Fallen General's Omega (BL)-Chapter 193: Enough

My beloved is finally back, and the sun is high in the sky, casting warmth over the estate. I stand in the courtyard, watching as servants haul boxes up to our room, each one carefully labeled, no doubt filled with treasures he’s brought home for us. My eyes drift to him as he scoops up Mimi, showering her with kisses until her giggles echo through the air.

And then it happens again—that inexplicable tug in my chest, the one I feel every time I see them together. My heart stirs, and for a moment, I forget the world exists outside of this tiny, perfect family.

I can’t believe this is my life. Sometimes, it feels like I’m living someone else’s dream. I don’t even realize I’m smiling until I notice Celia standing nearby, watching me. Our eyes meet, and there’s a flicker of something in her gaze—something that makes my smile falter just a little.

She walks toward me, her expression unreadable. When she finally reaches me, she speaks softly. "Thorne? A word."

I glance back at Noelle and Mimi. My beloved star, surrounded by his light, and our daughter nestled safely in his arms. I don’t want to leave this moment, but something in Celia’s tone pulls me away. I nod reluctantly and follow her.

We walk into the sprawling garden, the crown jewel of the Remiro estate. The greenery stretches endlessly, every corner alive with color and vibrance. It’s one of my favorite places here, not just for its beauty but because it brings Noelle such joy. I think of him tending to the flowers, his hands brushing over the petals with reverence. That alone makes this place sacred to me.

But the silence between Celia and me is heavy, awkward. Didn’t she ask to talk? I glance at her out of the corner of my eye, wondering if I should say something to break the tension. Just as I part my lips to speak, she beats me to it.

"He’s beautiful, you know," she says suddenly, her voice quiet but steady. "Mirelle too. They both are."

"Yeah," I say, my voice coming out softer than I intend. It’s true, of course. They’re everything. I hate how everyone seems to know the way to disarm me now—mention them, and I’m undone.

She stops walking, turning to face me. "I’m curious," she says, her gaze searching mine. "Do you hate me?"

Her words stop me in my tracks. I blink, caught off guard. For a moment, I don’t answer. I just look at her—really look at her.

Celia. She’s older now. Still strikingly beautiful, though there’s a weariness in her eyes that wasn’t there before. Time has softened some edges and hardened others. Her posture is strong, but her question wavers in the air between us, fragile.

I sigh, the weight of years and memories pressing against my chest. "Hate you?" I repeat, my voice low. "No. I don’t hate you."

Her eyes widen slightly, as though my answer surprises her. I take a deep breath, running a hand through my hair as I try to find the right words.

"No, I’ve never hated you," I say firmer this time, my voice steady because it’s the truth.

Her blue eyes, so much like mine, narrow slightly as she studies me. "How odd. I thought you would," she says, her tone almost amused but laced with something deeper—perhaps regret or disbelief.

I shrug, meeting her gaze. "If you’d asked teenage me, I would’ve said yes. Back then, I hated a lot of things. But now? Not so much."

Her expression softens, and for a moment, she looks vulnerable in a way I’ve never seen before. "I’m sorry," she says quietly.

She steps closer, and for once, I don’t pull away. I don’t flinch or stiffen at her proximity. When she lifts her hand to cup my cheek, I let her. Her touch is unfamiliar, yet it doesn’t feel unwelcome. She looks up at me, and I realize how small she is. How have I never noticed that before?

"For everything," she continues, her voice trembling slightly. "For being selfish. For not being a mother. For giving the affection I should’ve given to you to another. For leaving you alone all these years. I’m not asking for forgiveness, but I need to say it—I’m sorry."

Her words hit me harder than I expect. This is the most emotion I’ve ever seen directed toward me by my mother. She’s always been a woman of indifference, her demeanor cool and detached towards me. This? This is new.

"If given the chance," I ask, my voice quiet but firm, "would you make a different decision?"

She doesn’t answer right away. Silence stretches between us, heavy but telling.

"Good," I say finally, and there’s no bitterness in my tone, only acceptance. "Don’t regret this life you’ve built. You made your choices, and so did I. And you know what? I have a life of my own now—a family of my own. If different choices had been made, neither of us might have found our own kind of happiness."

She looks at me for a long moment, her hand still resting against my cheek. There’s something in her gaze that I can’t quite name—relief, perhaps, or gratitude. Maybe both.

And for the first time in as long as I can remember, there’s peace between us.

"We’ll never be mother and son," I say, my voice softer now as I gently pull away from her touch. "But... you could be a grandma to Mirelle. That’s okay."

Her eyes widen slightly, and then she smiles. It’s a rare, genuine expression that catches me off guard. For a fleeting moment, it reminds me of the smile Mirelle flashes when she’s caught up in her own little world.

"Don’t worry about it," she says, her voice warm and surprisingly light. "I’m already looking forward to spoiling her rotten."

She laughs—a soft, melodic sound that carries through the quiet garden. It’s strange, almost surreal, to hear her laugh like that. For the first time, it feels like the barriers between us aren’t as tall or impenetrable as they used to be.

***

Both Celia and Thorne knew that the kind of bond they might have once shared was beyond reach. Too much had happened—choices made, years apart, and wounds that neither time nor words could truly heal.

To Thorne, Celia would always be the woman who left him, prioritizing her own happiness over being a mother. No matter her reasons or regrets, that fact would remain. freeweɓnovēl.coɱ

To Celia, Thorne was a reminder of a past she had worked hard to leave behind, a living connection to the pain and suffering of her youth. His presence stirred memories she’d rather forget but could never escape.

Still, something had shifted between them after their conversation. The tension that usually hung heavy in the air had lightened, and their exchanges felt less fraught. It wasn’t a dramatic transformation, but it was progress—however small.

They both understood the limits of what they could be to each other. Celia knew she could never truly be his mother, and Thorne accepted that the relationship he had once longed for as a little child would never exist. But there was a mutual understanding, and that was enough.