[BL]Reborn as the Empire's Most Desired Omega
Chapter 178: Schedule the damage

Chapter 178: Chapter 178: Schedule the damage

The car door closed with a soft, final click, muffling the background noise of nobility like a soundproofed confession booth. Lucas exhaled, long and slow, then slumped sideways into the buttery leather seat like a man escaping death by champagne flute. Correct content is on NovelFire

Trevor didn’t speak at first. He let the silence stretch, content to watch Lucas melt into the upholstery like an overworked aristocrat in exile. Only when the driver turned down the side avenue and the estate skyline reappeared did he glance over with a knowing smile.

"So," Trevor began, voice all silk and danger, "remind me to have the windows at the luncheon venue replaced. I think a few cracked under the pressure of you glaring." View the correct content at NovelFire

Lucas didn’t move. "Trevor."

"Yes, love?"

"If you make me go to one more of these events, I will fake my own death."

Trevor looked utterly unbothered. "You’d do it well. But Cressida would track your corpse halfway across the continent for posture violations."

Lucas groaned and covered his face with both hands. "Speaking of war crimes in couture, please don’t tell me there’s more."

Trevor hummed. "Well... next week, both Serathine and Cressida are scheduled to stay at the manor."

Lucas slowly turned his head, hands still pressed against his face. "At the same time?"

"Indeed."

"They’ll kill each other."

"They’ll train each other," Trevor corrected cheerfully. "And then try to train you."

Lucas stared at the ceiling like it held the answers to cosmic betrayal. "I need a map of tunnels. A jet. A new identity. Possibly a monastery."

"You hate the clergy."

"I do."

Trevor didn’t even try to contain the smile tugging at his lips. "You know, we could take a short trip before they arrive. Something discreet. No nobles. No planners. No mothers who use diplomacy like a blade."

Lucas peeled one hand from his face, suspicious. "Where?"

"Anywhere with locked doors and no seating charts."

"That sounds like a euphemism for kidnapping."

Trevor tilted his head. "It could be."

Lucas gave a tired laugh, low and almost fond. "You want to run away with your legally wedded mate because you’re afraid of my mother and your grandmother?"

"I’m not afraid," Trevor said with mock dignity. "I’m tactically outmaneuvering two imperial-grade women with sharp tongues and matching bank accounts."

Lucas leaned his head against the window, watching the Fitzgeralt estate loom closer with every turn. "You should marry me again for dealing with this."

"We’re already married."

"Then bribe me with something. Chocolate. Fencing lessons. A private bunker."

Trevor reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and held out a wrapped chocolate truffle without breaking eye contact.

Lucas blinked. "...You’ve been carrying that all day?"

"I anticipated needing a peace offering."

Lucas took the chocolate with slow reverence. "I knew I married well."

Trevor chuckled, reaching out to rest a warm hand over Lucas’s knee. "You’ll survive them. Maybe even thrive. But if they start plotting your future haircuts again, I’ll declare you a diplomatic hostage and whisk you off to the coast."

Lucas cracked the wrapper open. "You’d do that for me?"

"I’d do anything for you," Trevor said, not joking this time.

Lucas didn’t answer. He just reached for Trevor’s hand and laced their fingers together, the chocolate melting against his other palm.

Outside the car, the manor gates creaked open. Inside, with exhaustion curling behind his eyes and dread pooling in his stomach, Lucas allowed himself the comfort of Trevor’s hand and the quiet thought:

Maybe he really would survive this.

—

He wouldn’t survive this.

The moment they stepped into the manor, still high on the false promise of privacy, Windstone appeared like intrusive thoughts at 2 a.m.—calm, punctual, and entirely ruinous.

"Your Graces," he said, bowing just enough to make it official. "I regret to inform you, though not really, that word has arrived from Lord Alistair."

Trevor narrowed his eyes. "Which word?"

"The kind spelled with too many flourishes and a request to forward the seating chart." Windstone handed over a folded letter. "It appears the rest of the Fitzgeralt family, the... more elusive branches, have expressed interest in attending the wedding."

Lucas didn’t move, his green eyes filled with panic. "Define ’expressed interest.’"

Windstone folded his hands behind his back. "One arrived at the private airstrip an hour ago. The others sent gifts. And a hawk."

Trevor blinked. "We don’t own a hawk."

"No, Your Grace," Windstone said gravely. "But we do now."

Lucas turned to Trevor slowly. "You told me they were all running away from responsibility. That they disowned you after the title passed to you."

"They did!" Trevor protested. "Most of them fled to the coast, some joined a yacht cult, and one started a vineyard without knowing anything about grapes..."

"They’re coming here."

Trevor inhaled. "Apparently, nothing draws out the aristocratic vultures like a well-bonded omega and two dowager matriarchs preparing for social war."

Lucas sat down on the nearest velvet-cursed bench like a man accepting his death sentence. "I’m going to be paraded like a bloodline unicorn in front of exiled cousins who think my shoes are inheritance-worthy."

"Technically, exiled brothers and mother, then cousins," Windstone offered helpfully. "you are the highest-ranking omega in the family now that Lady Berenice passed and the other one ran off with a banker."

Trevor closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Please don’t bring up Berenice."

"She left you that tragic portrait. I had to bring her up."

Lucas waved a hand. "No. No. I want a jet, a monastery, and a private militia. I’m faking my death, and I expect full Fitzgeralt support."

Windstone raised an eyebrow. "Should I inform Cressida and Serathine?"

Lucas groaned, lowering his head into his hands, his ash blonde hair falling elegantly over his palms. "God, no. They’ll help."

Trevor sank down beside him, resting an arm around his shoulders. "I was going to tell you over dessert."

"This is dessert," Lucas mumbled into his palms. "This is my life now. I am sugar-dusted trauma with a seating chart."

Trevor kissed the top of his head. "At least you’ll look devastating while suffering."

"I hate you."

"No, you don’t."

Lucas sighed. "No, I don’t." He peeked up, tired. "What do we do now?"

Trevor looked at Windstone. "Schedule the damage."

Windstone nodded, already swiping open his tablet. "With pleasure, Your Grace."