[BL]Reborn as the Empire's Most Desired Omega
Chapter 112: Serathine’s Law (2)

Chapter 112: Chapter 112: Serathine’s Law (2)

David didn’t blink under her scrutiny. He simply nodded and began drafting the command.

"I want her brought in by the end of the day," Serathine said. "Don’t dress it up too kindly. Make it clear this is not a rescue. She’s being summoned, not welcomed."

"We’ll say it’s a courtesy of House D’Argente," David replied. "A temporary relocation for her protection while the Kilmer estate is under review."

"And let that rumor spread," Serathine murmured. "Let them whisper that she’s being considered for court integration, that we’re extending mercy for Lucas’s sake."

"And in practice?"

"I want her under surveillance the moment she crosses the threshold." She picked up her tea at last, the once-steaming liquid now lukewarm. Still, she sipped it—unbothered. "Have the southern guest wing prepared. Sparse, clean. Nothing soft enough to imply comfort."

David looked up from the tablet. "Do we assign a handler?"

"Two. One omega, one beta. Quiet, well-trained. I want every word she says recorded, especially if she tries to speak with Lucas."

David nodded. "And if she does?"

Serathine set her cup down with precision. "Then she’ll regret not choosing silence."

There was a pause before she continued, her voice softer now but no less cutting.

"She’s had years to learn how to lie with her eyes. Let’s see how long she lasts under mine."

David tapped once more on the screen. "She’ll be here before evening."

"Good."

The duchess rose, her figure cutting a tall, commanding silhouette against the sunlit window.

"And David?"

"Yes, Your Grace?"

"When she arrives," Serathine said, turning slowly, "I want her to step into this house knowing three things: her mother is finished, her brother is not her shield, and I am the only person left who might choose to spare her."

— f r\eeNovelFire.c(o)(m)

The gates of House D’Argente did not creak when they opened—they parted, smooth and soundless, like they knew exactly what was being delivered to their mistress.

Ophelia Kilmer sat in the back seat of the sleek, black car, her arms crossed, spine straight, lips set in a practiced expression of restrained offense. She had been picked up directly from her private academy—the same prestigious school where, until a week ago, she ruled quietly from the center of every whispered circle, her last name polished and feared like an expensive blade.

Now? Now she was a walking scandal in tailored silk.

Misty’s downfall had hit like a tidal wave. The house was locked. The family name—unspoken. Her classmates whispered, avoided, and stared. The teachers wouldn’t look her in the eye anymore. Not unless they were handing her a discreet letter from the administration—"temporary leave for health and political reasons."

She had used the one name she hated most to climb back to the top.

Lucas.

Her brother. Her shame. Her ace.

The moment word spread that Lucas had married into the Fitzgeralt dynasty, that he was now consort to the infamous Duke Trevor, everything changed. She reminded the girls she had blood ties. She hinted—carefully—that the Second Prince Lucius himself had come to speak with her on behalf of the palace. They didn’t need to know why. They didn’t need to know the questions burned hotter than any royal courtesy.

They didn’t need to know she had been interrogated to break down her mother.

She hadn’t minded.

She wasn’t Lucas—quiet, haunted, always enduring things without speaking. She wasn’t a sacrifice. She fought.

She turned her mother into an excuse, a villain she could pin her anger on. Misty had been cold, calculating, and selfish—but worst of all, she’d let Ophelia fall with her. That, Ophelia couldn’t forgive.

The car rolled to a stop.

House D’Argente stood tall and expressionless, its windows gleaming like judgment. Two servants stepped forward, but neither opened the door. She had to do it herself.

Her heels touched the stone, and immediately the air felt colder. Cleaner. Less forgiving.

At the top of the marble staircase stood Duchess Serathine.

Slate-gray silk. Red hair was worn simply on her back. No jewelry, no smile. Just a woman who knew power so intimately, she didn’t need to wear it like a crown.

Ophelia saw her and instinctively adjusted her posture.

She’d prepared for this.

She knew how to look innocent—just enough gloss over guilt to catch the eye. She knew how to mimic desperation, the kind that looked noble in its restraint. Nobles like Serathine didn’t want true remorse; they wanted palatable fragility—elegant suffering they could study and control. Something they could dissect without getting their hands dirty.

So Ophelia had done what any smart girl in her position would: she chipped off her designer nail polish in the car, slow and deliberate, letting the edges crack and flake like she was unaware of it. A few pale flecks still clung stubbornly to her cuticles—barely visible, but enough to suggest anxiety. Enough to look real.

She’d pressed her nails into her palms during the ride, not from panic but calculation, carving half-moons into her skin. They’d fade quickly, but not before being noticed.

She wore no makeup. No gloss, no liner, no soft blush to veil her expression. Just clean skin and unadorned eyes. A deliberate choice. No one would look at her and see a pampered schoolgirl. They’d see a girl stripped down by scandal. An omega dragged through her mother’s fall from grace.

It was all a performance.

And like any performance, she intended to deliver it flawlessly—until someone like Serathine called cut.

At the base of the staircase, Ophelia paused—just long enough to seem overwhelmed, not hesitant. Her fingers curled around the edge of her coat, knuckles pale against the fabric. She looked up.

Serathine had not moved.

She stood like an iron verdict in silk, red hair down, simple and absolute. Her eyes did not blink. They measured.

"Lady Ophelia," she said, her voice cool as the wind curling through the open courtyard.

Ophelia dipped into a shallow curtsy. Controlled. Almost graceful.

"Your Grace."

"You were retrieved without resistance. I expected a tantrum."

"I’m not my mother," Ophelia said softly.

"Then prove it."