The Omega Who Wasn't Supposed to Exist Chapter 44: The Corridor of Choices

[Bridal Chamber—Wedding Day Preparations, One Hour to the Ceremony]

Lucien stood very still.

Too still.

As three imperial attendants arranged by the empress hovered around him with hot irons, golden fabric, and enough makeup brushes to repaint the Sistine Chapel.

"Do not move," one whispered like a threat.

"I’m not possessed," Lucien muttered, watching as yet another brush ca dangerously close to his eye.

"You blinked," the stylist snapped.

"I’m allowed to blink!"

"Not when your eyeliner’s being blessed."

Lucien blinked again. Deliberately.

The stylist shrieked, and then, after what took an eternity, everyone backed up.

Lucien stood alone now.

Finally.

Miraculously.

Suspiciously.

It was the first ti in hours that no one was poking, adjusting, painting, powdering, or threatening him with a wand of lavender-scented highlighter. The silence hit him like a rare and endangered species—quiet, sacred, and probably illegal during wedding hours.

He stared at his reflection in the full-length, gold-frad mirror—bathed in the filtered glow of stained-glass sunlight pouring through the high windows. His ceremonial robes shimred like dusk caught in silk: midnight blue, edged with phoenix embroidery in threads of gold, crimson, and soft firelight orange. Each ti he shifted, they fluttered like wings.

His collar was adorned with sapphires. His eyelids, dusted with imperial sparkle powder, glead just under the perfect slash of winged eyeliner. His cheekbones looked airbrushed by angels. And his hair—dear gods, his hair—was so flawless it made him want to weep.

He studied the mirror and exhaled slowly.

"...Gosh," he murmured. He leaned in a little closer, narrowed his eyes, and tilted his head.

"What a devastatingly handso face I have."

From behind him, the last stylist—still packing away half a museum’s worth of brushes—deadpanned without turning, "Yes, Your Grace. The gods clearly had a favorite child. We’re done."

Lucien gave a jaunty little thumbs-up. "Bless you and your eyebrow sorcery."

They left, click-clacking in formal boots, muttering sothing about missing ceremonial gloves and cursed archways.

The door clicked shut.

And then... silence.

Real silence.

The kind that presses into your chest like a full teacup balanced on your ribs.

Lucien looked back at his reflection—still flawless, still glowing. But this ti, he didn’t grin. He didn’t preen. This ti... he saw through the shimr.

He stared at himself.

And then at the small swell of his belly beneath the layers of silk. Not dramatic. But undeniably present. Visible.

Real.

"I’m getting married," he said quietly. The words felt like soone had thrown them into the room, and they landed too heavily on his chest.

His heart began to thud. Not the romantic kind. No cinematic strings played. Just a hard, rhythmic echo of panic.

Not fluttery.

Stampeding.

He took one step back from the mirror. Then another. He sat down heavily on the velvet-cushioned chair behind him, like his knees had given up their will to perform.

"Holy stars above," he muttered. "I’m actually going to walk down an aisle. A real aisle. With nobles watching."

He looked down at his lap.

Then—lower.

To the soft curve of his belly.

His hand hovered, then settled over it gently.

"You little parasite, my little wobbelbean," he whispered. "Do you even know what’s happening? Because I sure don’t."

He tried to laugh. It ca out shaky and strange. "Who would’ve thought? A random office worker with newly discovered biology... now pregnant and minutes away from marrying the man who knocked him up after one night of suspiciously poetic sex."

Silence.

The velvet walls didn’t answer.

Neither did the wobblebean.

Lucien’s voice softened. Broke a little.

"But am I really ready for this?"

He rubbed his hands over his knees, back and forth. Then, finally, he said it. Out loud. Raw and honest.

"I’m scared." His voice echoed just a little in the room. "I’m scared I’ll ss this up. That I’ll trip over my own robes. That I’ll fart during the vows. That I’ll cry like an idiot in front of the High Priest and he’ll declare a religious disgrace. I’m scared that I’m not cut out to be soone’s forever. That Silas will realize he made a mistake."

He ran a hand through his hair.

Imdiately winced. "Crap, sorry, Marcellina the Stylist."

He dropped his hands, breathing hard.

"Maybe I’m just not ready. Maybe I’ll never be."

Lucien looked at his reflection again. This ti, it didn’t look flawless. It looked human.

He stood up slowly. Walked back to the mirror. His hands smoothed down the front of his robes, resting one last ti over the baby.

"Okay," he said softly. "So what if you’re scared?"

He took a breath.

"Maybe being scared just ans it matters. Maybe love doesn’t an feeling brave every second. Maybe it ans you stay anyway."

His posture straightened. His chin lifted just an inch.

"You’re going to walk down that aisle. You’re going to trip at least once. You’re going to cry probably three tis. You’re going to feel like a majestic duck on ice. And Silas—my Silas—is going to be there. And he’ll look at you like you’re the only thing that’s ever made sense."

His mouth quirked up.

"And if you fart, we’ll bla the baby or Silas. Or Marcel."

He paused.

Then whispered, "Still. If soone faints, I really hope it’s the High Priest."

He went silent again, then he walked toward the door.

Stopped.

And opened it.

The hallway stretched ahead, velvet-carpeted and golden-trimd.

To the right—toward the grand ceremonial hall. Toward Silas. Toward the guests. The music. The vows. The future.

To the left—toward the palace exit.

Freedom.

Escape.

Runaway.

Lucien stood in the middle.

His heart pounded against his ribs like it was trying to break free, like it knew sothing he didn’t. The silk of his ceremonial robes felt too heavy. The lights are too bright. The corridor is too long.

And then—

"What’s the matter?"

A voice. Sharp. Familiar. Laced with just enough attitude to sound like concern disguised as sarcasm.

Lucien turned.

Seraphina was walking toward him, her heels tapping in deliberate rhythm against the polished floor. Dressed in a storm-grey gown with silver embroidery and a matching attitude, she looked more like a warrior than a bridesmaid.

But her eyes—those sharp, steel-cold eyes—softened the mont she saw his face.

Lucien blinked at her.

And then his lower lip wobbled.

"Oh no," Seraphina breathed. "No, no—what happened? Did that bastard—I an, did Grand Duke brooding-and-Stupid do sothing?"

Lucien imdiately shook his head, but the motion was too quick, too jerky. "No... no, it’s not him... it’s..."

And just like that—

The tears fell.

"I don’t think I’m ready," he whispered, his voice breaking on the last word like glass.

Seraphina froze.

"What... are you talking about?"

Lucien hiccupped. Loudly. Dramatically. Ugly-cry levels approaching.

"I don’t know if I want to get married or not!" he wailed.

His voice echoed down the marble corridor like a ghost with commitnt issues.

"I an—I do, but I don’t! And I want to want it but—also I want to run into the mountains and scream into the void until my eyeliner smudges!"

Seraphina rushed to him, her skirts swishing like battle flags. She grabbed both his hands, squeezing tightly. "Okay. Breathe. What’s going on? Talk to ."

Lucien’s eyes filled again. "Everything! Everything’s going on! I’m three months pregnant, wearing a ten-pound robe stitched with anxiety, about to stand in front of half the empire with a glittery phoenix on my chest and a slight waddle in my step!"

"Lucien—"

"And everyone’s expecting to float down the aisle like a serene, blessed flower boy, but I’m panicking on the inside! And outside! And maybe in my uterus! Is panic genetic?! Is my Wobbelbean going to be born sarcastic and dramatic?! I can’t do this!"

His voice cracked. He hiccupped again. "What if I ruin it all, Seraphina? What if Silas regrets it? What if I trip, or cry, or vomit on the High Priest’s golden shoes?! I can’t even decide what jam I like in the mornings!"

Seraphina took a breath, then pulled him into a tight hug.

Lucien clung to her like she was the last piece of dry land in a sea of royal expectations. His fingers curled into the embroidered fabric of her gown, holding on like his whole world depended on it.

She stroked his back gently, careful not to smudge the silk.

"Okay, listen to ," she said softly, but with the fierce certainty only Seraphina could pull off. "You’re not sure about getting married?"

Lucien hiccupped. His lip wobbled again, and he gave the tiniest nod.

Seraphina nodded too, as if that settled it. "That’s okay, Luce. Really. It’s not a cri. It’s not even a scandal. You’re allowed to feel unsure. You’re allowed to break down. You’re not a statue. You’re not so royal trophy to be polished and put on display."

She leaned back to look at him properly. "You’re human. A beautiful, hormonal, slightly deranged human—who is loved. Who deserves love."

Lucien stared at her, blinking rapidly. His throat bobbed. "...That was really nice."

"I know," she said with a small smirk. "I should write poetry. But you should also rember—Silas isn’t marrying perfection."

She reached out and gently tapped a finger to his chest. "He’s marrying you. Lucien D’Armoire. Not the robe. Not the title. Not the womb carrying his child. You."

Lucien swallowed hard.

Seraphina gave his hand one last squeeze. Her voice was low, steady, and unwavering.

"Now... take a deep breath and decide, Luce. If you want to be a runaway bride, I’m here. I’ll support you—no questions asked. And if you want to stay... I’ll go get you an ice cream, and you wait inside like the glorious chaos prince you are."

She stepped back gently, giving him space.

"The decision is yours. And whatever you choose... I’ve got your back."

Lucien stared at her.

Then slowly, he turned his head.

To the left—the grand marble corridor that led to the exit, to freedom, to a life untouched by crowns and chaos.

To the right—the arched golden hallway that led straight to the wedding hall.

To Silas.

To vows.

To everything.

He stood there, caught in the middle.

Heart thudding. Fingers trembling.

And in the silence, the palace seed to hold its breath with him.