[BL]Reborn as the Empire's Most Desired Omega
Chapter 207: Wait!

Chapter 207: Chapter 207: Wait!

Misty’s head knocked softly against the reinforced glass as the transport jolted forward, the cuffs biting into her wrists with every movement. Her pale blue eyes, once bright, looked hollow now, framed by lashes bare of mascara, skin sallow under the harsh fluorescent strip above her.

Her hair, a once‑perfect crown of platinum, had grown out in uneven layers, dull at the roots, the ends tinged yellow where the treatments had failed. Strands clung to her cheek, limp and unwashed, swaying with every turn the car took.

Outside the window, the military‑grade convoy moved in precise formation. Four guards, rifles slung, their armored vests catching the noon light as they flanked the car. Two more ahead on motorbikes, scanning the road. Misty watched them through the tinted glass, her breath shallow, her body stiff with restrained fury.

She wanted to scream at them, at the world, at herself, anything to break the silence that wrapped around her like a choke chain. But she didn’t, not yet; she had to see what Caelan had planned.

The road bent, and the convoy slowed. The hum of engines faded one by one until, with a low metallic click, the car’s locks engaged.

Misty blinked, leaning forward slightly, scanning the edges of the tinted windows.

The escort ahead... gone.

The ones behind... gone.

The motorbikes... silent.

Her breath quickened. The armed guards who’d pulled her out of Blackridge like she was some high‑value prisoner. ’Where are they?’

The driver said nothing, his eyes hidden behind dark glasses in the rearview mirror.

"Hey," Misty rasped, her voice raw from hours of silence. She swallowed and tried again, louder. "Hey! Wait! Where the hell are we?"

No answer. The driver’s hands stayed loose on the wheel as the car rolled to a slow crawl down an empty stretch of road flanked by barren trees.

Panic rose sharply in her chest. "You’re off route, where is the escort?" Her wrists jerked against the cuffs, metal clinking. "You were supposed to stay with the others!"

The car slowed to a stop.

Misty’s pulse thundered. She slammed her cuffed hands against the mesh partition, breath coming fast now. "Answer me! Why aren’t they here?! Where are the guards?"

The driver reached calmly to his side panel and, without a word, engaged the sliding barrier between them. The black screen hummed down, sealing her in, cutting off her view of him entirely.

"Wait—WAIT!" Misty’s voice rose, frantic now, her cuffs clattering against the door. "Where are you taking me?! WHERE ARE THEY?"

The driver put the car in park.

The click of his door opening made her stomach drop.

Through the tinted side window, Misty saw his silhouette as he stepped out into the pale sunlight, tall and composed. He circled the front of the car, boots crunching on loose gravel, then paused just outside her door.

Misty yanked at the cuffs, eyes wide, her voice breaking into a scream. "Let me out! LET ME OUT!"

The man didn’t speak. He simply engaged the external lock, a muted metallic snap that reverberated through the car like the closing of a vault.

And then... silence.

He turned, walking back down the road with calm, deliberate steps, leaving her alone in the middle of nowhere, heart hammering, breath ragged, and with the sudden, chilling realization that whatever awaited her next... it wasn’t sanctioned. It wasn’t official.

—

Music swelled through the great hall, strings and soft brass weaving together in something triumphant, bright, and far too polished to feel real. Laughter rose and fell in waves, carried over the glitter of crystal flutes and the low murmur of nobles shifting at long tables. The chandeliers burned like captured stars above, scattering warm light over silver trays and rare vintages uncorked for the occasion.

Christopher wasn’t supposed to be here, well, not tonight. He was a stand‑in, a last‑minute favor pulled because his sister, a regular server for the Fitzgeralt House, had been taken to the infirmary with a sudden, intense heat.

Christopher adjusted his grip on the tray, weaving through the maze of silk gowns and polished shoes with the practiced ease of someone used to being invisible.

He was just a stand‑in, after all, a freelancer, as he called it, though his sister spat the word like it was something shameful. To her, it meant jobless, unreliable, a man who couldn’t settle. But Christopher had always been good at moving unnoticed, at watching. And tonight, it was paying off in ways he hadn’t expected.

From his vantage between tables, he could see Trevor and Lucas framed in gold light near the dais, the Imperial crest gleaming on the banners behind them. Trevor stood with the stillness of a man who owned every inch of this hall, his hand a firm, protective weight at Lucas’s back. Lucas, god, Lucas looked untouchable. The way that coat‑cape caught the light, the way his chin tilted just enough to meet every greeting as if he’d been born for this. But Christopher, sharp-eyed and restless by nature, saw the way Lucas’s jaw tightened ever so slightly each time another well-wisher pressed too close.

He kept moving, skirting a table where Serathine and Cressida sat in languid power, their conversation low but quick, punctuated by the glint of their eyes toward the dais. They didn’t notice him, not really. No one did.

Until he saw it.

A flicker of movement in the periphery, a vial passed between two attendants. Too smooth, too quick to be innocent. Christopher’s tray dipped slightly, his pulse spiking as he shifted to follow, weaving closer. He heard the soft whisper of instructions, just a fragment:

"...the dominant alpha with purple eyes..."

The words hit like a shard of ice.

Purple eyes. There could only be two people here. Trevor... or the King of Saha himself.

Christopher’s breath caught, and before he could think, he was moving, shadowing the attendant as he cut through the tables with a tray of wine, the pale vintage glowing like liquid gold in crystal flutes. The path was clear, heading not toward Trevor, but toward a flash of midnight‑blue at the far end of the table. Toward Dax.

The King of Saha sat half‑turned, speaking idly to a minor lord, his posture loose, the tilt of his head catching candlelight on a silver pin. Those unmistakable violet eyes lifted just as the attendant approached.

Christopher acted before the thought even finished forming.

"Wait." His voice was too loud, sharp enough to cut through the music. Several heads turned as he stepped forward, setting his tray down on a side table with a clatter that rang too bright in the gilded air.