[BL]Reborn as the Empire's Most Desired Omega
Chapter 141: Kidnapped by Grandma

Chapter 141: Chapter 141: Kidnapped by Grandma

Lucas hadn’t screamed.

Not out loud, anyway.

But by the time he was eased into the back seat of the sleek black Fitzgeralt car, because, of course, it was sleek, black, and built like something that devoured lesser vehicles in parking lots, he was convinced his dignity had been left behind somewhere on the stairs.

The Marchioness slid in beside him with the grace of a woman half her age and twice his stubbornness, snapped her seatbelt into place, and tapped the privacy screen.

"Drive," she said to the front. Then, without missing a beat, she turned to Lucas and gave him a look so sharp it could’ve cut diamonds. "Smile, darling. Or at least stop grimacing like you’ve been shot."

Lucas adjusted the lapel of his coat. "This is kidnapping."

"This is character building."

"I have plenty of character," he muttered.

"Then consider this reinforcement. You’ve been holed up in that palace suite like a kept omega." She wrinkled her nose. "I’m old enough to know the difference between doting affection and political house arrest."

Lucas blinked at her, caught between protest and disbelief. "Trevor didn’t—"

"Trevor," she cut in smoothly, the voice of someone long past the point of being impressed by denials. "Would burn the embassy down if you so much as got a paper cut. I know my nephew. And he’ll be absolutely livid when he finds out I got anywhere near you without a security detail breathing down my neck."

Lucas exhaled slowly, resigning himself to the inevitable. There was no winning with Fitzgeralts. Not the charming kind. Certainly not the terrifying kind. "Where are we going?"

"First, we need some new suits." NovelFire

Lucas frowned. "Why? I have more than enough."

"You have borrowed things. Stretched things. Mournfully unstructured things. I’m not letting you attend another formal event looking like an overworked graduate student trying to cosplay nobility."

"The suits are designer," Lucas argued, affronted. "Evrin would be shocked. They’re new—barely a few months old. I didn’t even get the time to wear them all."

"You’re wearing Trevor’s suits from when he was fifteen."

"I like them more."

"Of course you do," she said dryly. "They still smell like him. But I draw the line at nostalgia couture."

Lucas gave her a flat look. "You’re ruthless."

"I’m practical," she corrected, already pulling out a tablet. "Now pick a color palette or I will—and it’ll include embroidery. Possibly with birds."

Lucas narrowed his eyes. "I’m calling Trevor."

She didn’t even flinch. "Call him. I dare you. Let’s see how much restraint he shows when I tell him you’ve been parading around Saha in suits tailored for a lanky teenage boy."

Lucas’s hand paused halfway to his pocket.

She smiled sweetly. "Go on."

Lucas smiled back, even more sweetly. The kind of smile that said you started this war, and I will finish it with flair. He was as petty as the old woman—and, unfortunately, still sore enough to consider emotional warfare a valid form of self-defense.

Without breaking eye contact, he reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out his phone. Tapped Trevor’s name. Pressed call.

The line rang.

The Marchioness narrowed her eyes.

Lucas raised a single eyebrow in challenge.

"Oh, I do hope he answers," she said with enough velvet to line a coffin.

Lucas beamed. "So do I."

The phone rang once. Twice. Then—

"What did you do?" Trevor’s voice came through, low and deadly calm, with the kind of immediate suspicion that only came from a man who knew both parties far too well.

Lucas didn’t even blink. "I’m in a car. Headed to a fitting. Your grandmother is threatening me with embroidered birds."

A pause.

Then, "Of course she is."

The Marchioness held out her hand like a surgeon requesting a scalpel. "Give me the phone."

Lucas leaned back in his seat, smug. "She’s glaring at me."

"I can feel it," Trevor said dryly. "Give her the phone before she starts planning a christening."

Lucas handed it over without a fight, mostly because the woman looked two seconds from biting.

"Trevor," she began, all icy fondness. "Your omega is being dramatic."

"He was walking like a stunned foal this morning," Trevor replied flatly. "Let him be dramatic."

Lucas muffled a laugh into his sleeve.

"I’m taking him shopping," the Marchioness continued. "You’ve seen the suits he owns."

"They’re mine."

"Exactly."

Trevor sighed, audible even through the speaker. "Fine. But if he comes back crying, I’m blaming you."

"He won’t cry."

"I said if. He’s vicious, not soft." NovelFire

The Marchioness smiled in triumph. "We’ll be back before dinner. Unless I find shoes."

Trevor groaned. "Leave his feet alone."

She hung up without saying goodbye and handed the phone back with regal grace.

Lucas blinked. "You didn’t even let him respond."

"If I had, he would’ve asked where we are and rerouted a military escort to retrieve you."

Lucas narrowed his eyes. "That was your plan all along, wasn’t it? Guilt me into new clothes while keeping him distracted."

"Don’t flatter yourself, dear. The plan was to dress you properly before someone mistakes you for a borrowed intern again." She patted his knee. "Now. Back straight. We’re choosing fabrics next, and I’m not letting you limp into luxury like a wounded duck."

—

Lucas stood on the raised platform in the middle of the private fitting room, arms half outstretched like some disgruntled coat rack, while three attendants flitted around him with pins, tape, and the kind of reverence usually reserved for relics or landmines. One of them was muttering about cuff length. Another was discussing pleats. The third was touching his hip like it owed them money.

He had been standing there for nearly twenty minutes.

The Marchioness lounged on a velvet chaise nearby, one ankle neatly crossed over the other, sipping sparkling water like she hadn’t orchestrated a hostage situation.

"This is excessive," Lucas muttered, watching yet another bolt of fabric get brought in for consideration. "I own clothes."

The Marchioness didn’t even glance at him. "You own regret. And a questionable affinity for elbow patches."

"I liked that coat."

"It liked you back, I’m sure," she said smoothly, "but I refuse to let my heir-by-marriage walk into any event looking like a romanticized librarian with a vitamin deficiency."

Lucas sighed, one hand braced on the armrest as another tailor circled him like a shark with a measuring tape. "Do you bully all your family like this?"

"Only the ones I like."

"Wonderful," he muttered. "I’m dying."

"Not yet," she said, sipping her tea. "You’re sore. That’s very different. And your posture’s improving."

Lucas glanced down at his stance, then squinted at her. "Are you threatening me with back braces?"

"I would never. Those clash with brocade."

He groaned and made a mental note to escape the moment someone’s attention shifted—even if it meant faking a limp and hobbling to the door in dramatic fashion. But as the tailor stepped back and the Marchioness leaned forward with a critical eye and a quiet hum of approval, he felt something else slip in beneath the teasing.

It wasn’t just about fabric or embroidery.

She was dressing him like someone she wanted to claim.

And that... that was harder to run from.