[BL]Reborn as the Empire's Most Desired Omega
Chapter 90: The Articles

Chapter 90: Chapter 90: The Articles

The bedroom was quiet, the soft hush of early evening curling against the walls like steam.

Lucas had dried off after the bath, hair still damp at the ends, a loose cotton robe tied around his waist in the kind of half-effort that whispered both exhaustion and indifference. The window was cracked open just enough to let the breeze in. The curtains shifted gently. Somewhere on the estate grounds, another hound barked once, like a weary footman announcing the descent of peace.

He didn’t light the lamps. The room didn’t need it. Moonlight spilled across the floor in pale ribbons, brushing silver against the edge of the low-set armchair where Lucas now sat curled, tablet in hand, fingers moving with slow purpose across the screen.

The search bar blinked at him like it knew better.

"Evrin Dax and Trevor Fitzgeralt"

"Trevor Fitzgeralt flash wedding rumors"

"Royal alphas with matching eyes"

Lucas snorted.

The results were worse—and better—than expected.

One gossip blog featured a clearly fake image of Dax carrying Trevor over his shoulder like some barbaric bridegroom, captioned, "The North and Saha—closer than we think?" Another entry listed "Unmarried Sovereigns Ranked by Strategic Marriage Potential," where Dax was top of the list, followed by Trevor, who had once thrown a reporter into a fountain and never apologized.

The articles were very descriptive of the imagination of people about the two.

Apparently, Trevor and Dax had once been spotted arriving at a summit within minutes of each other—different entrances, different entourages—but that didn’t stop one blog from describing it as "a synchronized power move of intimate understanding and unmatched sexual tension."

Lucas blinked. Then reread that sentence. Then laughed so hard he had to set the tablet down before he dropped it.

Another post suggested the two had spent a "highly charged" diplomatic weekend at the fortress city of Ashella—ignoring the minor detail that the fortress had been under siege at the time, and the only thing they’d shared was a war table, three sleepless nights, and mutual hatred of the catering staff.

Then he saw it—and froze.

A photo, just barely grainy enough to be suspicious, clearly taken in haste or cropped from a security still. Dax leaned in over Trevor, one hand braced on the wall behind him, the angle sharp enough to look like domination but vague enough to avoid legal consequence. Trevor’s shoulder was turned just enough to obscure his expression. Dax’s jaw was visible, his lips parted mid-sentence.

The caption read:

"The moment before everything changed. #daxevrin #fitzgeraltflame"

Lucas stared at it.

He zoomed in. Then back out.

There was no context. No date. No confirmation. Just the implication—and thousands of comments below dissecting body language, imagined confessions, and a very passionate thread insisting Trevor was "the Empire’s coldest flame, thawed only by the King of Saha."

Another user claimed the photo had been "banned from official circulation." One linked to a supposed "leak" of the original file with a timestamp. Lucas opened it.

Ashella. Five years ago.

The fortress siege.

The post added:

"They said it was just military strategy. But we know better. No one leans like that over logistics."

Lucas blinked.

Then dragged a hand down his face. "Oh my god."

One comment helpfully added:

"He’s either about to be kissed or assassinated. There is no in-between."

Lucas didn’t even notice the door open behind him, or the man approaching from behind.

He was too entertained by the comments, scrolling, snorting, eyes flicking across decades of misinterpreted diplomatic history like he was reviewing evidence for a royal scandal that hadn’t happened. Yet.

"This is what international longing looks like," one user wrote under the image of Dax leaning over Trevor like a seduction draped in strategy. "Treason never looked so good."

Lucas choked on a laugh.

And then—very belatedly—he realized someone was watching him.

Trevor leaned down behind the chair, one hand bracing on the armrest, the other casually draped over the back of it.

Lucas stiffened slightly. "You’re quiet."

"I live here," Trevor said dryly. "And the door was open. But please—continue reading dramatic fan interpretations of my war history. It’s clearly doing wonders for your mood."

Lucas tilted the screen slightly, just enough for Trevor to see the offending photo again—the one with Dax braced over him, shadows sharp and the tension staged so perfectly it looked like the cover of a tragic love story.

Trevor stared. Then exhaled.

Lucas didn’t look away. "You didn’t even deny it looked like a kiss."

Trevor’s hand slid from the back of the chair to Lucas’s shoulder, warm through the robe. "I can explain it."

Lucas didn’t look away from the screen. "Can you?"

Trevor leaned in just enough for his voice to brush the side of Lucas’s neck, measured and even. "It was raining. The wall was wet. The floors were stone. Dax was unstable—"

Lucas tilted his head slightly. "Emotionally or physically?"

Trevor exhaled. "Both. There were knives involved. And a spilled bottle of port."

Lucas finally looked at him, unimpressed. "Go on."

Trevor glanced at the image again—Dax braced over him, shadows cast in the perfect shape of suggestion—and muttered, "We were in Ashella. Fourth day of failed talks. Someone said something about Sahan pride and Dax nearly set a table on fire. I pulled him out of the hall. He cornered me to scream. Someone snapped that picture like it was a royal engagement."

Lucas scrolled lazily. "It looks like foreplay."

"I was trying to prevent a diplomatic explosion."

Lucas hummed. "And the internet thanks you for your service."

Trevor leaned over the chair with a resigned sigh, lips brushing the curve of Lucas’s temple. "Do I even want to know what else they’re saying?"

Lucas didn’t respond. Just turned the tablet toward him with one flick of his wrist.

Trevor’s eyes narrowed slightly as he read the headline:

"Empire’s Most Desired Omega Refuses Collar: Rebellion or Red Flag?" NovelFire

Lucas didn’t move.

Trevor read further. A full article—long-form, speculative, full of soft accusations and sharper implications. A scroll of screenshots from court appearances and estate events, each with arrows and circles pointing out that Lucas wore no mark, no chain, no visible sign of claiming.

And below it, one photo: Lucas walking alone through the Baye estate gardens. No collar. Chin lifted. Composure flawless. A paragraph beneath it read:

"The Grand Duchess continues to forgo the traditional bond collar, raising eyebrows among more conservative alphas. Is it a political statement—or a personal rejection of Fitzgeralt authority?" NovelFire

Trevor went still.

Lucas didn’t speak. His entire body was relaxed in that way Trevor had learned to recognize, too still. Too careful. The kind of composure built to mask something deeper.