Reborn as a villain:Claim the omega, Kiss the beta, Kill the dukes-Chapter 139: The difference

Chapter 138

Marius Florence

The studio opening has gone exceptionally well.

Too well.

The halls of the newly restored Florence Gallery hum with admiration—low, reverent murmurs spilling from critics, nobles, collectors, and artists drawn from every corner of Solmere.

Chandeliers cast a honeyed glow over marble floors. Soft orchestral music drifts through the open space, elegant and unobtrusive, curated to elevate without overwhelming.

The art is exquisite.

Sculptures carved with such intimacy they appear to breathe. Glass installations that fracture the light into kaleidoscopic brilliance.

This gallery represents decades of wealth, influence, and obsession refined into one undeniable truth:

Marius Florence always gets what he wants.

I smile easily as a drone camera whirs past, its lens sweeping dramatically over the crowd before pivoting toward me. I incline my head, acknowledging applause, returning practiced warmth.

Yet despite the beauty surrounding me, despite the masterpieces gathered under my name...

None of them matter.

Because none of them are as beautiful as my rose.

My most perfect work.

Living. Breathing. Real.

Then—

I smell it.

The shift is immediate. Sharp. Invasive. Intoxicating.

Omega pheromones. I inhale, roses. My Omega’s pheromones.

My eyes scan the room, slicing through the crowd with practiced efficiency until I find the source.

And my stomach drops.

It isn’t my rose.

It’s worse.

So much worse.

The bastard stands near the center of the hall, effortlessly commanding attention without trying. His posture is relaxed, confidence worn like second skin. Something he’s wearing like second skin, are the pheromones.

Omega-marked.

Claimed.

My jaw tightens.

"Duke Marius."

Prince Anderson’s voice cuts through my thoughts. I turn smoothly, the smile already fixed back in place.

"Prince Anderson," I say warmly. "I’m glad you could make it."

"And Prince Jackson," I add, eyes flicking briefly to the man beside him.

The bastard smirks.

He knows.

"My apologies for being late," Jackson says, voice mild. "I was... preoccupied."

Anderson laughs, glancing between us. "From the omega pheromones practically oozing off you, I think we can all guess what you were busy with."

Jackson only chuckles. "You’ll understand when you find yourself one."

Anderson snorts. "I’m not falling for the settle propaganda. I still want my freedom. Right, Duke?"

I don’t answer.

Instead, I gesture toward the ribbon stretched across the gallery entrance. "Come. It’s time."

I turn away before either of them can see the crack in my composure.

***

Jack

It turns out weeks of etiquette lessons, speech coaching, and public relations drills actually worked.

I stand before flashing cameras with practiced ease, voice steady, smile flawless.

"And art," I say, projecting warmth and sincerity, "is how human beings have expressed themselves since the beginning. Through art, stories are told. Emotions are felt and preserved,timelessly."

"It is my greatest honor that my brother and I bear witness to the grand opening of the largest art museum in Solmere. A space made possible through the tireless efforts of Duke Marius Florence, countless shareholders, and the extraordinary artists whose work fills these halls."

Applause.

Cameras flash.

Marius stands beside me, the picture of composed pride.

I deserve a medal for not looking how I feel.

Because how I feel is a violent, simmering desire to decapitate him and mount his head among these pristine displays.

But I’m a professional. I once drank with men, that only a few hours prior stabbed me, this is nothing.

A few more words. A ceremonial nod.

The ribbon cutting. 𝗳𝗿𝐞𝕖𝘄𝗲𝕓𝗻𝚘𝚟𝕖𝐥.𝚌𝕠𝕞

I glance at the oversized gold scissors—and at Marius’s hands far too close to mine.

No. I can handle many things, but cutting the ribbon with my lover’s abusive ex is not one of them.

I subtly shift, nudging Anderson forward. "Prince Anderson, would you do the honors?"

He blinks, then grins. "With pleasure."

The ribbon falls.

The crowd cheers.

*

Nursing a glass of wine as I wander the gallery, making polite conversation where necessary, nodding where expected. My thoughts are elsewhere.

At home.

I miss my son.

I miss my omega.

I miss my doggy.

I stop in front of a small glass case.

Clay.

Muted tones. Delicate carving.

My breath stills.

A feminine figure reclines in a bed of carved roses, body soft yet tense, expression caught somewhere between surrender and restraint. The craftsmanship is undeniably skilled, which makes me even more irritable because I know who this is.

My hand tightens against the glass.

I look down.

Of course.

The Eternal Rose

Marius Florence

My jaw clenches.

Would it be excessive to smash it?

The question isn’t if—it’s whether I could do it discreetly.

I’m genuinely considering the logistics when a familiar presence slides beside me.

"Beautiful, isn’t it?" Marius says smoothly. "One of my best works."

I don’t turn.

"I don’t think it captures the essence of the subject," I reply coolly.

"Art is interpretation," he says. "Memory. Desire."

"Obsession," I counter.

"Is it so different from your emotions?" He asks, and I have to be honest, he got me there. I cannot say I’m not obsessed with Ciel; I could only sleep with his underwear on my face when we were apart.

"I suppose," I say.

"You and I are not so different," he says.

Whoa, whoa, whoa, let’s stop that there.

"We are not, you see, he is with me voluntarily, he kisses me voluntarily, he wants to be with me," I say.

He scoffs.

"It is an unfortunate truth, but such is the fate of an omega; they are subject to their base instincts, any alpha will do."

"How interesting," I reply, taking a step closer.

"Because if that really was the case, why is the closest you get to him a figment of your imagination, like this?" I say, motioning to the sculpture.

He clenches his fists, and how I hope he hits me; it would give me a valid reason to retaliate.

"Guess it’s not every alpha," I say, taking a step closer.

"Go back into your little studio and make as many as you would like, because that’s the only way you’ll ever get close to him again," I say, and take a step back.

For a moment, I think he might actually lunge. His jaw tightens, nostrils flaring, eyes fixed somewhere between my throat and my hands—as if calculating how much damage he could do before the guards heard. As if he would, I would love to remind him of the last time we got into a physical alteration. He definitely didn’t hurt me.

But he doesn’t move.

Instead, he exhales sharply through his nose, a brittle sound. "You speak as if you own him."

"I don’t," I say calmly. "That’s the difference between us."