[BL]Reborn as the Empire's Most Desired Omega
Chapter 108: The Last Thing I Do for You

Chapter 108: Chapter 108: The Last Thing I Do for You

Caesar Vassinger sat behind his polished obsidian desk, a thick folder open in front of him, the report, printed on the high-quality paper, stamped with a seal he hadn’t seen since Palatine.

House Fitzgeralt.

The only sound in the office was the rustle of the report’s pages and the soft, too-frequent breath of the woman curled defensively on the sofa in front of him.

Vanessa crossed her legs with deliberate elegance, hands folded in her lap like this was still a salon, not a tribunal. Her coat was flawless. Her expression even more so—poised, composed, the perfect victim of some imagined slight.

Caesar didn’t look up as he flipped to the final page.

"You knew who he was," he said quietly.

Vanessa blinked, feigning confusion. "I—"

He closed the folder with a soft snap.

"You knew he was Lucas D’Argente. Heir to the D’Argente fortune. Legally wedded to Trevor Fitzgeralt. A man the King of Saha personally cleared for a strategic alliance. And still, you walked into a palace garden, insulted him to his face, and accused him of sleeping his way into influence, while four women stood behind you like you were issuing a challenge to the Empire."

Vanessa stiffened. "I wasn’t challenging anyone. I was—he just—he’s not what people say he is."

Caesar finally met her gaze.

She was trying her best to look innocent, big brown eyes rounded just so, the same wide-eyed performance she’d used since first grade to excuse every tantrum, every manipulation, every carefully placed knife behind someone else’s back.

It had worked then.

It didn’t now.

"So," Caesar said slowly, voice cool and deliberate, "you think attacking the most desired omega in the Palatine Empire—the heir to a duchy three times the size of our house, and the spouse of Trevor Fitzgeralt, a king in everything but crown—was strategic?"

Vanessa’s hands curled on her lap, her voice sharp with wounded pride. "King Evrin had a meeting scheduled with us! A luncheon I prepared for weeks. Invitations. Seating charts. Silver polish. And for what?" Her voice cracked, venom seeping through. "For a male omega?!"

Caesar blinked once.

But this time, there was a light behind his eyes she had never seen directed at her before, the promise of punishment.

And for the first time in her life, she knew he meant it.

He rose from his chair with infuriating calm, his movements precise, deliberate. One hand raked through his dark hair, pushing it back with a composure that looked like grace but felt like warning.

Then he laughed faintly, as if he’d heard enough bullshit.

"Is that what’s killing you, Vanessa?" His voice was soft, like silk stretched too thin. "Do you even realize that he is an honored guest of Evrin Dax? That the luncheon you prepared was insignificant to both of them?"

He paused, jaw clenched, as if biting back the rest. For a moment, it looked like he might pace, but instead, he stepped around the desk, slow and controlled.

"You didn’t insult an omega," he said, his tone finally slipping into cold steel. "You insulted the man Trevor Fitzgeralt kills for. The man King Evrin hosts personally. The one who carries Serathine’s name, commands the D’Argente estate, and walked into the palace without a crown but left with the attention of an entire empire."

Vanessa tried to speak, but the words didn’t come.

Caesar leaned forward slightly.

"And you—" he exhaled through his nose, forcing composure, "—you did it in a palace garden. Covered by twenty-seven security cameras, three ministers, and one imperial gardener with a gossip addiction."

She paled.

"Do you know how long it took for news of your little stunt to spread?" he asked, his voice cutting through the silence like a scalpel. "Six hours. Across four capitals. The only reason you’re not a headline is because Lucas doesn’t care enough to remember you."

Vanessa’s breath hitched.

The burn of it—being dismissed so completely, so efficiently—it scorched more than a public scandal ever could.

Caesar didn’t relent.

"I’ve entertained your delusion long enough," he said, stepping back toward his desk like he needed distance to keep from saying more. "I’ve told you, begged you, to get your feet on the ground. To become the kind of noble lady this house could depend on. Someone useful. Someone respectable."

He turned sharply, eyes like frost in midwinter.

"But you didn’t."

Vanessa’s fingers trembled slightly in her lap. She didn’t dare rise.

"You’ll stay here," Caesar continued, voice clipped. "You’ll write a letter of apology. A real one. And you will deliver it yourself. You will bow. You will curtsy so low your bones remember it. And you will beg for forgiveness if that’s what it takes."

He picked up a pen, not to write, but to hold something in his hand that wasn’t his temper.

"I begged them to let you apologize, Vanessa." His voice was quieter now, but no gentler. "I used every favor I had to make sure this didn’t become your end."

He looked at her one last time—really looked. No anger. Just finality.

"This is the last thing I do for you." Correct content is on NovelFire.

—

Vanessa stood at the palace gate longer than she should have.

It wasn’t the guards that intimidated her, nor the building’s sharp-cut walls or the way sunlight gleamed off every polished surface like a warning. No—what made her linger was far worse.

Her future now depended on an omega.

An omega male from all.

She gritted her teeth.

Caesar had made her write and rewrite her apology all night. Every draft was reduced further, stripped of venom, pruned into something humble. She hadn’t slept. Her wrists still ached from the calligraphy pen. Her pride was in tatters. And she was exhausted from having to pretend she didn’t mean every word she’d spat in that garden.

The letter trembled slightly in her gloved hand.

She had practiced holding it steady in front of the mirror. Practiced her walk, her smile, her posture. Everything about her had been curated for palatable remorse: a muted grey blouse, a simple tailored coat, and modest heels. Her jewelry was tasteful. Her hair—jet-black and straight—was pinned behind her shoulders. Not a trace of perfume. Not even her sweet natural scent; Caesar made sure she took inhibitors before leaving their mansion.

She was ready. She would smile, bow, and apologize with all the false grace years of privilege had taught her. Her big brown eyes, wide and soft, had spared her from trouble before. They would work again.

Or so she thought.