Reborn as a villain:Claim the omega, Kiss the beta, Kill the dukes-Chapter 128: Distance
Chapter 127
Jack
"Your Highness."
I turn with a neutral, polite smile — the smile I’ve been forcing all night, only for it to immediately freeze when I see him.
The creepy painter.Every hair on my body stands on end.
"Duke Duvall," I say, my smile tight enough to snap my jaw.
He gives a soft laugh, the kind that makes my skin crawl.
"Please, call me Laurent. When you say ’Duke Duvall,’ I feel like my father."
"I’d rather follow protocol, Duke Duvall," I repeat, with a pleasant edge.
His eye twitches.
"It’s a pleasure, Your Highness," he says smoothly.
"Indeed," I reply, taking a sip of wine. "Especially since our last meeting wasn’t... pleasant."
Crack.There it is. the tiny fracture in his perfect façade.He bows stiffly and glides away, violet hair trailing behind him like some dramatic RPG antagonist.
Good riddance.
I down half my wine in one go. I need the alcohol. And maybe a priest.
"Little brother doing well?" a far-too-cheerful voice asks behind me.
I turn, praying to whatever gods exist that it’s not another duke.
It’s Anderson.
Sigh.
"Anderson," I greet politely.
"Andy," he corrects with a grin.
"Anderson," I repeat.We stare at each other, he gives up.
"It’s not fair," he mutters, folding his arms, "that you treat me like this while you treat Russel differently."
Of course. Because Russel is an adult and Anderson is... whatever short-circuiting creature he is.
I ignore him.
"What’s the deal with you and those dukes?" Anderson asks suddenly. "They’re glaring at you like you stole their inheritance."
The corner of my lip twitches.
Now that’s amusing.
"I wouldn’t know," I say airily. "Maybe they envy me."
"What? They’re dukes."
I shrug."Who knows? Maybe I have something they want." I say cryptically.
"Speak of the devil," Anderson whispers.
I follow his gaze.Walking toward us is the military bastard himself, still in uniform, jaw tight, eyes colder than a morgue.
"General Roderick," Anderson greets.
"Your Highness," Richard says to him with a curt bow.Then he turns to me.
A beat.
"Your. Highness."
He bows again, deeper, slower, and I can feel how much the gesture tears his pride apart.
He storms off without another word.
Anderson sighs dramatically.
"Don’t mind him. He’s... not very chatty."
I use the pretense of talking to Anderson to not, walk around socialising when the corpse-looking bastard himself,walks to us.
"I greet the princes of Solmere," he says in a theatrical voice, dipping into a bow so exaggerated it belongs in a cheap stage play.
What the hell is he doing?
Does he think this is some medieval soap opera?
Anderson brightens.
"Sebastian!" he says happily.
And just like that, any tiny sliver of warmth I felt for Anderson dies a brutal death. If he’s friends with psychopathic, ghost looking, rapist he’s not a very good guy either.
I instinctively step back from both of them, like they’re contagious.
Which, spiritually speaking, they are.
I school my face into the perfect, charming prince expression the palace handlers drilled into me—but internally, every bone in my body wants to shove him out the nearest window.
"Duke Doraemont," I say, tone so flat it could be printed and used as a ruler.
Anderson, oblivious as a golden retriever, claps Sebastian’s shoulder.
"Jackson, you have to attend! Sebastian hosts the best parties in the kingdom," Anderson announces with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever discovering a new stick.
Yeah, no thanks.
I’ve read Rose’s novel. About his infamous parties.I’m not stepping foot in any room with them voluntarily, alcohol or not.
I clear my throat and plaster on a polite smile.
"I’m not really a party person," I say smoothly. "You know... seeing as how I have a family."
Sebastian’s jaw tightens.
His posture stiffens.
His dead-gray eyes flicker with something jagged and ugly.
Good.
Choke on it.
Anderson laughs loudly, completely missing the tension.
"Ah right! Seb, looks like I now have two henpecked brothers!"
I give a soft, socially acceptable laugh then immediately latch onto the first excuse that pops into my head.
"Oh—excuse me," I say, tapping my temple. "I think I see someone I’m supposed to greet."
I feel Sebastian’s stare burning between my shoulder blades.
I don’t turn around.
I don’t acknowledge him.
*
Finally the ball is over.
I’m sprawled across my ridiculous, oversized royal bed, burner phone pressed to my ear, coaxing my two lovers like some overworked kindergarten teacher because they were jealous of a reporter.
How unbelievably cute.
Do they really not know? I don’t have eyes for anyone else. Not now, not ever. Still... I’ll keep a respectable distance from people so they don’t feel uncomfortable. But their reaction—
God, I loved it.
It was the best part of my entire day.
Because the rest of it?
Torture.
The dukes were in attendance tonight.And I had to smile. Be cordial. Shake hands with the same men I want to strangle.
But hearing Ciel’s soft voice drifting through the phone... hearing Nolan’s grumbling jealousy... the way their tones brighten, darken, soften just for me—
It loosened something in my chest.
They lit up my whole night.
I close my eyes, letting their voices anchor me back to warmth, back to the version of myself I only am when I’m with them.
"Don’t worry," I say, sinking deeper into the pillows, phone pressed to my ear. "I will now have firmer boundaries. No more giggling reporters touching me."
Ciel makes an indignant little noise on the other end.
"No giggling at all." he snaps.
I bite back a laugh.
"Five meters," Nolan adds dead serious. "Minimum distance. From anyone who laughs like that."
"Five meters?" I echo. "That’s basically a restraining order."
"Good," Nolan grumbles.
Ciel hums in agreement like an offended little noble, and suddenly the tension in my chest eases.
"Yes, yes," I sigh dramatically, giving in. "No giggling. No touching. Five meters. Maybe ten, if it makes you feel safer."
Ciel lets out a pleased sound.
Nolan mutters, "Seven. We’ll settle on seven."
