[BL]Reborn as the Empire's Most Desired Omega Chapter 86: The End of the Puppeteer

Misty Kilr sat alone in her private salon, a glass of wine untouched beside her and her latest silk robe clinging to her shoulders like it had grown too heavy. The afternoon sun bled lazily through crystal-paned windows, casting warped golden bars across the marble floor, beautiful, opulent, and suffocating.

She tapped impatiently at her tablet, waiting for the headline to load on the newswire’s primary channel. The court column had promised sothing "monuntal." Sothing that would "shake the social hierarchy to its core."

She’d hoped, no, expected, a scandal.

An old affair. A bastard child. A power play from Serathine finally cracking.

Instead, the screen lit up with three words that struck like a blow to the ribs:

HOUSE FITZGERALT WEDS.

Misty blinked once.

Then read the full title:

GRAND DUKE TREVOR ARISTON FITZGERALT MARRIES HEIR OF HOUSE D’ARGENTE IN PRIVATE CEREMONY BLESSED BY FIVE BISHOPS.

She scrolled faster, disbelief bleeding into fury.

There, in high-definition photo print, were two images. The first was them walking side by side—Lucas in pale winter blue, with the D’Argente crest woven across the chest of his formal attire, and Trevor in black. The second, smaller but worse, was taken during the vows, with their foreheads touching and the bishops behind them with open hands and a formal blessing.

The caption burned:

"They are fated," Bishop Erion said after the final rites. "Blessed by grace, forged by endurance. May their rule be long and united."

Misty’s stomach twisted.

She read the quote again. And again.

And then she laughed—a high, brittle sound that didn’t reach her eyes. It was laughter that cracked, once, and turned into sothing closer to a sob before she silenced it with another furious swipe through the article.

There were details:

—The union had been legally certified in both the North and Capital provinces.

—It had been co-signed by Serathine and Windstone.

—It had been recognized by the palace.

There were no leaked scandals. No protests. No backlash.

Just congratulations.

Lucas—her disappointnt of a son, her failed investnt, her "difficult oga"—had not only survived...

He had won.

Misty rose from the couch like it might catch fire under her skin. Her hand clenched around the tablet. She paced, sharp and fast, like the movent alone could burn the truth out of her bones.

He had married a Grand Duke.

A dominant. A war general. One of the few n in the Empire who could defy even the palace without flinching.

And Lucas—Lucas—was standing next to him like he belonged there.

The wineglass shattered on the floor as Misty whipped it off the table, shards scattering like glass confetti across the tile. She barely heard it.

It wasn’t supposed to go this way.

She had made deals. Secured contracts. Ensured obedience. There had been contingencies. Lucas was never ant to escape her reach—especially not like this.

Her thoughts spun faster and faster—until her inbox pinged with a sealed ssage.

ODIN—PRIORITY.

She hesitated.

Then opened it.

I warned you. The contract is live again. The buyer has reactivated the clause. I will see you and the boy. No more excuses. You are running out of protection.

Misty stared at the ssage until the words blurred.

Faceless Agatha.

That old na clawed its way back into her skull like a curse. Odin was afraid—and Odin never sent direct ssages unless the noose had already dropped.

She moved like lightning then.

Clothes were thrown into a bag. Ergency docunts swept into a folder. Jewelry, untraceable credit chips, and a backup ID. No notes. No warning. Not even to Ophelia. The girl had grown too suspicious, too sharp. Misty didn’t need dead weight. She didn’t need witnesses.

She would co back later. Once things cald. Once she could secure a new agreent, find a new loophole, and reclaim so part of the story she had built.

Lucas could play duchess for now.

It wouldn’t last.

It never did for ogas like him.

The sky had just begun to bruise with dusk when her car approached the Capital’s southern border checkpoint—disguised as civilian transport, nothing overt, nothing traceable.

But the mont the vehicle slowed, Misty saw the black car already parked across the lane. Unmarked. Governnt-grade. Waiting.

And leaning against it, calm as ever, was Caelan.

Her throat tightened.

He wore black gloves, his posture relaxed, but the look in his eyes—faintly amused, fully prepared—made sothing in her chest ice over.

"Misty," he said as she stepped out, panic barely disguised beneath poise. "Going sowhere?"

"I have a right—"

"No," he said smoothly, interrupting. "Not when you’re under active investigation for unlawful contract enforcent, trafficking attempts, and tampering with protected noble lineage."

Her mouth opened. Closed.

Caelan took a step forward.

"Lucas is under imperial protection," he said. "And you’re done."

She reached for her bag—

The guards moved in.

It was fast, professional, and painless. Her wrist was caught, the bag torn from her shoulder, and the door to the black car opened without a word. She didn’t scream. Not here. Not with him watching.

"You can’t do this," she hissed as she was guided inside.

Caelan raised a brow, unhurried.

"I’m not doing anything," he said. "I’m just delivering you back to the city you thought you still ruled. And for your sake," he added, leaning slightly toward the open door, "pray Lucas doesn’t decide you’re worth prosecuting personally."

The door closed.

And Misty Kilr, once the woman who thought she held every string, was driven back into the heart of the Capital—no longer the puppeteer.

Just another na on a file soone else now controlled.

The car doors shut with a quiet finality.

Caelan stood for a mont beside the vehicle, the cool evening air tugging at the edges of his coat, eyes fixed on the black-tinted glass that now separated Misty Kilr from the world she used to control.

He turned to his guards.

"She’s not going to holding," he said flatly. "Take her to Blackridge. Full detainnt protocol. No press. No legal representatives unless I approve it myself."

The lead guard blinked. "Blackridge is reserved for—"

"I know what it’s reserved for," Caelan snapped. "Do I look like I care?"

The man nodded sharply. "Yes, Your Majesty."

Caelan exhaled, then followed the car in his own vehicle, silent as the city lights flickered past the windows. His hand curled loosely over the armrest, jaw locked tight. For weeks—months—he had tolerated Misty’s maneuvers. Her forged records. Her polished smiles and empty apologies. Her gas.

And now?

Now the masks were off.

Lucas was protected. Treated, clothed, safe—not just physically but legally. Bound to Trevor Fitzgeralt by a marriage that could withstand political inquiry, blessed by five bishops and two noble houses with more influence than even the Crown could easily challenge.

Which ant Misty was out of moves.

And that ant Caelan no longer had to play by anyone’s rules but his own.