[BL]Reborn as the Empire's Most Desired Omega
Chapter 132: Morning in Baye Mansion

Chapter 132: Chapter 132: Morning in Baye Mansion

Three days.

That’s how long Ophelia had been in the southern guest wing, long enough to memorize the wallpaper pattern, the sound of the fountain from the inner courtyard, and the way the staff avoided eye contact like she carried something contagious.

She wasn’t confined. No one had locked a door or issued a threat. But no one had told her anything either. She wasn’t welcome. She was tolerated.

And still, she waited.

Every morning she got up early, braided her hair neatly, applied just enough concealer to look composed without seeming vain, and waited for someone to give her a reason to be here, other than humiliation. But no summons came. No trial. No audience. No one even spoke her name. She’d tried asking once if she could see Lucas. The maid hadn’t even flinched. She just said the Duchess had not permitted it and closed the door behind her like a final breath.

And now, on the fourth morning, Ophelia stood again at the edge of the breakfast salon like a bad memory.

Duchess Serathine was already seated, dressed in a deep gray blouse with no embellishment, no jewelry. Just sleeves rolled twice, a knife resting beside her toast, and a tablet beside her untouched coffee. She looked like someone who had never been surprised by anything in her life.

Ophelia hovered.

Serathine didn’t look up. "You may sit. You may eat. Neither will make you important."

Ophelia moved stiffly toward the seat closest to the end of the table. The chair was too low. The sun didn’t reach her from this angle. The coffee had already cooled. She sat without speaking.

Serathine read something on the tablet. Then she paused.

Just for a breath.

Her brow shifted, not quite a frown, not quite surprise, more like recognition. She tapped the screen once, the quiet sound landing sharper than it should have in the stillness of the morning.

Across the table, Ophelia sat perfectly upright. Her hands were folded in her lap, her spine too straight for comfort, her expression composed in the way only girls trained to survive scandal knew how to hold. She’d been like this for three days—quiet, poised, soft-spoken, like she was trying to prove she belonged here by becoming the kind of girl Serathine might choose to keep.

It hadn’t worked.

The duchess hadn’t offered a single word of comfort. Not even a glance of approval. Just cool civility, like Ophelia was another vase in the hall, one that nobody knew what to do with.

Ophelia hated the silence. It gave her too much time to think. About the school. About the house being locked. About the way her classmates had looked at her after the news broke. About how she hadn’t heard a word from her mother—not even an explanation, not even a lie.

And about Lucas.

God, Lucas. Her brother, her burden, her excuse. The one who had smiled and nodded and vanished the moment he stopped being convenient. And now he was consort. Wearing silks and rings and power like he was born for it. As if everything Misty put them through had somehow crowned him instead of ruining them both.

Ophelia had tried not to think about it. But she couldn’t stop.

So instead, she spoke—quietly, deliberately.

"Is there... is there a possibility to see my mother?" she asked, her voice soft around the edges, like the words had to break through hesitation to be spoken. "I know she did wrong. I know that. But she’s still my mother."

She looked up, eyes wide and glossy but not quite wet. She wasn’t crying. Not yet. Just cracked in the right places.

Serathine didn’t react right away.

She tapped the tablet again, set it down, and finally lifted her gaze.

"I was wondering how long it would take," Serathine said simply, her gaze never lifting from the tablet in her hand.

The older woman tapped her nail once against the screen and finally looked up. Her voice was calm, even precise, but there was no affection in it, no maternal softness or conspiratorial sympathy.

There was a pause.

And then—quiet, calculated—Ophelia asked the question that had been pressed like a weight against her tongue since the moment she’d arrived.

"And Lucas?" she asked. "I didn’t see him in the mansion."

Serathine blinked, just once. Then her lips curved into something that might have been mistaken for fondness, if one didn’t know her better.

"Oh, Lucas," she said, like the name was an afterthought, like she had nearly forgotten it, but the sharp gleam in her eyes said otherwise. "He’s with his husband and mate. In Saha."

Ophelia’s breath caught.

"Mate?"

The word stumbled out of her like a misstep—half disbelief, half protest.

Serathine’s tone didn’t change. "Yes."

"You mean, they actually..." Ophelia trailed off, her brows furrowed, the edges of her composure fraying. "He bonded?"

"They both did," Serathine said smoothly.

Ophelia stared, her lips parting in disbelief. She wanted to say it didn’t make sense. That Lucas—awkward, fragile Lucas—was never meant for something like that. That he didn’t even want it. He used to flinch when people mentioned mating. He used to hate—

"He said he never would," she muttered, eyes wide, voice turning bitter. "He used to hate that part of himself. He swore—"

"He outgrew his fear," Serathine said, her voice soft but final. "Something you might consider doing as well."

Silence fell across the table like a closed door.

Ophelia’s mouth tightened, the edges of her poise beginning to fray. "But Mother said that Lucas can’t keep a bond," she pressed, confusion bleeding into disbelief. "That he was flawed because of it. My brother didn’t even have his heat yet. How is that possible?" Correct content is on NovelFire

Serathine didn’t blink. She didn’t lean forward or soften her voice. She simply looked at Ophelia the way one might regard an overwatered plant—alive, yes, but perhaps not thriving. View the correct content at NovelFire

"Your mother said many things," she replied, calm and cold as the edge of polished silver. "Most of them were designed to ensure Lucas would never believe he was anything more than a transaction waiting to be sold."

Ophelia flinched.

Serathine continued, sipping her tea with the unbothered elegance of a woman discussing weather or war. "Lucas didn’t need to present fully to bond. He only needed one thing. A choice."

"A choice?" Ophelia echoed.

"To stop being your mother’s product," Serathine said, "and become his own person."

She set the teacup down, porcelain kissing porcelain with a delicate clink.

"You may want to remember that if you intend to stay here, because I’m not interested in excuses born from your mother’s mouth. And neither is he.