Reborn as a villain:Claim the omega, Kiss the beta, Kill the dukes Chapter 149: Realization

Chapter 148

Jack

I think the royal family might be evil.

Well—not technically evil. But the system they uphold? The comfortable, gilded cage of Solre?

That might be evil.

The realization didn’t hit all at once. It crept in slowly, in the spaces between etings and als, in the things people didn’t say.

Ivan’s husband was the first crack in the illusion. A man who moves billions across borders, who operates on three continents, who treats Solre like a pit stop rather than a ho. He ntioned, offhandedly, that very few international corporations maintain permanent presence here. That the kingdom is "deliberately difficult" for outsiders.

I didn’t think much of it at first.

Then I started paying attention.

Solre manufactures its own phones. Its own cars. Its own clothes. Everything stamped with the royal crest, everything produced within the kingdom’s borders.

Self-sufficiency sounds noble on paper—until you realize self-sufficiency is also control.

The internet here is a carefully curated garden. News travels only as far as the palace allows. Every history book I’ve opened sings the sa song: Solre, blessed by the gods, chosen by fate, ruled by the bloodline that has never faltered.

Propaganda dressed up as patriotism.

And the people who try to leave?

I found the files.

Citizens who applied for emigration. rchants who tried to establish foreign partnerships. Scholars who questioned the official narratives.

"Disappeared."

"Died in transit."

"Retired from public life."

All the sa soft, bloodless language that ans gone.

I close the file in front of and look at the n around the table. Councilors. Advisors. n who have spent their lives maintaining the machinery of this kingdom.

"Your Highness," one of them says, clearly repeating himself. "We were discussing the increasing rate of citizen defections."

Defections.

Like leaving Solre is a betrayal.

I keep my expression neutral. "What’s the current number?"

The councilor slides a report across the table. I glance at the figures. Higher than I expected. Higher than they probably want to see.

"And what’s being done about it?" I ask.

"Border control has been reinforced," another councilor says smoothly. "Ports are monitored. Anyone attempting to leave without proper clearance is—"

"Detained," I finish for him.

He hesitates. "Escorted back to their registered residence."

Right.

Escorted.

Where do they take these people they capture?

I lean back in my chair, fingers steepled, the picture of royal composure. Inside, sothing cold is curdling in my stomach.

This is what I’ve inherited. A kingdom that doesn’t let its people leave. A system that erases dissent with quiet efficiency. Power preserved at any cost.

And I’m part of it now.

I sit in these etings. I nod at the right monts. I smile for the caras. I let them dress in tailored suits and call "Your Highness" like the title ans I’ve earned sothing.

But every day, I look at Lanny. My son. My boy with his red curls and golden eyes, who might present as anything—alpha, beta, oga—and I think:

What kind of world am I raising him in?

If he presents as oga, will this kingdom protect him? Or will it treat him the way it treats all ogas—as property to be managed, alliances to be arranged, beauty to be displayed?

If he wants to leave soday, will he be allowed to walk away?

But then I think—he’s my son. He’s a prince. He will never be treated the way Ciel was treated. Like Grace, despite being an oga, she’s a princess. The rules are different for us.

As long as I’m alive, Lanny will be protected. He’ll have everything. Education. Freedom. Choice.

So why does that feel like a selfish thought?

Because I’m thinking about my son. My family. Not the thousands of other ogas born to people who don’t have titles.

Not the parents watching their children disappear into the machinery of this kingdom because they were born the wrong designation.

I think about Ciel. About everything he went through. About the bruises that took weeks to fade, the nightmares he still wakes from, the way he flinches at certain scents.

I want to go back and shake Rose. Ask her what the hell she was thinking, creating a world like this.

"I think we should look into the reasons why this number has increased," I say, my voice cutting through the silence. "There’s only so many we can stop. Only so much information we can control."

The councilors exchange glances.

I know exactly why the numbers are rising.

I’ve seen the demographics. The profiles of the people who try to leave.

Ogas. Parents of ogas. Siblings. Friends. Families.

More than any other designation, any other demographic.

"Your Highness," the lead councilor begins carefully, "with respect, the reasons are varied and complex. Perhaps a committee could—"

"I’ll look into it myself."

The councilors exchange glances. The lead one clears his throat. "Your Highness, that level of inquiry would require—"

"It’s my duty," I cut in, voice level, "as a prince of this kingdom to ensure the people are okay and doing well."

I stand.

The room stands with .

"I want the full reports on my desk by morning," I say, smoothing my cuffs. "Every attempted departure in the last five years. Circumstances. Outcos. Demographics."

"That’s an extraordinary amount of—"

"Did I stutter?"

Silence.

The lead councilor bows his head. "No, Your Highness. It will be done."

I leave the room and hold back my sigh.

I miss my son.

The thought hits harder than it should. I was with him this morning. Watched him sar oatal across his face like war paint. Heard him shriek "Dada!" when I walked into the nursery.

It was hours ago.

It feels like days.

I walk down the corridors, Peter a silent shadow behind . My schedule blurs together—etings, councils, briefings, a never-ending carousel of people who want things from .

But a quick look at him wouldn’t hurt, would it?

I change direction, just 5 minutes.