Reborn as a villain:Claim the omega, Kiss the beta, Kill the dukes Chapter 129: Different

Chapter 128

Jack

Russell called for .

Not the king, not a steward, not a random advisor who wants to dump a twenty-page file in my hands—

Russell.

My oldest sibling, the crown prince, the one person in this palace who actually feels... normal.

So here I am, navigating this ridiculous maze of corridors again.

Honestly, this place is massive. A full estate disguised as a residence. I’m pretty sure I walked a whole marathon just trying to get here. No wonder family mbers barely run into each other—it’s practically a small city.

I climb one last ornate staircase, turn down a hallway lined with portraits of extrely judgntal-looking ancestors, and finally reach the entrance to Russell’s wing.

Behind , Peter follows like my own personal shadow. At this point he’s attached to so permanently I barely even register his presence anymore. I swear he materializes when I blink.

He steps ahead, opens the heavy opulent door first—checking for threats, as always—and only when he nods do I walk in.

And imdiately...

I stop.

Because this place?

This part of the palace?

Feels lived in.

Not just "soone uses this room" lived in.

But "a real family exists here" lived in.

Sure, it’s still luxury on top of luxury—golden marble floors, ornate molding, furniture that probably costs more than my old beach house,but there’s sothing different here.

Life.

A plush blanket thrown over a couch. A small stack of children’s books on a side table. Crayon markings sared on the far wall—crude doodles a servant is currently scrubbing at with the resigned determination of soone who’s done this many tis before.

I can’t help but smile.

A tiny toy train lies abandoned near the leg of a polished table. One of those high-end wooden ones that looks handmade. It clashes beautifully with the expensive ornant sitting just above it.

I step around it carefully.

I’m...

looking forward to this.

Looking forward to Lanny toddling around, leaving toys in places they absolutely shouldn’t be, scribbling on walls, making sses that will ruin marble and tastefully curated decor.

Russell’s voice echoes faintly from deeper inside the suite.I walk toward it, taking in one more look at the toy on the floor.

Soday, Lanny’s toys will be scattered like this too.

Now I miss my child too.

I walk further in, and there’s Russell, stoic faced except I can’t take him seriously, because the stoic-faced Crown Prince of Solre is in pigtails.

Right. Russell has a 6-year-old daughter and a 3-year-old son.

He looks up at through the slightly crooked ribbon in his hair and gives a dignified wave, as if this is perfectly normal.

"Jackson," he says in his usual deep, impassive voice.

Which only makes the pink bows in his hair even funnier.

I bite my cheek to hold back laughter.

I don’t succeed.

A small snort escapes .

"Say nothing," Russell warns dryly.

"No disrespect, brother," I say, holding both hands up, "but who did this to you?"

As if on cue, a little girl appears behind him — brunette hair, huge brown eyes, wearing a princess dress with glitter that sheds on the floor with every breath she takes.

She marches up to him with the confidence of soone who already knows she runs this palace.

"Daddy," she says indignantly, "you’re ssing it up again. Sit."

Russell — Crown Prince, next ruler of Solre, man feared by half the political circle — obediently sits on a tiny pink stool built for children.

I cover my mouth.

She starts fixing his pigtails with serious determination.

He sits there, back straight, face blank, enduring.

"Your hair is too heavy," she says, tugging the ribbon. "You need lighter bows."

"I will... take that under advisent," Russell says, voice strained ever so slightly under the weight of six-year-old authority.

His daughter gives a satisfied nod before turning her suspicious gaze on .

The light in her brown eyes dims.

She imdiately shuffles closer to her father, tiny hands clutching his sleeve like I’m the tax collector co to repossess her toys.

Cute.

Even as she eyes like a possible kidnapper.

Russell clears his throat and gives her a gentle nudge.

"Paulie, sweetheart, that’s your uncle Jack. The one I told you about. Rember?"

She doesn’t answer.

She just stares, squinting at like she’s analyzing a cri scene.

Her nose scrunches.

"But he looks different," she says bluntly. "Different from you. And Uncle Andy. And Aunt Grace."

I can’t help the small smile tugging at my lips.

Russell, on the other hand, inhales so slowly it’s almost ditative.

Here we go.

"Pauline," he begins in that patient, dignified, crown-prince tone, "families can look different. Sotis siblings share features, and sotis they don’t. Your uncle Jack is your grandfather’s son just like ."

Paulie processes this.

Slowly.

Very slowly.

Then she tilts her head, still suspicious.

"...But he doesn’t look like Grandpa either."

How honest. I almost snort out a laugh.

"Paulie," he says gently, "families co in all kinds of shapes. Uncle Jack just... takes after his mother."

She squints harder at .

Her little nose scrunches like she’s trying to detect a lie.

I restrain the urge to laugh.

"But why is his hair so curly?" she whispers loudly, as if I’m deaf.

"Because that’s how his hair grows," Russell says, patience thinning.

She studies harder.

"...Why is his skin so... different?"

There it is. The classic childhood honesty bomb. Delivered with zero malice, full suspicion. I’m not offended, I’m actually finding it funny.

"That is also how he was born," Russell answers, tone just a shade tighter. He’s trying to keep this graceful, but he desperately wants this interrogation to end.

"...Are you sure he’s Uncle Jack?"

Russell freezes. Actually freezes.

And I nearly choke on my own laughter.

"Yes," he says firmly, placing a steadying hand on her small shoulder. "I am very sure."

She blinks at once more, then finally gives a tiny nod — the kind children give when they’ve decided to tolerate soone’s suspicious existence for now.

"...Okay," she says.

I lose the battle to hold in my grin.

Russell closes his eyes for half a second, as though praying for strength.