretch, "you are an excuse for me to get rid of a thorn in my side. One I’ve tolerated for too long because tradition said I had to."

He walked toward the bar, refilling his glass with less flair this time, the weight of the conversation grounding even his usual theatrics.

"It would be easy to bait them," Dax continued, swirling the amber liquid slowly in his hand. "We use a decoy—someone who can take pieces of what Lucas remembers and place them exactly where they’d expect. Create a pattern they’ll recognize. Just enough to draw them out."

Lucas stood still near the center of the room, his fingers loosely clasped in front of him, expression unreadable. "And what if nothing happens the way I remember?" he asked, his voice quieter now. "Misty was caught this time. Christian is already under imperial scrutiny, fighting her in court. That alone changes everything."

Dax turned, leaning against the edge of the cabinet. His gaze found Lucas’s and didn’t waver.

"Then we fake it," he said simply.

Lucas blinked. "Just like that?"

Dax shrugged, a ghost of a grin curling at his mouth. "It’s not like me or Trevor would be doing it for the first time."

Trevor, still silent by the window, didn’t deny it.

Lucas tilted his head. "And what exactly are we faking? A resurrection? A missed deal? A scandal?"

"All three," Dax said without missing a beat. "Or something better. The point is, we don’t need to mirror your memories exactly. We just need to convince them that we could. Once they think history’s repeating itself, they’ll try to control it again. And that’s when they expose themselves."

Trevor spoke then, his voice low but certain. "And this time, they won’t be the ones writing the ending."

Lucas looked between them—one a king, the other his husband—and realized with sharp clarity that neither man had ever truly stopped fighting. They had just been waiting for the right war.

"All right," Lucas said, stepping forward. "Let’s bait the trap, but both of you are terrifying."

Dax grinned, absolutely unbothered. "Thank you. I do try."

Trevor didn’t smile—he never really did when the topic turned to things like this. But there was a flicker in his eyes, a glint of something ancient and coiled beneath the surface. "You married me," he said quietly, "and still sound surprised."

Lucas rolled his eyes, but there was no heat behind it. "I thought I married the quiet one."

"That was your first mistake," Dax said, raising his glass like it was a toast to doomed assumptions. "He only plays quiet so the fallout feels louder."

"And you?" Lucas asked, arching a brow.

Dax placed a hand over his chest in mock sincerity. "I’m a delight."

Trevor snorted.

Lucas rubbed at his forehead. "You know, this wasn’t the plan. I was going to write down what I remembered, maybe cry a little, and now we’re staging psychological warfare."

"You can still cry," Dax offered. "But do it after lunch. I’m starving." View the correct content at NovelFire)

Lucas just sighed, muttering, "Unbelievable," under his breath as Trevor casually reached for his agenda and slid it back toward him.

Windstone, with a sigh that he didn’t bother to hide, was already giving orders for the lunch from his tablet with the patience of a saint.

Dax, now sprawled far too comfortably in the guest chair, kicked one leg over the other and gave Windstone a grin that could only be described as smug royalty. "Make sure there’s dessert. The kind with fire. I deserve something dramatic."

"You’ll get soup," Windstone replied without looking up, tapping away with the dispassion of a man who had heard far worse requests from kings with far less sense. "And if you behave, perhaps a lemon tart."

Lucas smirked faintly as he reopened his agenda. "You two sound like an old couple."

Trevor didn’t miss a beat. "They are."

"I am everyone’s burden," Windstone confirmed dryly. "Would you like me to add ’emotional support steward’ to the records, Your Grace?"

"No," Trevor said. "Just make sure Dax doesn’t switch our seating cards again. Last time I ended up next to the Minister of Infrastructure, and he tried to flirt with me while explaining bridge maintenance. He was sixty."

Dax burst out laughing, the kind of wheezing, undignified sound that made Windstone visibly reconsider his entire career path.

"He what?" Lucas asked, blinking. "Trevor, what did he say?"

Trevor looked mildly haunted. "Something about how I reminded him of a suspension arch—strong, elegantly curved, and able to handle a lot of weight."

Lucas choked on a laugh, slapping a hand over his mouth.

"Oh gods," Dax gasped between snorts. "That man needs to be knighted. Or exiled. I can’t decide."

"Preferably exiled," Trevor said grimly. "To a land without metaphors."

Windstone, still tapping his tablet with mechanical precision, muttered, "I’m putting him next to the Foreign Affairs Minister this time. She only speaks in economic projections and has never flirted in her life."

"Perfect," Trevor replied. "At least I won’t be compared to an aqueduct."

Lucas, still smiling too much for Trevor’s liking, leaned in. "Didn’t he say that he won’t take part in the Luncheon because he’s staying with us? Why the talk about seats?

Dax looked positively smug as he sipped his drink, unbothered. "I said I wouldn’t go to their luncheon. I never said I wouldn’t host my own."

Trevor’s eyes narrowed. "You hijacked the palace catering team, didn’t you?"

"I redirected them," Dax corrected smoothly. "Besides, they were thrilled. My luncheons don’t include a three-hour speech on coastal trade."

"Yet," Windstone muttered under his breath, still adjusting seating logistics on his tablet. "Give him wine and a coastline, and he’ll draft treaties in soup."

Lucas arched a brow. "So, who exactly is coming to this ’not-a-luncheon’ luncheon?"

Dax flashed a grin. "No one important. Just a few ministers too afraid to say no, one general I owe money to, and my tailor, because I need a distraction while they argue."

Trevor exhaled slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "You’re unbelievable."

"I know," Dax said, unashamed. "Now, about the seating—Lucas, do you want to be placed between Trevor and me, or do you want plausible deniability when the debate turns into a public duel?"