The Omega Who Wasn't Supposed to Exist-Chapter 65: Pillows, Banners, and the Letter of Doom

[Duclair Estate—The Next Morning]

The Duclair Estate had seen wars, duels, scandals, and surprise opera rehearsals—but never... this.

This chaos.

Maids were screaming. Footmen were sprinting with pillows. Cushions—fluffy like clouds sent from the heavens themselves—were being flung across the mansion with the urgency of a royal evacuation.

Extra-plush carpets were being laid over every inch of flooring, even up the marble steps, while a cook argued with the head butler over how spicy was too spicy for hormonal comfort food.

"MOVE THAT RUG! HE COULD TRIP!""WHY IS THAT CORNER SHARP? FILE IT DOWN!""IS THE ROOM HUMIDITY 53%?! I SWEAR HE SNEEZED!"

It was a royal-grade crisis. Because in the heart of the estate... A pregnant Lucien Rynthall had gone emotionally offline.

But outside?

The Count and his daughter were engaged in their own crusade.

Count Alaric Duclair was standing on a ladder, one hand gripping the iron gate, the other holding a hammer as he and Seraphina pinned a large, aggressive red banner across the estate entrance.

In bold, glittering letters, it read:

"NO GRAND DUKES ALLOWED. SERIOUSLY. BACK OFF, TRAITOR."

With a painted drawing of Silas’s face... crossed out.

"Pull it tighter!" Alaric barked. "I want that man to read it from the moon!"

"I added glitter to the ’Traitor’ part," Seraphina replied proudly, eyes narrowing like a general in the middle of a siege. "And red ink. Very ominous."

They stepped back and admired their handiwork.

"Perfect," Alaric huffed. "Now no one can say we didn’t take a stand."

And Meanwhile, Inside the estate...

Lucien sat near the tall window on a velvet sofa.

Bathed in soft morning light.

Wrapped in a fur shawl. His hands rested gently on his rounded belly... and his face...

His face was blank.

Expressionless.

Eyes dull like a painting that had lost its color.

He stared through the glass like he wasn’t quite in the world anymore. Like his soul had paused somewhere between rage and heartbreak, unable to choose which direction to go next.

Marcel stood a few feet away, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, chewing his bottom lip in anxiety. He had never—never—seen his lord look like this.

"...My lord?" he asked gently.

Lucien didn’t blink.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t even breathe deeply. Just continued sitting there, one hand stroking his belly like he was reassuring the baby that he still existed.

That they both did.

Just then, the double doors opened with a flutter of skirts. Countess Isadora entered, elegance incarnate, a tray of fresh fruits in her hand, a maid in tow.

"Luce—"

She froze mid-step. Her gaze landed on Lucien.

On that blank stare.

On that too-still posture.

And even the Countess—Queen of Composure, Slayer of Weak Men—lost her words for a moment. Marcel turned to her, eyes wide with panic. His voice cracked.

"Madam... What... What’s happened to my lord?"

Isadora slowly placed the tray on a side table, her own expression hardening into a grim understanding.

"...He’s missing his husband."

Marcel blinked. "But he was the one who yelled. Who warned, Who walked away..."

Isadora nodded gently. "Yes. But that’s not how bondmates work."

She turned to the window, watching Lucien like a doctor watches a patient on the edge of fever. ƒгeewёbnovel.com

"He’s at the stage now where... his body, his soul—everything in him—needs his alpha. Craves him. Not for romance. Not even for words. Just... for the presence. The scent. The anchoring."

She paused. Then added softly:

"And since he hasn’t been marked yet... the pheromones Grand Duke Silas used to emit every day—subtly, constantly—just to keep Lucien calm? Balanced? Safe?"

She looked at Marcel.

"They’ve vanished."

Marcel’s face lost all color. "V-Vanished...?" he whispered. "You mean... they were the reason my lord used to be calm and suddenly crave strawberries dipped in vinegar?!"

Isadora gave a small nod.

"It kept his instincts settled. His omega needs regulated. And now? They’re gone. Like cutting oxygen from someone and expecting them to just... meditate."

Marcel’s hands flailed. "Then—I’ll go! I’ll ride to the Rynthall Estate myself—I’ll drag that pheromone-emitting traitor...I mean Grand Duke Silas—!"

"No."

Isadora’s voice was calm.

But firm enough to stop hurricanes.

"You won’t."

Marcel froze.

"But—!"

"We do not meddle in the sacred wars of spouses," she said. "Lucien’s trust has been shattered. And no friend, no cousin, no well-meaning but overly dramatic assistant can stitch it back together."

She glanced again at Lucien.

"He was betrayed. And only the betrayer can earn him back."

Marcel’s voice cracked. "But what if—what if he spirals? What if this becomes... a darkness?"

"Then it is our duty," she whispered, "to build a fortress around him until his light returns."

And then...

A maid—flushed, nervous, and slightly out of breath—stood at the threshold, clutching something to her chest like it might explode.

"My lady..." she said, eyes flickering between the Countess and the unreadable lord curled on the couch. "There’s... there’s a letter."

She stepped forward, bowing as she extended a thick cream-colored envelope with an elaborate black wax seal—the Rynthall crest.

Isadora’s lips pressed into a thin line. Marcel’s eyes narrowed like he’d spotted an intruder.

"...From the Rynthall Estate," the maid finished, almost gulping.

Silence fell like a veil. Lucien didn’t even look up. His eyes were still trained on the glass window, far away. Almost... unreachable.

And then, like a lost Wi-Fi signal searching for connection.

"...Did something come from Silas, Aunty?"

The words were so soft, so sudden, it was like the air itself leaned in to listen.

Everyone froze.

Countess Isadora blinked, then composed herself with the speed of a seasoned duchess. She approached calmly, brushing invisible dust from her sleeves like she hadn’t just had her heart lurch out of her ribcage.

"Yes, my dear," she said sweetly, crouching beside him and patting his soft curls like one would pet a dangerously sad kitten. "Your husband—His Grace, the Grand Duke of Emotional Mismanagement—has sent you a letter."

Lucien’s lashes twitched. His eyes flicked downward at the parchment on the tray. The Rynthall seal gleamed like it had something smug to say: "Do you want to read, or shall I read?"

And then Lucien fwipped his head so fast and hard it was a miracle he didn’t sprain his royal neck.

"NOPE," he declared, voice sharp and dramatic. "Not at all. No, thank you. Burn it. Burn it, Aunty. Shred it. STAB IT. SMOTHER IT. With strawberries. Preferably overripe ones."

Countess Isadora and Marcel both blinked at him, then at each other. Marcel opened his mouth to say something equally unhinged—but Isadora raised a hand with all the regality of a woman.

"My darling Luce," she said patiently, "I would love to burn it. Really. It’s what my heart desires. However..."

She picked up the letter with two fingers, the way one might handle a particularly suspicious-looking bug.

"...I cannot legally incinerate correspondence from a high-ranking noble without triggering a scandal. Or treason charges. Or possibly a minor war."

Lucien squinted. "But if I burn it—"

"You’re the duchess," she said smoothly, placing the letter gently on the coffee table next to a bowl of suspiciously shiny apples. "You can burn your husband’s love with a smile, and it would be considered performance art."

Marcel cleared his throat. "Actually, if you smear the strawberries across it first and then set it on fire, it’ll smell delicious. I read that in a baking scroll once."

Lucien glared at him. "That’s not helpful."

"I’m emotionally compromised," Marcel mumbled, stepping back.

Countess Isadora stood, dusting her hands as if she had just planted a diplomatic landmine.

"Well then," she said cheerfully. "I’ll leave it right here. Do with it what you will, darling. Read it. Burn it. Frame it and throw darts at it. Entirely your choice."

She gave him one last fond pat on the head.

"Take a little rest, sweetheart. I’ll call you when lunch is ready. The chef’s making your favorite soup—the one that doesn’t taste like sadness."

With a final regal nod, she turned on her heel.

"Marcel. Come."

"Huh? Why me—"

"Because if I leave you alone, you’ll try to glue glitter on the letter out of sympathy."

"That’s oddly specific—wait—MADAM, MY ARM—"

She dragged him out by the sleeve, leaving the room quiet once more. Lucien sat alone on the cushioned sofa, wrapped in layers of blankets and heartbreak. His eyes drifted to the letter sitting innocently on the table.

Unopened.

Untouched.

Unforgiven.

He stared at it.

The letter stared back.

It practically glimmered with regret. Or arrogance. Or both. Knowing Silas, probably both.

Lucien narrowed his eyes.

He leaned forward slowly, cautiously—as if the parchment might sprout legs and apologize in person. He picked it up like it was a cursed relic from a tragic love story.

He held it between two fingers and scowled.

"...I should tear it."

A beat.

He looked at the seal. Then at the window. Then back at the letter.

A deep sigh left his lips—the kind that only dramatic, pregnant duchesses and opera singers could master.

"Well..." he muttered, voice rising theatrically, "it’s a waste. A waste of perfectly good ink and paper."

His nose twitched. "People worked hard to make this parchment, you know. Some poor soul probably squashed berries for this ink. A forest gave up a tree for this."

He sighed again—louder this time, as if the house needed to hear how burdened he was.

"I could tear it in half... but then I’d be destroying art. And I’m not a monster."

He sniffed proudly and adjusted the blanket around his shoulders like a cape.

"So... I shall read."

He carefully opened the letter like a queen reading a peasant’s last will.

"Not because I care," he added quickly. "But because I am a generous, world-saving person. A protector of resources. A humanitarian."

A pause.

"And if this letter turns out to be garbage, I’m composting it. With strawberries."

And with that, he unfurled the letter dramatically.

Eyes narrowed.

Heart guarded.

Mood: petty but curious.

The battlefield was ready.

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