[BL]Reborn as the Empire's Most Desired Omega
Chapter 73: The reward

Chapter 73: Chapter 73: The reward

Trevor didn’t answer.

Windstone took that as permission to keep talking.

"Start simple," he said. "Breakfast he doesn’t fake eating. A walk, maybe. Something so painfully normal it doesn’t feel like politics."

Trevor finally looked at him. "You want me to court him."

Windstone shrugged. "You married him. Might as well act like you mean it."

Trevor leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "You think he wants romance?"

"I think he’s never had it. And you’re too capable to pretend that doesn’t matter."

Trevor’s eyes narrowed. "You’re remarkably confident for someone who coordinates towel rotations."

"I’m also the only one who isn’t scared of telling you when you’re being an idiot."

Trevor didn’t blink. "That’s debatable."

Windstone nodded. "Then debate it with someone else. I’m off duty in twenty minutes and not emotionally equipped to carry both your ego and your marriage."

Trevor tapped a finger against the desk. "Noted."

Windstone turned toward the door, but paused with one hand on the frame. "Do something easy. Let him eat without watching him. Let him speak without expecting strategy."

"You assume I know how to do that."

Windstone glanced over his shoulder. "You built a weapons vault that opens to a piano room. You’ll figure it out."

The door closed behind him, and Trevor sat alone in the quiet that followed.

It wasn’t guilt. He didn’t move like a man regretting anything. But the weight of Windstone’s words settled anyway—practical, clinical, and somehow still personal.

Trevor stood, slowly, and crossed the hall back to the bedroom.

Lucas hadn’t moved.

Still curled toward the window, one hand loosely folded near his mouth, his breath steady in the dark.

—

The morning in the capital was quiet. Almost pointedly so.

Christian Velloran sat at the head of the breakfast table, still in his robe, hair swept back, one hand wrapped around a coffee cup that had long since gone cold. The sun hit the marble floors in gold slices. The rest of the estate staff knew better than to disturb him.

The palace bulletin arrived late—delivered with the usual ceremony, gold trim, and official seal, like it mattered. He unfolded it with one hand, more out of habit than curiosity.

The headline hit him like a blow.

Trevor Ariston Fitzgeralt Marries D’Argente Heir in Private Union

He read it again, slower this time, as if the phrasing might change on a second pass. It didn’t. The ink didn’t care how hard he stared.

Below the headline, the subtext was worse.

Certified by the Imperial Bureau of Union Law. Witnessed by Five Bishops.

His knuckles whitened around the edge of the page.

The cup in his hand didn’t stand a chance. It cracked hard against the table’s edge and shattered a moment later, half from pressure, half from the precise way his wrist shifted just enough to make it intentional.

One of the aides flinched in the hallway. No one stepped in.

Christian leaned forward and retrieved the paper from the table, folded it once, and set it down beside the ruined cup.

He sat back in silence.

Five bishops.

Not two. Not three. Not the minimum required to register a formal bond.

Five.

He knew why Serathine had done it. He knew exactly what she’d protected.

With five ecclesiastical signatures, no annulment could be pushed through the Imperial Court. The legal clause that allowed for dissolution through political challenge was void. Revoking two bishops meant nothing if three still stood. The Empire would have to accuse all five of fraud—and that wasn’t just unlikely, it was suicidal.

Serathine didn’t gamble.

And Trevor didn’t bluff.

They had made sure the marriage would stand, even under scrutiny. Even under pressure. Even from him.

Lucas had been secured while he was still reading reports and waiting for timing.

And now, he was no longer accessible.

Christian leaned on the back of his chair, one hand tapping a quiet rhythm against the polished wood. A beat only he knew. Sharp. Deliberate. The sound echoed faintly in the quiet room.

Trevor had enemies.

Plenty of them.

Not just in court, where power bred resentment, but on the battlefield—among generals, failed suitors, and old money houses that hated the way Trevor ignored their traditions and outmaneuvered their sons.

It wouldn’t be surprising if someone tried to kill him.

It might even be expected.

Christian smiled like a man who had just remembered the rules of a different game.

He rose from his chair, slow and precise, and walked toward his home office. The sun followed him through the windows, warm and golden, but it didn’t reach the edge in his posture or his cold silver eyes.

The moment he stepped into the study, Christian made up his mind to stop playing fair and start to fight as he knew best.

He sat at the desk and pulled the drawer open.

The folder inside was thick. Sealed. Labeled in his own shorthand.

He flipped it open. He didn’t need allies. He needed pawns. Correct content is on NovelFire

And the Empire was full of them, nobles scrambling for favor, minor houses with half-failed ventures, generals whose sons had been humiliated in court. People who wanted to see Trevor Fitzgeralt fall and were just waiting for someone to tell them how.

Christian didn’t have to offer much.

A favor. A contract. A delay on interest payments. Enough to make them lean in and not ask too many questions.

He tapped once on the communicator panel and brought up the encrypted list.

It was time to start making introductions.

And if things moved fast?

So be it.

He wouldn’t touch Lucas.

Christian wanted him whole and unharmed, untouched by the mess he was about to unleash. There was no value in scarring what he intended to claim. NovelFire

And he would make sure the others saw it the same way.

Lucas wasn’t a target. He was the reward.

The nobles he was about to contact wouldn’t care about names. They would care about outcomes. Power. Access. Legacy. They wanted D’Argente’s influence now—and the Fitzgeralt domain later.

When Trevor was dealt with.

Christian leaned back in his chair, the flicker of his screen casting pale light over the polished surface of his desk. A few names came first—discreet, predictable, vicious in the right context. None of them would hesitate if the price was right and the path was clean.

He’d give them both.

And Trevor?

Trevor would learn that a battlefield could look like marble floors and closed doors.

Christian didn’t need a weapon.

He had patience.

And the right kind of men.