The Omega Who Wasn't Supposed to Exist-Chapter 56: Do Not Disturb: Plot Twist in Progress

[Rynthall Estate—The Library of Literary Terror, Late Morning]

The library had never seen this much fear.

Books trembled on their shelves. Dust motes dared not float too loud. Even the fireplace crackled in careful, measured intervals, as if it didn’t want to interrupt whatever ancient power had just swept in.

That ancient power?

Lucien Rynthall.

Six months pregnant. Glowing like scandal wrapped in silk. Waddling like a dramatic thundercloud. One arm was clutching his belly.

The other?

Swinging dramatically as he strode into the library like a man entering war.

Behind him came three maids in single file, each carrying a pillow.

The first: a memory foam cushion in royal blue.

The second: a hand-embroidered velvet monstrosity covered in pearls and passive-aggressive embroidery that read "Reading Is Resistance."

The third: a pregnancy support wedge. Also velvet. Because of course it was.

And then there was a fourth thing. Clutched between Lucien’s fingers with all the reverence of an ancient relic...

A neon pink highlighter.

Why? No one knew.

Why does a man blessed by stars, hormones, and delusion carry a highlighter into a library when he hasn’t read a full paragraph since the wedding?

The answer was simple:

This was Lucien.

During pregnancy, he had earned the right to carry anything that looked mildly attractive, sparkly, or threatening.

"Alright, everyone," he declared, stopping in front of a grand mahogany chair like a general preparing for battle. "Let’s educate this fetus."

The maids moved like trained soldiers—pillows in place, blanket fluffed, glass of pomegranate juice retrieved from nowhere. One even adjusted the lighting like she was afraid the unborn child might sue for poor ambience.

Lucien took a seat. Swung the velvet around his shoulders like a royal cape.

And picked the biggest, oldest book he could reach from the table.

"History of the Empire: Volume I—From Sand to Sovereignty," he read aloud, then smiled grandly. "Today, we begin with knowledge."

He cracked open the book with ceremonial flair.

One second passed.

Two seconds.

Three.

SNAP!

The book was slammed shut with a force that made a nearby raven outside fall off the rooftop. Lucien stood, marched three steps to the nearest window, and yeeted the history tome out like it was cursed.

The maids gasped.

One fainted behind a curtain.

The book hit a bush.

Lucien turned, aghast. "NO. PICTURES."

Silence.

The fire crackled nervously.

One of the maids dared to whisper, "Your Grace, history books don’t usually have—"

Lucien raised the highlighter like a holy sword. "Do not defend the enemy, Maria!"

Maria bowed in apology. "Yes, Your Grace. Death to text-heavy volumes."

Lucien huffed and waddled back to his chair, dramatically flopping down with the sigh of a soul too precious for this cruel, pictureless world.

"Bring me something with drawings. Maps. Paintings. Doodles. Stick figures. I don’t care. My wobblebean deserves visuals."

The head maid snapped her fingers. A footman sprinted off like his life depended on it.

Lucien stared into the distance, whispering, "Do you know what kind of trauma I almost passed to my wobblebean just now? A Chapter. With no illustrations. No footnotes. Just... paragraph after paragraph of DRY NARRATIVE."

Another maid sniffled, "It was barbaric."

Lucien dabbed his forehead with his sleeve. "I swear on every spice in my aunt’s kitchen, if the next book doesn’t come with at least one decorative map, I’m shutting down this entire wing and turning it into a pregnancy spa."

The maids bowed in reverence.

And somewhere far away, in his office, Silas sneezed—violently.

The chaos had only just begun.

Lucien sat perched like a judgmental phoenix on a mountain of pillows, glaring at the fireplace as if it personally failed him. The maids had sprinted down every corridor, raided every dusty bookshelf, and shaken down every historical scholar within reach—and now, they returned with a towering stack of books.

"Your Grace," one maid said breathlessly, arms full. "We’ve brought only the best. All of them have... illustrations."

Lucien’s eyes sparkled like he’d just been proposed to by literature itself.

"Lay them before me," he declared.

Like courtiers before a mercurial monarch, the maids knelt and stacked the books on the velvet-draped table in front of him.

Lucien reached for the first.

"The Illustrated History of Wheat: A Grain’s Tale"

He opened it.

Stared.

Snapped it shut with a look of betrayal and threw it outside the window.

"Next."

The second book.

"Portraits of Parliament: The Ugly Years"

Lucien opened it. "Oh no. No no no. I am not subjecting my unborn child to these faces. What is this? A horror manual? NEXT."

Third book.

"The Decorative Tiles of Northern Provinces: 600 Years of Slightly Interesting Squares"

Lucien didn’t even open it. He just stared at the title.

Then stared at the maid.

"Is this a prank?"

She whimpered. "It has... very colorful diagrams, Your Grace."

"I am pregnant, not dead inside. NEXT."

Another book appeared in front of him. Heavy. Black. Bound in what might’ve been the regrets of librarians past. Lucien blinked at the cover:

"Scandals of the Scepter: Royal Betrayals & Petty Crimes "

He paused.

Squinted.

"Why is it cold?"

One of the maids whispered, "It was locked in the east wing vault. The one female knight called ’too emotionally haunted for dinner guests.’"

Lucien’s lips slowly curled into a delighted grin. "Perfect."

He cracked it open with a theatrical flourish, dust puffing into the air like it was releasing ancient grudges. Inside?

Glorious, chaotic, full-color sketches of royal disasters.

Chapter One: The King Who Tried to Marry His Mirror.

Chapter Two: The Princess Who Set Fire to Her Own Coronation Dress (On Purpose).

Chapter Three: Duke Decapitated by Decorative Swan Boat.

Lucien gasped with joy. "Finally. Content worth digesting."

One maid fainted. Another crossed herself with a soup spoon.

Lucien flipped pages with manic glee. "This is what education should be! History, betrayal, accidental arson, swan-based fatalities! Yes!"

"Is it safe for the baby?" a maid dared to ask.

Lucien leaned back dramatically. "This child will be fierce, well-read, and completely immune to embarrassment. What more could a parent ask for?"

And then—

He highlighted a drawing of a crown-wearing duchess throwing wine at a bishop and whispered,

"...Goals."

***

[Rynthall Estate—Night]

Silas walked toward his room, loosening the collar of his coat with the weariness of a man who’d battled nobles, war councils, and Lucien’s mood swings all in one day.

He stepped inside.

Paused.

Brows furrowed.

"...Where is Lucien?" he asked, scanning the room like he half-expected his husband to emerge from behind a curtain wrapped in six blankets and a fruit platter.

Alphonso cleared his throat delicately. "He’s at the library, my lord."

Silas blinked. "Library?"

Alphonso nodded, a little hesitant. "Yes. He’s... residing there now."

Silas stared at him.

"...Residing?"

Alphonso adjusted his gloves and sighed, like he’d aged ten years just saying the word. "Since Lady Seraphina told him that children begin absorbing knowledge in the womb... His Grace decided to begin an immediate ’mental nourishment campaign.’"

"...Mental what."

"He’s been in the library for seven hours. We’ve only interrupted to offer snacks. He didn’t even touch the apricot tart, my lord."

Silas went still.

"...He didn’t eat the tart?"

"No, my lord."

Silas’s soul cracked a little. "He must be in real trouble."

With a grim nod, he turned and marched down the hallway like a soldier heading to the frontlines. The doors to the Rynthall library creaked open like the prologue to a horror story.

Silas stepped inside.

And froze.

There, at the center of the ancient room, under the glow of a stained-glass skylight, Lucien sat on a throne of velvet cushions. His robe spilled around him like regal chaos, his hair pinned in a golden clip, his belly propped comfortably against the side of a pillow tower. One arm clutched a highlighter like a dagger, the other flipped through pages like he was solving a crime.

Around him—three maids hovered in silence. One fanned him. One stood ready with another highlighter. The third was whispering affirmations like, "That’s right, Your Grace. The duchess should’ve burned his clothes."

Silas approached slowly.

The air was thick with drama.

The fire crackled nervously in the hearth, as if trying not to offend anyone.

"My love," Silas said gently, stopping a few feet away. "It’s late. You haven’t eaten. Come—let’s go to bed—"

Lucien’s hand flew up in command. "Not. Now."

Silas blinked. "What?"

Lucien didn’t even look up.

"I’m at a critical moment," he whispered, eyes blazing. "The Grand Duchess just found out her husband’s been cheating with her personal violin tutor—and she’s pregnant with twins."

Silas blinked. Twice. "I’m sorry... what?"

Lucien turned slowly to look at him, expression haunted. Like a man who had aged a century in one Chapter.

His voice broke. "It’s... It’s a story about a duchess... whose husband cheats on her... while she’s with child."

Silas’s soul left his body.

"I just—I don’t understand," Lucien whispered dramatically, one hand pressed to his heart, the other to his stomach. "She gave him everything. Her trust. Her lavender-scented bath salts. HER MIDNIGHT CRUMPETS."

Silas stared at him. "Midnight what—?"

"And he still strayed," Lucien sniffled. "With a two-faced, bow-holding harlot named Svetlana!"

One of the maids handed him a tissue like it was part of a sacred ritual.

Lucien wiped his eyes. "If she were smart, she’d poison his breakfast. With parsley. That’s how noble women of taste handle things."

Silas turned to the maid. "What exactly is he reading?"

The maid, pale and terrified, held up the massive book cover.

"Scandals of the Scepter: Royal Betrayals & Petty Crimes (Illustrated Edition with Bonus Gossip)"

Lucien flipped a page with all the gravitas of a dying monarch. "There’s even a diagram of her slapping him with a jewel-encrusted hairbrush."

"...Do you identify with this duchess?"

Lucien looked at him with dead-serious eyes. "If you ever cheat on me during my pregnancy, Silas Rynthall, I will not slap you with a hairbrush."

Silas straightened. "...You won’t?" freēnovelkiss.com

Lucien leaned forward. "I will throw you off the tower and claim divine madness."

Silas flinched. "That feels... excessive."

Lucien slowly raised the highlighter, pointing it at him like a priest delivering judgment. "Pregnancy is a sacred time. And so are threats."

Then, as if the storm had passed, he turned back to the book with the serenity of a woman who just lit her cheating husband’s wardrobe on fire.

He sighed dreamily. "Oh look... she sets fire to his violin. I love her."

Silas stared at his husband—glowing, chaotic, surrounded by velvet cushions, vigilant maids, and what was clearly royal betrayal fanfiction disguised as nonfiction. A hand rested protectively on Lucien’s rounded belly, as if cradling both a future heir and the next empire-shattering tantrum.

He exhaled, long and tired.

"When," Silas muttered to the gods or possibly the furniture, "did I ever have such books in my library?"

Read lat𝙚st chapters at fre(𝒆)novelkiss.com Only