The Omega Who Wasn't Supposed to Exist-Chapter 59: Operation Matrimonial Surveillance: Part I

[Rynthall Estate—Afternoon / Lucien’s Secret Strategy Chamber (a.k.a. the Tea Room with Better Lighting)]

The teacups trembled.

The chandelier shivered.

The lace curtains tried their best not to flutter dramatically—though they failed, due to a conveniently timed breeze.

Lucien, clad in his "Operation: Betrayal Chic" robe (embroidered with tiny daggers, roses, and passive-aggressive peacocks), SLAMMED a massive map onto the tea table.

A very large, completely unnecessary, unreasonably sparkly map of the entire Rynthall estate.

It was scribbled over in glitter gel pens, dramatic red arrows, mysterious dotted lines, coded phrases like "Shady Behavior Zone" and "Don’t Trust This Door", and a tiny, angry doodle of Silas’s face with an evil handlebar mustache drawn over it.

"Code name: Suspect Number One," Lucien announced, stabbing Silas’s face with a gold-tipped pen like it had insulted his nail polish.

Across the table, Empress Elise nibbled on a macaron, eyes calm, voice deadpan. "Is that his wedding portrait... or a wanted poster?"

Lucien sniffed. "Same thing."

Lady Seraphina, twirling a jeweled pen like it was a weapon of divine justice, leaned in with narrowed eyes. "What’s the plan, Commander of Chaos?"

Lucien sat down, pushed his sunglasses to the tip of his nose like a villain in a telenovela, and said gravely: "We. Infiltrate."

GASPS echoed around the tea room.

One maid dropped her tray. Another choked on her tea. A third crossed herself and whispered, "Gods protect us."

"Infiltrate?" Elise whispered, sitting upright like a cat sensing scandal.

Lucien nodded, eyes glowing with tea-fueled vengeance. "Yes. I shall fake a nap."

Pause.

Silence.

"...That’s your plan?" Seraphina blinked. "A nap?"

Lucien raised a finger. "A believable nap. The kind of nap only a tired, betrayed, glowing, eight-months-pregnant spouse would take after having too much emotion and not enough tarts. I shall sigh tragically, fluff the pillows with righteous grief, and then... lie in wait."

He pointed to a corner of the map labeled "Alphonso’s Fireplace of Betrayal".

"I will listen for their treasonous whispers. Their burnt letters. Their soil lies!"

"But what if they don’t talk that night?" Seraphina asked, furrowing her brows and stabbing a crème brûlée with far too much enthusiasm.

The room fell silent.

Lucien blinked.

Elise, eyes suddenly glittering with divine revelation, gasped. "Wait. WAIT! I heard there’s a monthly palace meeting tomorrow!"

Lucien’s head snapped toward her.

"The one where Adrien gathers all the noble lords for updates and reports," Elise continued, dramatically tossing her macaron onto a gold plate like she was delivering breaking news. "Silas always attends. Since they are friends, they’ll talk."

Lucien’s fingers curled into a fist atop his belly bump. "OF COURSE. That’s when they’ll spill. Noble men are weak to paperwork and confidants! It’s their natural mating ground for gossip and betrayal!"

"Then..." Seraphina gasped, rising from her seat like a general blessed by sugar. "That’s Plan B."

Lucien nodded solemnly. "Plan A: Nap ambush. Plan B: Palace trap."

Elise leaned in. "And if both fail?"

Lucien stood, his robe fluttering, his fan opening with a snap. "Then we escalate to Plan C: Divorce-by-public-duel."

Everyone froze.

"...Too soon?" Lucien asked.

"Little bit," Seraphina muttered.

"I liked it though," Elise said with a shrug.

Lucien sat down again with a sigh, placing a tiara back onto his curls.

"Well, no matter. First, we fake the nap. And if the traitors do not squeak—" he jabbed at the map, "we catch them live at the palace. Red-handed. In the act. Probably with secret letters or matching soil samples!"

The entire tea room nodded in synchrony.

Even the chandelier sparkled in agreement.

And thus, with macaron crumbs, glitter pens, and suspicious fan-flourishes—the council of chaos had officially set their plan in motion.

Operation Matrimonial Surveillance... was now a multi-phase operation.

And Silas Rynthall?

He had absolutely no idea the full force of sequined justice was about to descend upon him.

***

[Rynthall Estate—Evening / Main Hall]

The grand doors creaked open.

Silas stepped in with the weight of the day dragging behind him like a tired cape. His cravat was loosened. His shoulders were slightly slouched. He exhaled the kind of sigh only husbands with suspiciously theatrical spouses know well.

Alphonso appeared with the quiet precision of a trained butler and emotional support therapist.

"Shall I prepare dinner, my lord?" he asked, already holding Silas’s coat like it contained state secrets and pastry crumbs.

Silas glanced around wearily. "What about Lucien? Did he eat?"

Alphonso nodded, his expression as polished as ever. "Yes, my lord. He... dined early. He said he felt sleepy. Retired to the chamber shortly after."

Silas’s eyes narrowed slightly. "Sleepy?"

"Yes, my lord."

"At this hour?"

"...Yes, my lord."

"...Voluntarily?"

"...Yes, my—well, there was some yawning. And a faint."

Silas hummed, suspicion faintly crackling behind his tired gaze. But he just nodded. "Alright. I’ll head up then."

He moved toward the grand staircase, footsteps soft on the marble.

But he didn’t see them.

Three figures—huddled behind a decorative pillar like dramatic raccoons—watching his every move.

Marcel’s fake mustache quivered with stress. Beside him, two maids in identical robes and matching sunglasses peeked with synchronized intensity.

"He’s coming upstairs," Marcel whispered.

"Retreat to base. I repeat, retreat to base," one maid said, adjusting her sunglasses like a secret agent in a corset.

They turned and sprinted like scandal-fueled shadows through the hallways—slippers slapping marble, whisper-screaming the entire way.

"HE’S COMING—GO GO GO!"

***

[Lucien’s Chamber—Thirty Seconds Later]

The door slammed open.

Lucien was in full crisis mode—but a very coordinated crisis mode.

His robe flew off. His sunglasses vanished. He leapt into bed, grabbed his fan, then remembered he was pretending to sleep—threw the fan across the room—and tucked himself beneath the mountain of velvet duvets with all the grace of a pregnant ballerina mid-heist.

Marcel skidded in. "He’s here!"

"I’m tucked!" Lucien whispered, already snuggling into position.

The maids scrambled to straighten the pillows, spritz lavender in the air, and dim the candlelight like stagehands prepping for a romantic play.

Lucien reached up with one last flourish and flopped a hand dramatically over his bump.

"...This is the moment," he whispered, eyes fluttering shut. "Let the betrayal reveal itself..."

"Do you need anything else, my lord?" One maid asked.

Lucien peeked one eye open. "Yes. A tear. A single emotional tear rolling down my cheek as he walks in."

"Tears?"

"Yes, for Drama."

Marcel snapped his fingers at the maid. "On it."

She dashed to the side table, dabbed a finger in a glass of water, and expertly dabbed a single droplet onto Lucien’s cheek.

Lucien sighed contentedly. "Perfect. Go. Scatter. Pretend this is a normal evening." ƒree𝑤ebnσvel-com

And like trained spies at the Met Gala, they vanished in all directions—leaving behind one very fake-sleeping, dramatically glowing Lucien.

Footsteps approached. The doorknob turned with a soft click. Lucien adjusted his pose beneath the blankets, shifting one hand just so over his bump, lips parted in angelic slumber. A tear still clung artfully to his cheek.

Silas stepped inside.

He moved quietly, gaze softening the moment it landed on the figure nestled in silk and pillows. A faint smile tugged at his lips as he approached the bedside. He sat down carefully—his movements gentle, reverent, as though Lucien were something fragile and irreplaceable.

He leaned down and pressed a tender kiss to Lucien’s forehead.

"You slept so early tonight, my love..." he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from Lucien’s face.

Before Lucien could react with anything other than a deeper fake breath, Alphonso stepped into the room.

"Ah—he went out this afternoon, my lord. To meet Lady Seraphina," Alphonso offered quietly. "Perhaps the outing wore him down."

Silas’s brow creased faintly. He glanced at Alphonso. "He... went out?"

Alphonso nodded calmly. "Yes, my lord. But don’t worry—I made sure he wasn’t alone. I sent knights to accompany him."

Silas exhaled, the worry still lingering in his eyes. "Send more next time. Double the watch."

He looked back at Lucien, gently tucking the blanket around his sleeping form like a worried parent preparing their child for a blizzard. His voice dropped a little.

"You know they’re watching him."

Alphonso’s expression darkened slightly, but he nodded. "I know, my lord. That’s why I’ve also assigned a hidden guard detail. They’re keeping close, even when he doesn’t notice."

Silas’s jaw tightened. "No priests. No saints. If anyone tries to approach him again—"

"They won’t," Alphonso interrupted, calm but firm. "We’ve made sure of that."

Silas finally nodded, the tension in his shoulders loosening ever so slightly. "I trust you, Alphonso. Just make sure he never finds out. He can’t know... not yet."

Alphonso bowed silently.

And under the velvet mountain of blankets, Lucien’s fingers twitched.

His brain was short-circuiting.

Priests? Saints? Hidden knights?? Watching him?!

The phrases echoed in his mind like a conspiracy podcast narrated by gossip-loving ravens.

Meanwhile, Alphonso asked, "Shall I have dinner prepared, my lord?"

Silas stood, his eyes still on Lucien. "Yes. Something light."

He leaned down once more, brushing a final kiss over Lucien’s temple. "I’ll be back soon, sweetheart."

He gently tugged the blankets higher, tucking Lucien in like a precious artifact, and then turned to leave. The door shut behind him with a quiet thud.

Lucien didn’t move for a full five seconds.

Then—

His eyes snapped open. His perfectly glossed lips parted in sheer confusion.

"...What in the frosted f*** do they mean by ’eyes are on me’?"

He sat up slowly, blinking into the dim light like a drama heroine recovering from amnesia.

"Who’s watching me?! Why are they watching me?! What priest?! What saint?! What hidden knights?!"

He clutched his bump, eyes wide with scandal.

"...Am I in a thriller plot and no one told me?!"

The room was quiet.

Too quiet.

And with that—Lucien Rynthall, crown prince of dramatic instinct and empire-worthy eyeliner, tossed off his blanket with divine fury.

"Alright. If they won’t tell me the truth—then I’ll find it myself."

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