[BL]Reborn as the Empire's Most Desired Omega
Chapter 86: The End of the Puppeteer

Chapter 86: Chapter 86: The End of the Puppeteer

Misty Kilmer sat alone in her private salon, a glass of wine untouched beside her and her latest silk robe clinging to her shoulders like it had grown too heavy. The afternoon sun bled lazily through crystal-paned windows, casting warped golden bars across the marble floor, beautiful, opulent, and suffocating.

She tapped impatiently at her tablet, waiting for the headline to load on the newswire’s primary channel. The court column had promised something "monumental." Something that would "shake the social hierarchy to its core."

She’d hoped, no, expected, a scandal.

An old affair. A bastard child. A power play from Serathine finally cracking.

Instead, the screen lit up with three words that struck like a blow to the ribs:

HOUSE FITZGERALT WEDS.

Misty blinked once.

Then read the full title:

GRAND DUKE TREVOR ARISTON FITZGERALT MARRIES HEIR OF HOUSE D’ARGENTE IN PRIVATE CEREMONY BLESSED BY FIVE BISHOPS.

She scrolled faster, disbelief bleeding into fury.

There, in high-definition photo print, were two images. The first was them walking side by side—Lucas in pale winter blue, with the D’Argente crest woven across the chest of his formal attire, and Trevor in black. The second, smaller but worse, was taken during the vows, with their foreheads touching and the bishops behind them with open hands and a formal blessing.

The caption burned:

"They are fated," Bishop Erion said after the final rites. "Blessed by grace, forged by endurance. May their rule be long and united."

Misty’s stomach twisted.

She read the quote again. And again.

And then she laughed—a high, brittle sound that didn’t reach her eyes. It was laughter that cracked, once, and turned into something closer to a sob before she silenced it with another furious swipe through the article.

There were details:

—The union had been legally certified in both the North and Capital provinces.

—It had been co-signed by Serathine and Windstone.

—It had been recognized by the palace.

There were no leaked scandals. No protests. No backlash.

Just congratulations.

Lucas—her disappointment of a son, her failed investment, her "difficult omega"—had not only survived...

He had won.

Misty rose from the couch like it might catch fire under her skin. Her hand clenched around the tablet. She paced, sharp and fast, like the movement alone could burn the truth out of her bones.

He had married a Grand Duke.

A dominant. A war general. One of the few men in the Empire who could defy even the palace without flinching.

And Lucas—Lucas—was standing next to him like he belonged there.

The wineglass shattered on the floor as Misty whipped it off the table, shards scattering like glass confetti across the tile. She barely heard it.

It wasn’t supposed to go this way.

She had made deals. Secured contracts. Ensured obedience. There had been contingencies. Lucas was never meant to escape her reach—especially not like this.

Her thoughts spun faster and faster—until her inbox pinged with a sealed message.

ODIN—PRIORITY. View the correct content at NovelFire

She hesitated.

Then opened it.

I warned you. The contract is live again. The buyer has reactivated the clause. I will see you and the boy. No more excuses. You are running out of protection.

Misty stared at the message until the words blurred.

Faceless Agatha.

That old name clawed its way back into her skull like a curse. Odin was afraid—and Odin never sent direct messages unless the noose had already dropped.

She moved like lightning then.

Clothes were thrown into a bag. Emergency documents swept into a folder. Jewelry, untraceable credit chips, and a backup ID. No notes. No warning. Not even to Ophelia. The girl had grown too suspicious, too sharp. Misty didn’t need dead weight. She didn’t need witnesses.

She would come back later. Once things calmed. Once she could secure a new agreement, find a new loophole, and reclaim some part of the story she had built.

Lucas could play duchess for now.

It wouldn’t last.

It never did for omegas like him.

The sky had just begun to bruise with dusk when her car approached the Capital’s southern border checkpoint—disguised as civilian transport, nothing overt, nothing traceable.

But the moment the vehicle slowed, Misty saw the black car already parked across the lane. Unmarked. Government-grade. Waiting.

And leaning against it, calm as ever, was Caelan.

Her throat tightened.

He wore black gloves, his posture relaxed, but the look in his eyes—faintly amused, fully prepared—made something in her chest ice over.

"Misty," he said as she stepped out, panic barely disguised beneath poise. "Going somewhere?"

"I have a right—"

"No," he said smoothly, interrupting. "Not when you’re under active investigation for unlawful contract enforcement, trafficking attempts, and tampering with protected noble lineage."

Her mouth opened. Closed.

Caelan took a step forward.

"Lucas is under imperial protection," he said. "And you’re done."

She reached for her bag—

The guards moved in.

It was fast, professional, and painless. Her wrist was caught, the bag torn from her shoulder, and the door to the black car opened without a word. She didn’t scream. Not here. Not with him watching.

"You can’t do this," she hissed as she was guided inside.

Caelan raised a brow, unhurried.

"I’m not doing anything," he said. "I’m just delivering you back to the city you thought you still ruled. And for your sake," he added, leaning slightly toward the open door, "pray Lucas doesn’t decide you’re worth prosecuting personally."

The door closed.

And Misty Kilmer, once the woman who thought she held every string, was driven back into the heart of the Capital—no longer the puppeteer.

Just another name on a file someone else now controlled.

The car doors shut with a quiet finality.

Caelan stood for a moment beside the vehicle, the cool evening air tugging at the edges of his coat, eyes fixed on the black-tinted glass that now separated Misty Kilmer from the world she used to control.

He turned to his guards.

"She’s not going to holding," he said flatly. "Take her to Blackridge. Full detainment protocol. No press. No legal representatives unless I approve it myself."

The lead guard blinked. "Blackridge is reserved for—"

"I know what it’s reserved for," Caelan snapped. "Do I look like I care?"

The man nodded sharply. "Yes, Your Majesty."

Caelan exhaled, then followed the car in his own vehicle, silent as the city lights flickered past the windows. His hand curled loosely over the armrest, jaw locked tight. For weeks—months—he had tolerated Misty’s maneuvers. Her forged records. Her polished smiles and empty apologies. Her games.

And now?

Now the masks were off.

Lucas was protected. Treated, clothed, safe—not just physically but legally. Bound to Trevor Fitzgeralt by a marriage that could withstand political inquiry, blessed by five bishops and two noble houses with more influence than even the Crown could easily challenge.

Which meant Misty was out of moves.

And that meant Caelan no longer had to play by anyone’s rules but his own.