The Omega Who Wasn't Supposed to Exist-Chapter 57: Do You Smell That? It’s Guilt.

[Rynthall Estate—Midnight, East Wing Chambers]

The halls were quiet.

Not just ordinary quiet—but the kind of heavy, reverent silence that only descended when the estate’s resident hurricane, also known as Lucien Rynthall, had finally—finally—run out of energy.

Silas walked slowly through the corridor, the firelight flickering against the polished marble as he carried Lucien gently in his arms. Draped in layers of silk and exhaustion, Lucien was asleep, face soft and peaceful against Silas’s shoulder, one hand still loosely clutching his highlighter.

"Your Grace," Alphonso appeared at the turn, bowing respectfully. "He fell asleep in the library?"

Silas sighed, adjusting Lucien’s weight with practiced ease. "Yes. He insisted on finishing one more Chapter... something about the Grand Duchess deciding it was time for revenge."

Alphonso blinked. "Revenge?"

"Apparently the Duchess poisoned the Duke’s perfume. Turned his skin green." Silas muttered. "Lucien was thrilled. He laughed for a solid five minutes before passing out on a pile of scandal."

"...Our lord has...uniquely terrifying taste in bedtime stories," Alphonso said diplomatically.

Silas gently pushed open the door to their chamber with his shoulder. He walked over to the bed, soft as clouds and piled with enough velvet and lace to bankrupt a province, and laid Lucien down carefully.

Lucien stirred slightly, murmuring something about betrayal, lavender-scented bath bombs, and maybe tax fraud.

Silas couldn’t help the soft smile tugging at his lips. He pulled the covers over Lucien, tucking him in with the same care one might use for a glass sculpture filled with fireworks.

"I guess... this is just him," Silas whispered, brushing a loose strand of hair from Lucien’s face. "My hurricane in silk."

Alphonso lingered quietly near the doorway before clearing his throat. "There was something else, my lord."

Silas turned, brows raised.

Alphonso’s tone lowered. "The High Priest... sent another letter today."

Silas froze.

"...Another?"

Alphonso nodded, face grim. "Sealed and marked urgent. I burned it myself. No one else saw."

Silas’s jaw clenched. The warmth from a moment ago vanished like it had never been there.

"Good," he said tightly. "And if he sends anything else—letters, scrolls, pigeons, or divine visions—I want them turned to ash before they even touch the estate gates. Understand?"

"Yes, my lord. Of course. But..." Alphonso hesitated, glancing toward the sleeping figure curled in silks. "If I may... How long do you plan to keep this from Lord Lucien?"

Silas’s shoulders stiffened.

"As long as I have to."

"But he will find out eventually," Alphonso said quietly. "One way or another. And if it’s not from you—if he learns it from someone else..."

He let the sentence trail off.

Silas didn’t answer at first.

He just stared at Lucien—at the soft rise and fall of his breath, the unconscious twitch of his fingers, and the faint wrinkle in his brow, like he was dreaming of ruling an empire through passive-aggressive fan flicks and bold eyeliner.

"I won’t let him know," Silas said finally, voice low and dangerous. "Not about the High Priest. Not about his scheming plots. Not while Lucien’s carrying our child."

Alphonso nodded slowly. "I understand. But my lord... if he finds out—and it doesn’t come from you—"

He glanced at the fireplace.

Then the tapestries.

Then the velvet curtains.

Then the perfectly polished furniture.

"—Well, I hope the estate is insured. Because Lord Lucien may just burn the entire property down. With style."

Silas let out a long, slow exhale, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I know."

For a moment, they both stood in silence—one heavy with secrets, the other with quiet dread.

Then Alphonso cleared his throat gently, slipping back into perfect composure. "Shall I order the maids to prepare your bath, my lord?"

Silas gave a tired nod, eyes still lingering on the sleeping figure nestled beneath the mountain of blankets. "Yes. Thank you, Alphonso."

Alphonso smiled faintly and gave a perfect bow before gliding out of the room with the efficiency of a man used to fire-proofing curtains.

Silas lingered for another heartbeat, then turned toward the bath chamber with slow, quiet steps.

Behind him, in the vast bed, the blankets shifted.

Lucien stirred.

Still tangled in sleep, lashes fluttering against flushed cheeks, his fingers curled slightly into the velvet. One eye barely cracked open—just enough to catch the blurred silhouette of Silas retreating through the soft golden candlelight.

A faint frown tugged at Lucien’s lips.

"...What were they..." he mumbled, voice raspy with sleep, "...talking about...?"

The question melted into the air like fog.

But his words were lost to the stillness—because even as they passed his lips, his eyelids drifted shut again.

And sleep pulled him back under.

Peaceful.

Unknowing.

For now.

***

[Rynthall Estate—Morning / Dining Hall]

The grand dining table was dressed to impress—velvet runners, silver cutlery, and a dozen crystal dishes filled with everything Lucien might want to eat, might look at, or might throw at someone depending on his mood.

And at the head of it all...

Lucien.

Six months pregnant. Hair pinned up with a ruby comb. Robes flowing like a royal scandal. And eyes—narrowed, locked, absolutely sniping across the table at one (1) very unfortunate husband.

Silas.

Sitting stiff, coffee untouched, toast ignored, soul slowly leaving his body under the quiet, terrifying weight of that stare.

"...My love," Silas finally said, breaking the tension with a carefully composed voice, "Is the food... not good today?"

Lucien didn’t blink. "It’s amazing. As always."

Silas smiled nervously, trying again. "Then... are you craving something else? Something we didn’t prepare?"

Lucien lifted a perfectly arched brow and replied coolly, "No. I’m good." freewebnσvel.cѳm

A thick pause.

Silas nodded slowly, then tilted his head with forced calm. "Then... why are you glaring at me like you’re mentally redecorating my funeral?"

Lucien’s fan, resting beside his plate, twitched. He tilted his head ever so slightly. His voice dropped into dangerous territory—soft, casual, deadly.

"...Do you have something to tell me, Silas?"

Silas blinked, his back straightening. "...No?"

Lucien’s eyes narrowed to slits. "Are you sure? You’re not hiding anything from me, right?"

Silas swallowed. "What do you mean, my love?"

Lucien leaned forward, elbow on the table, hand cupping his cheek as he stared at Silas with the same look he once used when hitting that baker like a possessed and mad person.

"I mean..." he said slowly, "That I can sniff when you’re lying."

Silas blinked. "You... can sniff?"

Lucien nodded like a prophet. "Yes. Pregnancy enhances my senses. Empathy. Instinct. Scent-based truth analysis. And right now... you smell like guilt."

Silas stared. "That’s... not a real thing."

Lucien’s eyes sparkled. "That’s exactly what someone who smells like guilt would say."

Silas felt the air thicken. Somewhere across the room, a maid tiptoed out with the grace of a trained escape artist.

Lucien continued, "So let me ask again. You’re sure there’s nothing you’re keeping from me? Nothing important? Mmm?"

Silas’s breath hitched, and for a fleeting moment he internally panicked:Did he find out about the High Priest’s letters? No... no, Alphonso burned them. We were careful. Unless—

Lucien tilted his head the other way, lips pursed thoughtfully. "Because if you are hiding something, Silas Rynthall, and I find out about it from someone else..." he gently tapped his butter knife against his plate, "...you’ll be sleeping in the east tower. With the peacocks. Forever."

Silas flinched. "I—I’m not hiding anything, I swear—"

Lucien narrowed his eyes even more. "Then why are you sweating?"

"I’m not sweating—"

Lucien gasped. "YOU ARE!" He turned to the maid beside him. "Maria, do you see that shine on his forehead?! The shine of betrayal?!"

Maria, who was polishing a spoon in terror, nodded furiously. "Very shiny, Your Grace. Like guilt-gloss."

Lucien folded his arms. "Mhm. Thought so."

The words hung in the air like a thundercloud soaked in suspicion.

Silas’s jaw twitched. His soul was already halfway to packing its bags. He muttered under his breath, barely audible, "...I should leave before he kicks me out of the chamber again."

He stood up with the mechanical grace of a condemned man. Straightened his coat. Adjusted his cravat twice.

Then—voice overly cheerful—he said, "I... I have to go for an—uh—early inspection, my love."

Lucien raised a single eyebrow. Just one.

Silas’s smile wobbled. "Important estate matters. Can’t be delayed. Paperwork. Soil analysis. You know."

He stepped forward like he was approaching a holy relic—and gently, carefully, nervously—pressed a soft kiss to Lucien’s forehead.

"See you in the evening," he whispered.

And then—like a man who had just kissed a sleeping dragon—he dashed.

Quite literally.

Coat flying behind him, boots thudding down the marble corridor, whispering something to Alphonso on his way out like a man begging for last rites.

Lucien didn’t blink. Didn’t speak. Just stared at the space his husband had vanished through, eyes narrowed like a calculating storm.

A long pause.

A soft clink of spoon against porcelain.

And then he whispered to no one in particular, almost dreamily—

"...Did I... have a dream last night?"

His brows furrowed. "A dream where Silas and Alphonso were talking about some letter..."

The silence answered nothing. But Lucien’s eyes sharpened. His jaw set.

"...Because it felt like a dream. But I still..." He squinted toward the window. "Still feel like he’s hiding something."

He stood up with the same grace he used when announcing a public execution. His robe flowed behind him. His hand pressed protectively over his belly.

And then—

"I’ll have to find out myself," he murmured. "Whether I was dreaming..."

He marched toward the hallway like a noblewoman with unfinished business and too many questions.

"...or whether my darling husband is keeping secrets from me—again."

And with that, Lucien vanished into the corridor—pregnant, paranoid, and perfectly determined to uncover the truth.

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