Lucas sat alone at the head of the long breakfast table. The sunlight filtering through the tall windows bathed the dark wood in amber-gold, and the staff, efficient as ever, had left a small tray: croissants, clover honey, and a soft-boiled egg in a delicate glass cup. But he'd barely touched it.
Serathine had left early—an appointment with one of the maritime lords. Something about trade ports and taxation alignment. She had kissed his cheek lightly before leaving and told him not to read anything upsetting until after breakfast.
He had ignored that part.
The tablet in his hand glowed faintly, open to an encrypted court archive—one of the few Lucius had forgotten to revoke access to. Lucas hadn't hacked anything. He just hadn't logged out.
He hadn't meant to go looking for anything dangerous. Not really.
At first, it had just been a line of curiosity, an idle attempt to make sense of the word Trevor had used the night before—dominant omega—a phrase that had lodged itself behind his ribs like a thorn too small to remove and too persistent to ignore. It sounded clinical, exaggerated. A contradiction in terms. Something not meant to exist, and certainly not something meant to apply to him.
And yet, the tablet now held a different truth.
He had started with the basics, sifting through noble archives that wrapped every piece of biological information in diplomatic language and sealed medical documents in layers of formality thick enough to muffle the truth. The entries weren't new. They weren't even especially informative. But they were real. Real in the way blood was real. In a way, a cage was real.
Dominant omega.
It wasn't a classification so much as a warning label. Not because they were unstable or dangerous, as the old whisper stories had claimed, but because they weren't supposed to be seen. They weren't supposed to exist in the open. Because if one ever did—if one were ever confirmed—then entire houses would move, and nations would listen, and bloodlines on the verge of extinction would suddenly find reason to fight again.
Because dominant omegas weren't liabilities. They were the last viable thread in an increasingly brittle net of legacy and power. They weren't forgotten—they were hidden. Covered up before they could be claimed. Sealed behind oaths, treaties, and, in many cases, marriages negotiated behind glass doors and presented to the world only after the ink had dried and the bond had been sealed.
Lucas scrolled slower now, breath shallow, each swipe bringing him closer not to an answer but to an understanding. This wasn't just about what he might be. It was about what people would do if they believed it.
And then he saw it.
A flagged submission, posted late in the night—so late it hadn't yet passed through the formal filter.
EXCLUSIVE: Dominant Omega Heir Hidden in Plain Sight?
Whispers are swirling through the capital this morning after an anonymous report surfaced overnight—one that could shake the Empire's bloodlines to their core.
According to the encrypted leak, a noble heir recently presented as a dominant omega—a classification so rare it hasn't been confirmed publicly in over two decades. The individual's identity remains unverified, but sources claim early suppression is suspected, suggesting a long-term cover-up orchestrated at the highest levels.
The heir is said to be under active House protection, with no public bond declared and no imperial registration matching the dominant classification on record. Political speculation is already mounting, with multiple factions allegedly mobilizing in search of confirmation.
"If verified," the source writes, "he wouldn't just be the first in a generation—he would be the most valuable match in the Empire."
And the final line?
If you want him, move now.
The words pulsed on the screen—bold, clinical, and obscene in their precision. A call to arms, written like an auction notice. Polished enough to be dangerous. Anonymous enough to be taken seriously.
Lucas didn't move; there were no names but it was clear that the article was about him. Who found out so soon? Did Dr. Elaine leak the information? No.
Trevor had already crossed the room, his gaze narrowing as he caught the headline and saw the stillness in Lucas's expression. He didn't wait for an invitation. He didn't ask.
He just reached out, plucked the tablet from Lucas's hands in one smooth motion, and snapped:
"What the fuck is this?"
Lucas didn't flinch.
He watched Trevor read.
Watched the shift in his expression—not the kind of fury that exploded, but the kind that tightened in increments. Controlled, lethal. He read it all the way through, then once more in silence, as if the repetition would make it less real.
It didn't.
Lucas reached for his tea—cold now—and set the cup back down without drinking.
"Who do you think it was?" he asked quietly. Not because he didn't know, but because he wanted to hear Trevor say it.
Trevor didn't answer right away.
He stood there, motionless, the tablet still glowing on the table beside him, its screen dimming slightly as the article timed out but the headline lingering like a bruise beneath the surface.
When he did speak, his voice was quieter than expected. Measured. Like something heavy being held between his teeth.
"There are maybe five people with access to the full report," he said. "Elaine isn't one of them. She gave it to me. Directly. The original file hasn't left my hands."
Lucas nodded once, slowly. "So it wasn't a leak."
"No," Trevor said. "It's someone that already knew—or had enough suspicion to piece it together."
He paused, his voice steady but not impassive. "Well. I wanted to give you more time to make your decision." His eyes met Lucas's, and there was no heat in them, only the kind of calm that came right before a sword was drawn. "But it seems like Misty won't let you leave unscathed."
Lucas didn't speak at first.
Not because he disagreed, but because part of him had already expected it. There was no version of this where Misty let him go quietly—not after losing control, not after watching someone else succeed where she had failed.
He folded his hands in his lap, his gaze drifting toward the window for a moment as the morning light spilled across the far wall like gold painted over ash. It looked warm, but it didn't feel like safety.
"I knew she'd try something," he said at last. "But this?" His jaw flexed. "This is low even for her."
Trevor didn't respond right away.
He just stood there, steady and quiet, letting the weight of Lucas's words settle into the stillness between them. And then, without softening his voice or filling the silence with anything easy, he asked—
"So, would you choose me?"