[BL]Reborn as the Empire's Most Desired Omega Chapter 21: The Messenger

Lucas stood before the mirrored wardrobe doors, fingers grazing the hem of a soft grey shirt laid across the bed.

Sothing simple, Serathine had said.

Trevor didn’t like pretense.

Lucas wasn’t sure he believed that, not fully. No man who held as much territory as the Grand Duke of the North got there without knowing how to play so kind of ga. But still... sothing about the way she said it stuck.

He stood before the open wardrobe, fingers brushing over soft fabrics, folded collars, and gilded cuffs that caught the light like promises.

A faint smile touched his lips.

He thought of wearing sothing elaborate—ornate, excessive even. Velvet so deep it almost looked black, embroidery stitched by hand, the kind of outfit designed to make old n choke on their wine and alphas forget their bloodlines.

He pictured walking into the conservatory draped in it, all cool elegance and pointed mockery.

He wondered what the Grand Duke would do. Blink? Stiffen? Pretend not to stare?

Sera had told him, firmly, "You get to choose now, Lucas. Not them. Not . Not the Empire. You."

It had taken days for those words to settle.

To sink past the bruises and silence of another life, past the reflex to ask, ’what do you want to be?’ before even daring to ask, ’what do I want?’

But they were there now. Lodged like iron in his ribs.

He laughed softly to himself, a dry, almost reluctant sound, and reached for the ivory linen shirt.

He couldn’t lie—not to himself, not anymore.

He didn’t like grand luxury. Not really. Not the suffocating weight of brocade or the way jeweled cuffs caught the light like handcuffs.

He liked clean. Precise.

Clothes that fit without demanding attention.

He slipped the shirt on, let the fabric settle over his shoulders, and buttoned it up with slow, sure hands.

Black pants. No pleats, sharp line down the leg. A leather belt, simple.

A watch—polished steel, understated—fastened at his wrist. The band matched the belt exactly.

He looked in the mirror. Not for approval. Just to see the Lucas he was now. The real one.

—

The halls of the D’Argente estate were quiet at this hour. Dusk spilled gold across the polished floors, the soft hush of distant staff movent muffled behind closed doors.

Lucas walked alone.

No escort. No hovering attendants. Not even a bodyguard trailing behind.

Serathine had insisted—"You can handle yourself. Let them see that."

So he did.

The soles of his shoes made no sound as he turned the final corner, a sharp contrast to the way his heart thudded—not nervous, not exactly. But alert. Coiled. Like instinct hadn’t caught up to the safety of this life yet.

He passed a wall of tall windows, the orchard just visible beyond, and caught his reflection.

The ivory shirt softened him. The black slacks refined the line of his legs. The watch glead when the light caught it just right.

The conservatory doors stood open, just slightly. He could sll citrus blossoms from the trees inside, feel the warm air curling out around the archway.

Two staff mbers stood discreetly near the entrance. They didn’t stop him. Didn’t ask his na.

They just bowed and stepped aside.

Lucas straightened his spine.

Then walked in.

The conservatory was lit by golden sconces and firelight—nothing dramatic, just enough to catch on glass and cast soft shadows across the tiled floor. The long dining table was set for two, near a wall of tall windows that frad the night-dark orchard.

And standing by the far end, one hand resting casually in his pocket, was Trevor Fitzgeralt.

Dressed in a fitted dark suit—subtle, but tailored to precision. His white shirt was open at the collar, the absence of a tie deliberate rather than careless. The watch on his wrist glead softly in the firelight—understated, but unmistakably expensive.

His hair was dark, neatly styled, with just enough tousle to suggest the illusion of ease. And then there were his eyes—violet, rare, and clear even in the low light, cutting directly into Lucas like a silent verdict.

Dominant alpha, through and through.

Not just in stance or strength, but in presence. In stillness. In how nothing about him tried to impress, and sohow still did.

Lucas could understand now why he was so sought after.

Even without the title. Even without the money.

It was the way he stood. Like he didn’t need permission to command the room.

Lucas didn’t slow as he approached. Didn’t drop his gaze. Didn’t offer anything but poise and silence.

Trevor let his eyes scan him once. Not rudely. Not possessively.

Just... sharply.

asuring.

Then, finally, he spoke.

"Lucas," he said, his voice low. Even. "Thank you for coming."

Lucas stopped a few feet from him, head tilted just slightly.

"I was promised dinner," he replied, tone dry. "I don’t skip als anymore."

Trevor’s mouth twitched. Almost a smile.

Then, without a word, he moved around the table and pulled out the other chair for Lucas.

It wasn’t showy. There was no exaggerated gesture, no attempt at charm. Just a quiet, practiced courtesy, deliberate but not performative.

Lucas paused.

Not because he was surprised by the gesture.

But because it had been years since soone did sothing like that without expecting sothing in return.

He walked the rest of the way, fluid and composed, and sat without comnt. Trevor pushed the chair in, then returned to his own, sitting across from him with that sa quiet focus—like a man preparing to study a rare text he wasn’t sure he’d be allowed to keep.

The table between them was modestly set—no servants in sight, just two place settings, wine already poured, and a covered silver dish keeping the al warm.

Trevor didn’t reach for his utensils. Not yet.

"Did Sera tell you why I’m here?" he said finally.

Lucas didn’t look away.

"She said you wanted to et before the Gala."

A pause.

Trevor’s violet eyes didn’t shift. "And did she tell you why?"

Lucas’s lips curved—not into a smile, but sothing thinner, wry at the edges. "She told not to flirt, not to fight, and to wear sothing simple."

"That sounds like Sera."

Another beat of silence. The kind that wasn’t empty—it was tight, full of things unsaid.

Lucas tilted his head slightly, realizing sothing. "They’ve sent you as the ssenger."