The Omega Who Wasn't Supposed to Exist-Chapter 58: Macarons Before Mayhem

[Rynthall Estate—The Same Morning]

DA—DUM. DA—DUM. DA—DUM.

The sound wasn’t war drums. Not hooves. Not thunder.

It was Lucien’s slippers tapping against the marble floor with the purpose and presence of a man possessed. He entered the hallway like a runway model summoned from another dimension—one hand on his belly, the other raised high as if presenting the crown jewel of a forgotten empire.

Held between his fingers: a sleek, shiny, obviously anachronistic pair of... sunglasses.

The staff froze.

Alphonso blinked.

Marcel forgot how to chew.

One of the maids let out a small gasp and crossed herself.

Lucien struck a pose. Sunlight poured in behind him through the tall stained-glass windows, casting him in holy radiance.

And then, he said, solemnly:

"Finally... it’s ready."

No one spoke.

Lucien looked around. Then scoffed loudly. "C’MON! ASK ME! ASK ME WHAT THIS IS!"

Alphonso cleared his throat with the grace of a man who knew better than to interrupt the weather. "My lord... May we ask what this is?"

Lucien grinned. The kind of grin that preceded revolutions and retail therapy. He placed the sunglasses on his face with a dramatic flourish, lifting his chin as though he’d just revealed the Ark of the Covenant.

"This, dear people of this fashion-forsaken world... is called sunglasses."

A pause.

Marcel blinked. "Sun... glasses?"

Lucien nodded proudly. "Yes. Glasses that protect your eyes from the blinding judgment of others. And also, the sun."

Alphonso squinted. "But... they’re Black. Wouldn’t that make it harder to see?"

Lucien scoffed, one hand dramatically cradling his bump, the other flourishing toward the heavens like a misunderstood fashion prophet.

"YES," he announced, as if being interviewed by a celestial red carpet host. "Because fashion is sacrifice. Fashion is a mystery. Fashion is suffering in sequins and smiling through the cramps! Do you think this level of fabulousness just happens, Alphanso? Do you think this glow is hydration? No! It’s stress. And highlighter. And vengeance!"

The room stayed dead silent.

Maids blinked in quiet terror.

Maria mouthed, "Vengeance...?"

Then—with the flair of a pregnant diva preparing to grace the paparazzi—Lucien reached for his robe.

A sweeping, floor-length, midnight-blue silk creation embroidered with silver comets and (for reasons unknown) miniature flaming peacocks. frёewebnoѵēl.com

He draped it around his shoulders, fluffed the collar, and pulled the sash tight beneath his belly.

Then he paused.

Slid the black sunglasses over his eyes with two fingers.

And whispered like an action hero in a pregnancy-craving noir movie: "Now... I’m ready... to go out."

Marble floors trembled beneath his footstep.

Velvet curtains rustled without wind.

One of the maids may have wept.

Alphonso, who had seen Lucien stage a three-hour opera over a missing bath bomb, swallowed hard.

He stepped forward cautiously. "Please... be careful, my lord."

Lucien didn’t turn. He simply raised one bejeweled hand and fluttered his fingers. "Sure, sure. Bye bye~" he sang, already floating toward the grand hall like a holy vision in sunglasses and scandal.

Three maids scrambled behind him in a single, terrified file, clutching a fan, cushions, and emergency lemon tarts, respectively.

Alphonso turned with a sigh to address Marcel, "Please take care of our lord—"

But Marcel was already gone. Sprinting after Lucien like a man possessed.

"My LOOORD—WAIT! CAN I HAVE THIS FASHION TOO?! WHAT EVEN IS A SUNGLASS?! TEACH ME YOUR WAYS!"

His footsteps echoed down the hallway.

Alphonso stood alone. He stared at the retreating chaos. Then he looked up to the sky like a man whose soul had finally left his body.

"I suppose..." he muttered, pressing fingers to his temple, "...I can only rely on the gods now."

From far down the corridor, Lucien’s voice echoed:

"MARIA, STOP TRYING TO COVER THE SLIT IN MY ROBE! I AM A WALKING TEMPTATION. LET ME SHINE!"

Alphonso groaned.

***

[Imperial Capital—La Sweetsia, The Most Exclusive Dessert Salon in the Kingdom]

The entire dessert shop had been cleared out, the chandeliers polished to a blinding shine, and the velvet chairs fluffed to imperial perfection—because Her Imperial Majesty, Empress Elise, eight months gloriously pregnant and draped in fifteen layers of embroidered silk, is here.

Seated across from her, Lady Seraphina—fierce, fabulous, and so sharp she could probably slice cake just by glaring—was sipping tea like it personally offended her.

They hadn’t insulted each other for at least ten minutes, which was a miracle never before witnessed by mankind.

But today... there were bigger things than verbal warfare.

Because seated at a chair next to them, legs elegantly crossed, lips glossed to sinful perfection, and one hand resting dramatically over his baby bump like he was Vogue’s July cover—

Was Lucien Rynthall.

Wearing black sunglasses. Indoors.Like a pregnant spy from an alternate dimension.Or a Zara ad that had gotten lost and wandered into royalty.

Behind him stood Marcel and three maids—all four of them wearing matching sunglasses like they were his backup dancers in a secret underground maternity-themed pop group.

The Empress squinted.

Seraphina narrowed her eyes.

They didn’t blink.

"...What," Seraphina finally said, breaking the sacred silence of the sugar palace, "in the name of the Holy Sapphire is that black thing on your eyes? Are you cursed?"

The Empress leaned in, whispering dramatically, "Should I call the palace priests? Or some witch?"

Seraphina shook her head solemnly. "Maybe call a witch rather than those idiot priests."

Lucien finally slid his sunglasses down just enough to reveal the glint in his eye—a dangerous sparkle only reserved for fashion debuts and polite assassinations.

"This..." he declared, gesturing dramatically to his face as if unveiling a royal artifact, "is called... SUNGLASSES."

He paused for effect. He loved a pause.

"My invention. It’s a fashion. And fashion isn’t just seen—it’s respected. Where light trembles before touching my eyes, and judgment melts under my glare."

Seraphina blinked slowly. "So... they’re like tiny windows. For your face."

"They’re shields. Against mediocrity," Lucien replied with divine solemnity.

With a snap of his fingers, Maria stepped forward and reverently handed over two pristine, bejeweled pairs of sunglasses. Lucien stretched out his arms like a benevolent god of maternity style.

"I brought extra. For you two."

Seraphina took one with the hesitation of someone accepting an artifact from a forbidden temple. The Empress took hers like she was being knighted.

They both slid them on in perfect synchronized motion.

A pause.

A gasp.

"I..." Seraphina breathed, staring at her reflection in the bakery’s mirrored cake display, "I LOOK LIKE A GODDESS. A vengeful, tax-evading, sapphire-drenched GODDESS."

"I can’t believe I’m this beautiful," Empress Elise whispered, clutching her bump. "I’m glowing. I mean, it might be indigestion, but—no. This is divine power."

Marcel, standing proudly behind Lucien like the captain of the Style Defense Forces, nodded sagely. "We felt that too, Your Majesty. The first time we wore them, we wept. And then we glitter-bombed a duke."

The maids all nodded solemnly, like veterans of a sacred battle.

Lucien sniffed, deeply moved. "I am so glad."

Seraphina, her mouth halfway into a chocolate éclair, blinked. "Wait. Hold on. Is this the emergency meeting you summoned us for? The sunglasses?"

Lucien’s entire aura changed.

The wind outside howled.

The chandelier flickered.

He slowly took off his sunglasses, placing them delicately on the table like they were too sacred to witness what was about to unfold.

The sparkle in his eyes dimmed. His glossy lips trembled. His fan—his beloved fan—drooped.

"I..." he began, voice cracking like a soap opera finale, "I think... my husband... is cheating on me."

GASP.

The entire bakery fell into stunned silence. A fork dropped in the background. One maid fainted onto a pile of mille-feuille. The Empress clutched her pearls like they were holy relics.

"WHAT?!" Seraphina shrieked.

"WITH WHOM?!" the Empress demanded, already mentally drafting a royal execution order.

A single tear slid down Lucien’s cheek—slow, tragic, and sparkling like a jewel commissioned by heartbreak.

"I DON’T KNOW!" he wailed, arms raised to the heavens. "That’s the mystery! That’s the scandal! He’s sweating when I ask questions! He says—he says—he’s going on ’soil inspections’!"

He looked around the table, scandalized. "WHO INSPECTS SOIL, I ASK YOU?!"

"No one!" Seraphina slammed her palm down. "That’s peasant propaganda! Dirt is just failed diamonds! We don’t inspect it, we walk over it in heels!"

Lucien pointed with a trembling hand, lips quivering. "AND—they keep whispering. He and Alphonso. They look at me and then they whisper. I saw it. With my own enhanced pregnant senses."

The Empress sucked in a sharp breath."...The third-eye of gestation."

Lucien nodded. "Exactly. And—he’s hiding letters," he added darkly, voice low like thunder beneath silk. "Burning them. Secret ones. Do you know what kind of husband burns letters, Your Majesty? A guilty one. A two-timing, cloak-wearing, oath-breaking letter-burner! It must be with someone mysterious... a baroness, perhaps... or—"

He gasped. "...A gardener."

Marcel, still standing loyally at Lucien’s side, made a faint choking noise as the last ounce of his soul left his body and floated gently into the éclair tray.

Then Lucien—outraged, glowing, and very much done with the deceit—rose. He slammed the table with the dramatic grace of a vengeful soap opera queen.

"THAT’S WHY—" he declared, eyes blazing, "Ladies..."

The Empress and Seraphina leaned in. Even the cakes seemed to hold their breath.

"...Let’s SPY. ON. MY. HUSBAND. SILAS. RYNTHALL."

Gasps. Everywhere.

Seraphina shot up like a general in jeweled heels. "Yes! Let’s expose him like a tax scandal!"

The Empress gripped the table. "Operation: Matrimonial Surveillance begins NOW."

Everyone nodded in solemn agreement—even the maids who technically worked for Silas.Allegiances meant nothing when tea and betrayal were involved.

Lucien stood proud, hand on bump, sunglasses reflecting his resolve. The air around the table shimmered with purpose.

But then—

"BUT..." Lucien paused dramatically, raising a delicate trembling finger.

"Let’s eat tarts and macarons first."

And just like that, the room exploded into a flurry of pastry forks, whipped cream declarations, and dangerous glints of sugar-fueled vengeance.

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