The Omega Who Wasn't Supposed to Exist Chapter 42: The Royal Florist Apocalypse

[Rynthall Estate—Morning, Five Days Before The Wedding]

There are many sounds that mark the beginning of a perfect morning.

Birdsong. Gentle rustling of silk curtains. A lover’s whisper.

And then there’s Marcel.

"MY LORD! YOUR GRACE! THE WORLD IS ON FIRE—AND WE ARE SEVEN LINENS SHORT!"

The heavy doors of the Rynthall estate flung open like the dramatic curtains of a third-act tragedy. And in bursts Marcel—Lucien’s personal butler, forr opera understudy, self-proclaid aesthetic dictator, and full-ti chaos incarnate.

His coat swirled behind him like storm clouds. His gloves were off. His sleeves were rolled.

Lucien blinked from the fainting couch, still wrapped in a throw blanket with a cookie in his mouth. "...What now?"

Marcel stord into the room with all the grace of a collapsing chandelier. "I have just been inford—by the traitorous staff of the west wing—that the ivory lilies we requested for the ceremony have been replaced with daisies. Daisies, my lord."

He flung a hand toward the ceiling, as though daring the gods to strike him down.

"Do you know what that ans?!"

Lucien yawned. "That soone’s allergic?"

"It ans your wedding will look like a SPRING PICNIC IN A PEASANT NOVEL."

Lucien blinked. "...Wait. You read novels, Marcel?"

Marcel turned sharply, scandalized. "I read every kind of novel, my lord. Every kind. Romance, tragedy, war, werewolf aristocracy—"

Lucien tilted his head. "Oh... so you’ve read Moonlit Vows and Vampire Dukes?"

"I cried when Lord Eryx sacrificed his fangs for love," Marcel said, placing a hand over his heart. Then, his expression shifted suddenly—wicked, glinting. "And may I remind you, young master, that I am the one who taught you those intimate positions during sex—"

"ENOUGH," Silas said, voice sharp, eyes narrowed like a winter storm on pause.

Lucien’s cookie halted halfway to his mouth.

Marcel raised one brow. "Oh?"

Silas crossed his arms and shifted on his feet, radiating sothing between possessive tension and deep spiritual discomfort. "I don’t like my future spouse discussing bedroom tactics with another man. Even if that man is an old butler with dramatic flair and apparently no filter."

Marcel rolled his eyes as though personally victimized by monogamous jealousy. "Fine. I won’t discuss the reverse crescent arch ever again."

"WHAT—" Silas began.

"FOCUS," Lucien cut in, cheeks pink, waving the cookie like a white flag. "Can we go back to the part where my wedding is being threatened by... daisies?"

"Yes," Marcel snapped. "Daisies."

Silas sighed. "They’re just flowers. Why make a fuss?"

Marcel turned toward him very, very slowly.

Like a vampire queen who had just been asked to drink tap water.

"Just... flowers?" he repeated, voice trembling with disbelief. "Grand Duke Silas."

His tone was formal now. Dangerous. Filled with the weight of a hundred untold disappointnts.

"With all due respect—which is none, in this mont—would you tell a painter that his colors are just paint?"

Silas opened his mouth.

"Would you tell a composer that his notes are just noise?"

Lucien whispered, "Oooh, he’s doing the art taphor rant again."

"Would you—" Marcel continued, now circling dramatically like a stage perforr— "Would you look in the eye and tell that your oga’s wedding aisle walk is just... a walk?"

Silas looked alard. "I—I an, no, I wouldn’t—"

"You wouldn’t," Marcel snapped triumphantly, hands thrown into the air. "Because you’re not a monster. But soone is out there—with daisies, Grand Duke."

He paused. One gloved hand trembling slightly. "We have five days," he whispered, "until perfection must rise like a phoenix in rhinestones. I cannot—will not—let your sacred union resemble a sunny village potluck."

Lucien finally sat up, brushing cookie crumbs off his blanket with the air of soone finally taking this threat very seriously.

"He’s right," Lucien said, solemnly. "Daisies are... peasant propaganda."

And then—

"WHAT?!"

The voice cut through the room like a divine sword forged from sass and sapphire.

Every head turned.

Even the cookie froze mid-bite in Lucien’s hand.

From the doorway, frad in sunlight like a royal judgnt descending from the heavens, stood Empress Elise. One hand clutching her clutch like it could be used as a weapon. The other raised mid-air in sheer betrayal.

"Daisies?!" she thundered, eyes wide. "DAISIES?! I CLEARLY ordered lilies!"

Marcel turned calmly—like a butler used to divine rages—and gave a low, sweeping bow.

"Greetings to Her Majesty the Empress... and His Radiant Majesty the Emperor," he said with perfect poise.

Empress Elise gave a single dramatic nod, like a queen granting survival. Emperor Adrien, behind her, waved mildly like soone who had absolutely no power in this marriage.

Lucien, blinking from his cozy nest of snacks and husband, mumbled through a cookie, "Elise... What are you doing here?"

Elise swept into the room like a teor wrapped in chiffon and pure vengeance. Her heels clacked like royal gunshots against the floor.

"I ca," she said icily, "to check the floral schematics. I had a feeling. A gut instinct. A sixth sense! And lo!" She flung her arm toward the scroll Marcel was holding like it was the murder weapon. "I WAS RIGHT."

She spun on Marcel, silk swirling like a storm cloud in Dior. "WHO approved daisies?!"

Marcel inhaled, his nose twitching like soone who had sniffed betrayal. "I was inford," he replied frostily, "that a courier from the palace changed the order yesterday."

Elise narrowed her eyes. "Which courier?"

Marcel’s expression darkened. "A girl. With bangs. And a lisp."

Elise’s pupils shrank. Her jaw dropped.

"That’s not one of mine!" she shrieked. "That’s... SERAPHINA’S! That lacy little lizard! She’s trying to sabotage the ceremony! She wants the wedding to look like a flower field in a farr’s daydream! She wants to show she has more rights over Lucien and Wobblebean than !"

Lucien paused mid-chew.

"Technically," he mumbled, "she does have more rights..."

The room froze.

Elise slowly turned to him. Her bottom lip trembled. Her eyes widened, filled with royal heartbreak.

She didn’t speak.

She just looked at him.

Like a Disney princess freshly betrayed by her forest animal companions.

Lucien blinked, panic rising. "But—BUT—best friends," he said quickly, "have superior rights. Right? Like... Empress Clause rights."

Elise gasped, a hand on her chest. Then slowly, gloriously, she bead. "That’s correct."

Lucien sighed in relief.

Marcel wiped an invisible tear from the corner of his eye. "A beautiful recovery."

Then Elise spun to face the Emperor. "Adrien!"

He flinched. "Yes, my starlight?"

She pointed a dramatically manicured nail at him. "Ban daisies."

The room went dead silent. Even the cookies stopped slling like sugar.

Adrien chuckled nervously, like a man who knew this was a trap and still hoped to survive it. "My dearest love... You know we... legally... cannot ban flowers."

Elise narrowed her eyes. "Oh. So you side with the peasant plants. I see."

"N-no, I—"

"I knew you didn’t love ," she said, turning away like a tragic lead in a black-and-white romance. "I knew it since last Thursday when you brought jasmine instead of gardenias."

"I THOUGHT THEY WERE THE SA—"

"They are not."

Lucien whispered to Silas, "Should we... be here?"

"No," Silas whispered back. "But I’m too scared to leave."

Then Elise snapped back to her true mission. She marched to Lucien with fire in her heels and clutch still prepped for violence.

"Co, Lucien. We’re going to pick out your rings before soone replaces them with plastic friendship bands."

Lucien lit up instantly. "Yes! Let’s go!"

He scrambled to his feet, nearly tripping over his own robe in excitent. "Do we get to try them all?"

"All of them," Elise declared, looping her arm through his like a queen kidnapping her favorite prince. "Gold. Silver. Celestial. Rubies. Even the illegal ones."

"What about bloodstone?" Lucien asked.

"Especially the cursed ones," Elise smirked.

As they swept out of the room like a royal hurricane of chaos and glitter, Adrien turned to Silas. "She’s so elegant when she’s mad."

Silas turned slowly toward him, a dry look in his eyes. "I don’t like her kidnapping my wife."

Adrien chuckled, completely unbothered. "Ah, you’ll get used to it. I couldn’t stop my wife either. Especially when she was pregnant. I just learned to step aside and pray."

Silas sighed and sank into the nearest armchair like a man carrying the weight of multiple empires and one very glittery wedding.

Adrien joined him, settling into the plush velvet seat across. The playful glint faded from his expression as he folded his hands together.

"So..." he said quietly, "what did you decide?"

Silas glanced up, wary. "About what?"

Adrien’s voice dropped, serious now. "You know what I an. The ceremony. The High Priest. The fact that for the wedding to be officially sealed in the Empire, it requires his presence."

Silas was quiet for a mont. Then his jaw tightened.

"I know," he said at last. "I also know that once he finds out about Lucien’s pregnancy—about the child—he’ll try to claim them. He’ll say it’s divine will. Sacred bloodline. All that holier-than-thou nonsense."

Adrien leaned forward slightly, brows drawn. "You think he’ll stay quiet?"

"Yes." Silas’s tone was grim. "He won’t move until the child is born. It’s all part of their doctrine. A rare male oga pregnancy must be witnessed. Studied. Controlled."

Adrien frowned. "And after that?"

Silas looked at him.

The fire in his eyes was steady. Quiet. Dangerous.

"I don’t know," he admitted. "But I do know this—"

His hands curled into fists on his lap.

"—I will do whatever it takes to protect my family. No matter the cost. No matter the consequences."

Adrien studied him for a long, silent mont.

Then nodded once, slowly. "Good," he said. "Because the storm is coming, Silas. And I think your child and Lucein... are at the center of it."

Outside, the palace bells rang in the distance—slow and ominous. And sowhere high above them, in the holy spires of the temple, eyes were already watching.