Reborn as a villain:Claim the omega, Kiss the beta, Kill the dukes-Chapter 116: Acting

Chapter 114

Nolan

I unlock the apartment door with my keys, nudging it open with my shoulder because my arms are full of grocery bags. The metal lock clicks shut behind me, sealing us back into this tiny, temporary world we’re calling home.

I kick off my shoes and step inside.

Lanny is on the living-room floor, right in front of the TV like always, legs spread out, little hands gripping his toy as he babbles nonsense words that only he understands. The soft glow of the screen reflects off his cheeks. He looks peaceful. Safe. Oblivious.

It’s a relief I cling to.

I exhale, dragging the bags farther into the apartment.

Then my eyes drift to the kitchen.

Ciel is there.

Standing in front of the stove.

Pan sizzling, steam rising, the smell of fried onions filling the air.

He turns when he hears me and gives me a small smile — thin, weak, like it’s been scraped together from whatever scraps of hope he still has left.

The light in his eyes has dimmed.

A lot.

I notice the burner phone.

It sits on the counter, right next to him, screen dark.

He keeps it close. Always within reach. He takes it to the bathroom. To bed. To the table. He doesn’t even let Lanny touch it.

He says he doesn’t want to miss the call.

I set the grocery bags down slowly, not wanting to startle him. The plastic rustles loudly anyway in the quiet apartment. Ciel doesn’t react.

He just keeps stirring.

"I’m back," I say, voice low because the room feels too fragile for normal volume.

Ciel nods without turning.

"Welcome home."

I take a breath and try to let the normalcy settle into me, but it doesn’t.

There’s this huge gap between us, a huge Jack-sized gap.

I didn’t realize how deeply embedded he was in our routine, our days, our lives...

until he wasn’t there anymore.

It’s been two weeks since we arrived in this small town at the center of Solmere , surrounded by nothing but trees, and grass for miles— the kind of place where everyone knows everyone, where strangers stick out like blood on snow.

Every trip outside is a battlefield of whispers and stares.

Every time I drag myself to restock groceries, I can feel eyes burning into my back. They’re suspicious. Curious. Nosy. The worst combination.

And Ciel?

He doesn’t step outside unless he absolutely has to.

And even then, he hides in wig, glasses, scarf, oversized shirts that swallow him whole.

A dozen disguises that don’t hide the shaking in his hands.

Doesn’t help that the whispers get louder anyway.

Two days ago, the cops were called on us because some neighbor assumed I was "keeping an omega hostage."

We had to spin a story — half truth, half lie — about an attempted kidnapping and trauma and why Ciel avoids public places.

They bought it.

Barely.

I don’t offer to help him cook tonight.

Cooking is the only time he looks like he’s somewhat okay.

So I just unpack groceries and restock shelves with mechanical motions, pretending the air isn’t choking us both.

"Dada!" Lanny cries loud, bright, oblivious and both of us flinch.

For a second, I swear the room actually aches.

If Jack were here, he would’ve swooped Lanny up, spinning him around like they were the only two people in the world.

He would’ve laughed loudly and said, Did you hear that? He’s saying it again!

As if "dada" wasn’t the only word the little gremlin knows.

This time...

there’s no laugh from the kitchen.

No swooping arms.

No kiss to the kid’s cheek.

"Dada!" Lanny says again, more excited.

I keep organizing the groceries with forced focus, and Ciel keeps stirring the pan like he’s hypnotized.

"Dada!!!"

Then silence. Silence is not good when it comes to Lanny. I spin around at the same time Ciel does.

Lanny is standing , holding onto the TV stand with one tiny hand, the other pointing straight at the screen.

"I’ve got him," I say, moving quickly before the little troublemaker decides to test gravity.

I scoop him up and settle him against my chest.

"Dada!" Lanny cries again, but this time—

his voice is aimed directly at the TV.

"No, don’t—"

I freeze.

"Ciel."

My voice comes out thin.

"Hm?" he responds automatically, still half-focused on the stove.

"You... need to come see this."

***

Jack.

I’ve grown accustomed to wearing masks all my life, being around Ciel and Nolan, I realize now I didn’t have to. That was probably the first time in my life I could breathe without twisting myself into something palatable.

I can’t remember when I first learned to do it.

Maybe it started on the streets, learning that people give coins more easily to sweet little boys than to angry or unemotional ones?

Maybe it was in the gang, when survival meant becoming whatever shape the room required, strong or weak?

Or maybe it was earlier, the earliest memory I have — carefully calculating every movement, every word, to avoid becoming the target of my father’s moods?

If I really think about it, the damage probably runs deep. I’ve spent years performing whatever version of myself the world expected. And yet, for someone so good at masking, I feel a lot. More than I know what to do with.

I love Ciel.

I love Lanny.

I even enjoy annoying Nolan.

I get angry.

I get frustrated.

I care.

But away from them, these golden halls, these cameras, these eyes — I feel the old instincts creeping in, the urge to become something polished and empty. A version of me that won’t be punished.

Which is why, starting today, Jackson Carter Albrecht the Third will be a charming, down-to-earth prince.

I walk behind the king, smiling at the cameras, wearing a suit expensive enough to feed a small village.

They’re loving it , the reporters, the citizens watching the live broadcast. A perfect story for them. Lost prince discovered. Tearful reunion. A tragic childhood healed by the benevolent king.

He’s giving some dramatic speech about "only discovering my existence recently." I keep my face soft and polite, but internally, I’m rolling my eyes so hard I can see my brain.

This man has known about Jack since the day he was born. Acting talent must be hereditary.

He apologizes publicly, voice trembling just right. Talks about a "one-night mistake," as if Jack’s mother wasn’t his mistress until the queen caught them.

I keep smiling, when it’s needed I give a sad expression, I pretend to wipe tears. I could make a career out of this.

It’s so long and dragged out, this whole farce.

Speech after speech. Flash after flash. Every noble in the front row looking at me like I’m some long-lost treasure unearthed just for their entertainment.

And then the ending.

A "tearful" hug between father and son.

It takes everything in me to pull it off. The way he opens his arms, the way the crowd holds its breath, the way the cameras tilt closer — all of it feels suffocating.

I step forward and let him embrace me.

My arms go around him because they have to.

I hear someone sniff dramatically in the audience. Another gasp. Someone claps. Reporters fire off a dozen shots.

And the tear that slips down my cheek?

That one is real.

Not because I’m moved.

Because I’ve never been more uncomfortable in my entire life.

*

Finally, alone in my room.

I shut the door, lock it, and the silence hits me so hard my knees almost buckle, tugging my tie loose, fingers shaking with the kind of exhaustion that isn’t physical at all.

I sit on the edge of the massive bed and cover my face with both hands.My facial muscles hurt from smiling too much.

None of it feels real.

But the ache in my chest does.

I miss my son so fucking much.

The weight of it folds me in half. My elbows dig into my thighs as I rub my palms over my face, trying to chase away the tightness in my throat.

Lanny’s laugh.

His warm little body throwing itself at me.

His scent, even the tiny mischievous things he does when he thinks no one is watching.

Is he okay?

Is he eating fine?

Is he sleeping well in that new environment?

Does he miss me the way I miss him?

The questions claw at me, one after another, until my chest feels tight enough to crack.

And the whole farce with the king today...

That ridiculous performance of fatherly affection...

It forces me to think about the relationship I have with my son.

My son.

The thought sits heavy in my chest, powerful and fragile all at once, I still can’t believe I’m a father sometimes.

I’m so mad I’m not with them right now, it makes my hands shake. It crawls beneath my skin. I feel like pacing the entire palace until I burn a hole through the marble.

I don’t know why I’m royalty.

I don’t know why fate decided to throw this at me but I am grateful I now have the authority and ability to keep them safe and I’ll be dammed if I’ll ever let something like this happen again.