Reborn as a villain:Claim the omega, Kiss the beta, Kill the dukes-Chapter 129: Different
Chapter 128
Jack
Russell called for me.
Not the king, not a steward, not a random advisor who wants to dump a twenty-page file in my hands—
Russell.
My oldest sibling, the crown prince, the one person in this palace who actually feels... normal.
So here I am, navigating this ridiculous maze of corridors again.
Honestly, this place is massive. A full estate disguised as a residence. I’m pretty sure I walked a whole marathon just trying to get here. No wonder family members barely run into each other—it’s practically a small city.
I climb one last ornate staircase, turn down a hallway lined with portraits of extremely judgmental-looking ancestors, and finally reach the entrance to Russell’s wing.
Behind me, Peter follows like my own personal shadow. At this point he’s attached to me so permanently I barely even register his presence anymore. I swear he materializes when I blink.
He steps ahead, opens the heavy opulent door first—checking for threats, as always—and only when he nods do I walk in.
And immediately...
I stop.
Because this place?
This part of the palace?
Feels lived in.
Not just "someone uses this room" lived in.
But "a real family exists here" lived in.
Sure, it’s still luxury on top of luxury—golden marble floors, ornate molding, furniture that probably costs more than my old beach house,but there’s something different here.
Life.
A plush blanket thrown over a couch. A small stack of children’s books on a side table. Crayon markings smeared on the far wall—crude doodles a servant is currently scrubbing at with the resigned determination of someone who’s done this many times before.
I can’t help but smile.
A tiny toy train lies abandoned near the leg of a polished table. One of those high-end wooden ones that looks handmade. It clashes beautifully with the expensive ornament sitting just above it.
I step around it carefully.
I’m...
looking forward to this.
Looking forward to Lanny toddling around, leaving toys in places they absolutely shouldn’t be, scribbling on walls, making messes that will ruin marble and tastefully curated decor.
Russell’s voice echoes faintly from deeper inside the suite.I walk toward it, taking in one more look at the toy on the floor.
Someday, Lanny’s toys will be scattered like this too.
Now I miss my child too.
I walk further in, and there’s Russell, stoic faced except I can’t take him seriously, because the stoic-faced Crown Prince of Solmere is in pigtails.
Right. Russell has a 6-year-old daughter and a 3-year-old son.
He looks up at me through the slightly crooked ribbon in his hair and gives a dignified wave, as if this is perfectly normal.
"Jackson," he says in his usual deep, impassive voice.
Which only makes the pink bows in his hair even funnier.
I bite my cheek to hold back laughter.
I don’t succeed.
A small snort escapes me.
"Say nothing," Russell warns dryly.
"No disrespect, brother," I say, holding both hands up, "but who did this to you?"
As if on cue, a little girl appears behind him — brunette hair, huge brown eyes, wearing a princess dress with glitter that sheds on the floor with every breath she takes.
She marches up to him with the confidence of someone who already knows she runs this palace.
"Daddy," she says indignantly, "you’re messing it up again. Sit."
Russell — Crown Prince, next ruler of Solmere, man feared by half the political circle — obediently sits on a tiny pink stool built for children.
I cover my mouth.
She starts fixing his pigtails with serious determination.
He sits there, back straight, face blank, enduring.
"Your hair is too heavy," she says, tugging the ribbon. "You need lighter bows."
"I will... take that under advisement," Russell says, voice strained ever so slightly under the weight of six-year-old authority.
His daughter gives a satisfied nod before turning her suspicious gaze on me.
The light in her brown eyes dims.
She immediately shuffles closer to her father, tiny hands clutching his sleeve like I’m the tax collector come to repossess her toys.
Cute.
Even as she eyes me like a possible kidnapper.
Russell clears his throat and gives her a gentle nudge.
"Paulie, sweetheart, that’s your uncle Jack. The one I told you about. Remember?"
She doesn’t answer.
She just stares, squinting at me like she’s analyzing a crime scene.
Her nose scrunches.
"But he looks different," she says bluntly. "Different from you. And Uncle Andy. And Aunt Grace."
I can’t help the small smile tugging at my lips.
Russell, on the other hand, inhales so slowly it’s almost meditative.
Here we go.
"Pauline," he begins in that patient, dignified, crown-prince tone, "families can look different. Sometimes siblings share features, and sometimes they don’t. Your uncle Jack is your grandfather’s son just like me."
Paulie processes this.
Slowly.
Very slowly.
Then she tilts her head, still suspicious.
"...But he doesn’t look like Grandpa either."
How honest. I almost snort out a laugh.
"Paulie," he says gently, "families come in all kinds of shapes. Uncle Jack just... takes after his mother."
She squints harder at me.
Her little nose scrunches like she’s trying to detect a lie.
I restrain the urge to laugh.
"But why is his hair so curly?" she whispers loudly, as if I’m deaf.
"Because that’s how his hair grows," Russell says, patience thinning.
She studies me harder.
"...Why is his skin so... different?"
There it is. The classic childhood honesty bomb. Delivered with zero malice, full suspicion. I’m not offended, I’m actually finding it funny.
"That is also how he was born," Russell answers, tone just a shade tighter. He’s trying to keep this graceful, but he desperately wants this interrogation to end.
"...Are you sure he’s Uncle Jack?"
Russell freezes. Actually freezes.
And I nearly choke on my own laughter.
"Yes," he says firmly, placing a steadying hand on her small shoulder. "I am very sure."
She blinks at me once more, then finally gives a tiny nod — the kind children give when they’ve decided to tolerate someone’s suspicious existence for now.
"...Okay," she says.
I lose the battle to hold in my grin.
Russell closes his eyes for half a second, as though praying for strength.
