[BL]Reborn as the Empire's Most Desired Omega
Chapter 175: Courtroom (1)

Chapter 175: Chapter 175: Courtroom (1)

Ophelia hadn’t expected him to look back at her. But that was the thing, he didn’t.

The Lucas seated across the courtroom remained still, chin lifted, expression carved into something too careful, too diplomatic. A performance. Not even an angry one. Just indifferent enough to sting. He wore the kind of tailored restraint one would expect of a noble spouse, not a boy who used to flinch when she raised her voice. Not the brother who used to avoid mirrors. Not the victim.

That made her hesitate.

"He’s changed," one of the ministers murmured a few seats away, a little too loudly, feeding the noise.

"He’s not changed," Serathine said under her breath, gaze still fixed forward. "He’s just not here."

She sipped from her water glass, ignoring the sudden tension near her, as Ophelia rose from her seat.

Ophelia didn’t even make it to the aisle.

The moment she rose from her seat and stepped forward, two plainclothes security officers intercepted her with smooth, practiced efficiency. Their uniforms didn’t bear House Fitzgeralt’s crest, but the silent signal they gave each other before stepping into her path was unmistakably Fitzgeralt-trained. Silent. Brutal. Loyal.

"I just want to speak with him," Ophelia said, trying not to raise her voice. "He’s my brother."

One of the guards tilted his head. "He is the Grand Duchess of Fitzgeralt."

The correction landed hard, because it wasn’t just a correction. It was a dismissal.

"Please," she tried again, eyes flicking past them to the figure seated at the far edge of the court. "Lucas—"

"Miss Kilmer," the taller guard said, tone flat as marble, "you are not permitted direct approach. Please return to your seat."

From across the chamber, Serathine sipped her water with infuriating calm. She didn’t look at Ophelia, only at the Lucas double, whose poise hadn’t broken once. No flicker of emotion. No tilt of the head. Just a still, quiet presence that burned under scrutiny. And under the chandelier’s glow, the faint shimmer of a platinum bond ring was visible on his finger.

Ophelia took a step back, heart thudding.

He didn’t look at her. Not once.

On the far end of the dais, the trial had begun.

The justiciars read out the charges—clear, unadorned, and merciless:

Forgery of imperial documents. Unlawful drafting of a contract without consent. Tampering with the inheritance clause of a noble bloodline.

Christian Velloran stood with hands folded behind his back, expression serene, but his lawyers were already moving like wolves at a dinner table. Their opening statement was razor-sharp, pivoting on technical precision and irrefutable evidence: Misty’s signature, written over dates that Christian had been out of the country; clauses that implied consent without ever receiving it; even voice recordings from meetings she never disclosed.

The entire case was written like an obituary for her relevance.

Misty, in comparison, looked like a relic of a war she didn’t realize was over. Her hands were cuffed in front of her, not as punishment, no, that would be too kind. They were meant to humiliate. To remind the court that she was a prisoner. She wore the standard inmate beige, shapeless and bland, a far cry from the silks and fur she once paraded around the palace. Her hair had been tied back; no jewelry was allowed, not even a watch.

She had no allies here.

And worse, she had no audience. Everyone had already chosen sides.

Christian didn’t even look at her as the evidence was presented. He didn’t need to. He had written the narrative months ago, probably while drinking imported wine and considering which of his new suits to wear to this very courtroom.

Misty tried to speak, once, but the judge silenced her with a single warning.

Serathine leaned slightly toward her aide again, murmuring, "Let the girl watch her mother be dismantled. Let her see what power without protection looks like."

The Lucas double, still seated like a statue of calm, hadn’t flinched since the beginning of the trial. But Serathine could tell, just from the slight tension in his gloved hands, Lucas would be very pleased when he heard how the day had gone.

Some legacies ended in scandal.

Misty Kilmer’s was ending in silence. And a courtroom where even her daughter couldn’t get close enough to beg.

—

Christian Velloran sat with the poise of a man accustomed to winning. His fingers rested lightly against the armrest, gloved in subtle leather, and his lips were curved into something that resembled a smile, though it never quite reached his eyes.

The courtroom hummed with tension, but he seemed immune to it, the center of a storm that had yet to begin. His gaze, however, wasn’t on Misty, despite the fact that she sat a few meters away in shackles and beige, looking like a relic that had outlived her own schemes. No, his attention was locked on Lucas.

Or what he thought was Lucas. NovelFire

Sitting near the front of the room, the young Grand Duchess held himself with a degree of composure that struck Christian as... unusual. Different. Sharper than he remembered. There was no flicker of hesitation, no trace of vulnerability in the way his posture didn’t break, not even when Misty was paraded in like a cautionary tale.

It intrigued him.

"You’re bolder now, aren’t you?" Christian murmured under his breath, more to himself than to any of his aides. "They taught you how to stand still and look down on us."

One of his lawyers glanced his way, clearly uncertain whether to comment. Christian didn’t elaborate. He had no need to explain that Lucas had always been a fascinating contradiction: rare, beautiful, and difficult to read. And now, married, bonded, and on display under the Empire’s protection, Lucas had become something else entirely.

Untouchable.

At least for now.

Misty shifted in her seat beside the guards, trying to sit taller, but the cuffs clinked and the low whispers behind her made it clear she was done. Her eyes darted around the room, but no allies remained. Every name she’d once called friend had either sold her out or backed away.

Christian didn’t bother looking at her. He had already decided her fate the moment he filed the lawsuit. Fraud. Forgery. An illegal contract made in his name. She would be buried by the same nobility she had tried to manipulate.

No, his thoughts remained on Lucas.

There was a moment, just one, when the double’s eyes swept the room and landed briefly on him. Christian leaned forward slightly, smiling as if they shared a secret. He didn’t know what he expected. Recognition? Fear? Bitterness?

He got nothing.

Not even the usual flicker of emotional charge that used to ripple between them.

Christian’s smile froze. Then slowly, it thinned.

Something was off.

Still, he leaned back with practiced ease, draping one arm over the back of the bench and tapping a single finger against the rim of his cufflink. "You’ve changed, Lucas," he whispered. "But I wonder how much of that is you... and how much is him."

Beside him, his lawyer cleared his throat. The hearing was about to begin.

Christian straightened, the smile returning.

Let the court crucify Misty.