[BL]Reborn as the Empire's Most Desired Omega
Chapter 148: The Grandmother Moves

Chapter 148: Chapter 148: The Grandmother Moves

The room was quiet, warm with the weight of sleep and the soft breath of the man curled beside him.

Trevor had stayed still for longer than usual, his hand resting loosely against Lucas’s hip, his forehead tucked near the nape of his neck. It was tempting, too tempting, to let that softness lull him deeper. But instinct didn’t sleep, not truly. Not when there were threats that hadn’t yet been named.

Lucas shifted in his sleep, breath steady; this time there was no nightmare making him shiver in the night.

Trevor exhaled once, slowly, then slid his arm back with care. He peeled himself from the bed with the kind of silence that only came from practice, muscle memory, and war.

The floor was cold beneath his feet. He reached for his robe, the slate-gray one with the embroidered crest near the collar, and slipped it on in a single motion. The door clicked shut behind him a second later, soft as breath.

Windstone was waiting.

The older man stood just outside the suite in the hallway, already dressed, already alert, as if he’d known Trevor would come.

"She moved quickly," Windstone said without preamble. "I expected more restraint."

Trevor folded his arms. "She never had any."

"I gave her a warning." Windstone sighed, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. "We still have her secretary on our side."

Trevor’s eyes flicked up at that. "Did she report you already?"

"Yes," Windstone said. "Lady Vivienne asked about Lucas’s files—directly. She wants his entire history. Birth records, conversion notes, psychological assessments. Everything."

Trevor’s jaw tensed. "She’s building a profile."

"She’s already drafted a message to contact him," Windstone added. "Anna intercepted the document in her drafts. It hasn’t been sent yet, but the tone is academic. Polite. Full of faux professionalism."

"Of course it is," Trevor muttered. "Makes it harder to strike her for it."

"On the surface, it reads like a request between researchers."

Trevor laughed, low and dangerous, the sound barely human. His purple eyes caught the warm glow of the corridor lamps, sharp as cut glass, glinting with something colder than humor.

"Lucas is eighteen for her," he said, his voice curling with contempt. "There is no research relationship. There never was. He’s a case file to her. A missed opportunity. An anomaly she wants to name and archive."

Windstone remained still. Listening. Calculating.

Trevor’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. "Have her watched. Every hour, every visit, every message that doesn’t pass through her official channels. I want a full report sent to Grandmother. She didn’t speak of it in front of Lucas, but she was pissed that Vivienne appeared at her table uninvited."

Windstone’s mouth tugged upward in the barest suggestion of approval. "She’ll be useful."

"She already is," Trevor said. "This insult wasn’t just to me or Lucas, it was to her. She’ll take it personally."

"And when Vivienne sends the message?"

Trevor turned, the robe falling neatly around him as he stepped back toward the door of the suite. His voice was quiet, but it struck like a blade.

"Let it reach Lucas."

Windstone’s eyes flicked up, questioning. NovelFire

Trevor paused, his hand on the doorknob, one shoulder bathed in the gold of the sconces.

"I trust him."

—

Lady Cressida Fitzgeralt was not asleep.

The rest of the manor was. The staff had retired. The last lights had been dimmed in the halls. Even the city outside, normally loud with heat and motion, had settled under the velvet weight of night.

But she remained in her study, seated beside the window that overlooked the northern terrace, a book open in her lap and her reading glasses resting unused on the side table. The pages hadn’t turned in over an hour.

Her tea had gone cold. NovelFire

She tapped her finger lightly against the armrest, the rhythm steady, thoughtful. A storm without rain.

Something had shifted.

She’d felt it the moment Vivienne Alostora had appeared uninvited at her table. Not just because of who she was, but because of the way Lucas had gone silent. The way Trevor had looked at him. And the way neither of them had said anything once it was over.

Trevor was hiding something.

Cressida knew better than to press, but the signs were there. Subtle, polished, buried beneath charm and tailored silence. He lingered too long near Lucas. Watched him like a man waiting for a threat to appear in a room no one else had noticed.

She’d seen it before. In old portraits. In war rooms. In men who had everything to lose and nothing left, they were willing to give up.

He was one step away from showing the world why they should fear a dominant alpha.

And if that happened, there would be no putting the world back together.

She exhaled slowly, fingers still against the armrest. The night outside was quiet, too dignified for stars. Her tea had long gone cold.

Her grandson had found his pair.

And she would not permit anyone to ruin that.

Not Vivienne with her perfumed lies and carefully staged curiosity. Not the court with its envy and carefully disguised malice. Not Christian. Especially not him.

Her phone lit up with a soft buzz, the glow spilling across the carved wood of the side table, pale against the deep polish. The sound was barely audible, but in a room like this it rang like a bell.

Cressida didn’t reach for it immediately. She set her cup down first, the porcelain touching the tray with a delicate clink, then lifted the device with a practiced hand.

Windstone.

Of course.

She opened the message with a single touch. The contents were short-coded and efficient. The kind of report meant for someone who didn’t ask for explanations twice.

Vivienne had moved.

Lucas’s files had been quietly accessed. A draft email was already written.

Cressida sighed, soft but sharp, and set the phone aside.

The book in her lap was closed without ceremony. Its spine echoed faintly as she set it down on the table, the weight of silk at her sleeves brushing the edges of the polished armrest.

She stood.

The robe she wore was deep green velvet, her hair pinned, a ring flashing on her finger as she walked across the room. Her steps were silent against the marble floor.

At the far end of the study, the old desk waited, hand-carved oak, older than Trevor himself. She opened the drawer with one smooth motion.

Inside: ledgers, stationery, and a list of names.

Old debts. Unpaid favors. Social markers left dormant for years, until now.

She pulled out a pen and flipped open the leather-bound folio.

It wouldn’t take six months.

Not even two.

She would have the wedding of the century organized in no more than one.

The guest list would be unbreachable. The press coverage, absolute.

Because if the court wanted something to whisper about, she would give them a throne gilded in silk and fire.

And Lucas, her Grand Duchess, would become untouchable.