Reborn as a villain:Claim the omega, Kiss the beta, Kill the dukes Chapter 156: Awkward relationship

Chapter 155

Jack

So awkward.

It’s a father-son outing. Playing golf. Behind the palace.

Honestly, I don’t know what to do.

I just stand here awkwardly, desperately needing a smoke.

But I have a son now. I can’t be smoking.

I watch as the king and Anderson laugh about sothing. Anderson’s swing is terrible—he nearly hits the ground before the ball—and the king claps him on the shoulder like he’s done sothing impressive. Anderson grins, unembarrassed, and jogs after his ball with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever who doesn’t know he’s bad at fetch.

Russell hits his shot. Clean. Precise. The ball arcs through the air and lands exactly where it was ant to. He hands his club to the attendant and walks off after Anderson without a word.

And then it’s just .

And the king.

He’s watching . Not in a threatening way, just... waiting. Like he’s not sure what to do with either.

I grip my club. Look at the ball. Look at the green.

I have no idea how to play fucking golf.

"Do you play?" the king asks, and I can hear the careful neutrality in his voice.

"Not really," I admit.

He nods slowly. "Would you like to learn?"

Well, it’s not like I have a choice. Not that can I say no.

"Sure," I say.

He moves closer. His hands adjust my grip, reposition my stance. His touch is light, almost hesitant, like he’s not sure he’s allowed.

"Keep your eye on the ball," he says. "Follow through. Don’t swing too hard."

I swing.

The ball goes nowhere. I nearly lose my balance. It’s pathetic.

The king doesn’t laugh. He just nods, takes my elbow, corrects my stance.

"Again," he says.

I swing again. Better. Not good, but better.

This is making feel weird. I subtly walk away from him, creating distance, pretending to study the green.

I have nothing against the king, really. But he looks so much like my dad. I an technically he is my dad, but he looks too much like the abusive piece of shit sperm donor I had in my past life.

So I don’t know how to treat him. I don’t know how to separate the man standing in front of from the man who used to co ho slling like liquor and leave slling like blood.

"Is your oga feeling better?" he asks.

One thing I don’t like about this world is the whole his oga business. Like they don’t have nas. Like Ciel is an extension of , not a person.

"Ciel is fine," I say.

We’re quiet again.

This is so awkward.

Anderson’s laughter echoes from sowhere down the fairway.

And I’m here, standing on a golf course with a man who shares my face, trying to figure out how to exist in the sa space.

"Do... do you hate ?" he asks.

The question is quiet. Careful. Like he’s been holding it for a while, waiting for the right mont, and now that it’s out, he doesn’t know what to do with it.

Yes.

I want to say. The word is right there, on my tongue, ready. But that would be unfair. He’s not the man who loved his fists and the bottle. The king is a different man.

"No," I say finally. "It’s more like... I don’t know you."

He nods, and there’s that awkward silence again.

"I’m sorry," he says.

My eye twitches.

"I should have done better," he says.

I clench my fists. I know he’s probably apologizing about the original Jack—how he was raised outside the palace, how he didn’t know his father, how he grew up with money but no direction, no guidance.

But it feels like an apology for sothing else.

It feels like an apology for every bruise I ever hid under long sleeves. For every night I spent listening for footsteps, calculating how to be small enough, quiet enough, invisible enough.

The king doesn’t know any of that. He can’t. That was another life. Another father. Another son.

But standing here, looking at his face,it’s hard to rember the difference.

"It’s fine," I say, even if the words taste like ash on my tongue.

He wants to say sothing. I can see it in the way his mouth opens, the way his eyes search my face for sothing I’m not ready to give.

But luckily, Andy calls for us.

"Father! Jackson! Are you coming or not?"

His voice carries across the green, bright and impatient, completely unaware of the weight he’s just shattered.

I don’t look at the king. I don’t wait for whatever else he might say.

I just start walking.

Toward Andy. Toward Russell. Toward the distance where the air is lighter and no one is apologizing for things they didn’t do.

The grass is soft under my shoes. The sun is warm. It should feel peaceful. It doesn’t.

Andy grins when I reach him, slinging an arm around my shoulder like we’ve known each other our whole lives. "Took you long enough. Were you two having a mont?"

"No," I say.

"Good. Because Russell’s winning and I need soone on my team who’s as bad at this as I am."

I glance at Russell. He’s standing apart, club in hand, expression unreadable.

He doesn’t say anything. He just nods.

I nod back.

Andy chatters on about his terrible swing, about the bet he’s losing, about how Russell is "secretly a professional and just won’t admit it." I let his voice wash over , filling the silence, giving sothing to hold onto that isn’t the king’s face or the ghost of another father.

By the ti we finish, the sun is lower, the shadows longer, and I’ve managed to forget, for a few minutes at a ti, what it felt like to stand next to a man who looks like everything I’ve been trying to outrun.

We walk back toward the palace. Andy is still talking. Russell is still silent. The king walks ahead of us, alone.