Reborn as a villain:Claim the omega, Kiss the beta, Kill the dukes Chapter 157: Version of you

Chapter 156

Nolan

I look at the ti on my wristwatch and stretch. 10 PM.

I love my job. I really, really do. But it is ti-consuming. In the beginning, I had people look down on for being a parachute hire,I heard the whispers. Felt the stares.

But now that I’ve proven myself, I have shot myself in the foot. Because I’m so busy.

Extrely busy.

But... I love it.

There’s nothing more amazing than looking at those numbers. Finding the solutions. Tracing the patterns that everyone else missed. The way a single discrepancy can unravel a whole network—it’s like solving a puzzle that soone else spent years building.

I stretch and stand. Ti to leave my office.

I have an office now.

I was in a cubicle at first, but it was inconvenient. Having people hover around , watching my screen, asking questions while I was mid-calculation. The open space was interrupting other employees too—apparently, I mutter when I’m deep in work.

So they gave an office. Glass walls, potted plant, a door I can close.

It feels like sothing I didn’t earn. But also sothing I did.

I get into the elevator, ride it down, and check out with my employee card. The machine beeps. The security guard nods at . I yawn.

The lobby is empty, save for a couple of late-night employees, the janitors pushing their carts, and security watching the monitors.

I head out of the building and stretch again, rolling my shoulders, feeling my spine crack in three different places. The night air is cool, damp, the kind that settles into your bones.

I look at the sky. I can’t see the stars. Of course I can’t. Thanks to the light pollution from the city, from the office towers, from the palace glowing in the distance.

I feel a little guilty. Having this job I love so much and leaving Ciel alone, especially after what he just went through. I wasn’t planning on coming in for work today, but I got the call.

We need you. There’s sothing in the data. Sothing wrong.

So I went. Because that’s what I do now. I find the cracks.

I exhale. The breath fogs in the cold air.

"You look like shit, doggy."

I roll my eyes and turn to find Jack leaning against one of his big cars. He has several now. A whole garage of them, like he’s collecting them the way other people collect stamps.

He looks so handso.

His hair is longer now, his curly strands blowing slightly in the evening breeze. The streetlights catch the edges, turning them gold. His jaw is sharp, his eyes are dark, and he’s looking at like I’m the only thing worth seeing in this empty parking lot.

It makes shy when I’m the center of his attention at his tis like this. It’s easier to endure his gaze when it’s divided between, Ciel and I.

"Well, you know the struggles of company employees," I say and walk toward him.

He’s in a hoodie and sweatpants and sandals. So prince he is. Though the outfit makes him look younger. Softer. Like the Jack from the beach house.

"Seems the corporate life is doing you good," he says.

"Fuck you," I say, walking to the passenger seat.

He snickers.

I get in. The leather is warm. The engine is already running. Jack slides into the driver’s seat and pulls away from the curb before I’ve even buckled my seatbelt.

I notice from the side mirror that there are cars following us. Black SUVs. Discreet but obvious, if you know what to look for.

Security.

I’ve gotten used to them. Almost.

"How was your day? Full of princely activities?" I ask, looking away from the side mirror.

He groans.

"It’s not all it’s cracked up to be," he says.

"Golf that bad?"

"I would rather endure those dreadful etings than whatever that was today," he says, and I laugh a little. "It was so awkward."

I can picture it. Jack in pastel polos, standing on a manicured green, trying to make conversation.

"How was your day?" he asks, changing the subject.

I blink. "Uhm. Well."

And then I can’t stop.

I tell him everything. About the spreadsheet that took three hours to crack, the way the numbers finally clicked into place, the satisfaction of finding the pattern everyone else missed. I tell him about the new software my team is testing, the way it visualizes data in colors that actually make sense. I tell him about what I ate for lunch—a sad sandwich from the cafeteria—and the ti I drank water—2:47 PM, because I forgot until my throat was dry.

He listens.

He asks questions. He doesn’t understand half of what I’m saying—I can tell by the way his brow furrows, the way he nods a little too slowly—but he chis in anyway. That sounds complicated. That’s impressive. You figured that out on your own?

It gives butterflies.

Ridiculous, stupid, teenage butterflies.

I’m a grown man.

And yet.

"You’re cute," he says suddenly.

I look at him. . Who’s extrely muscular. , whose buttons are struggling to hold my shirt together. , who has been described as "intimidating" and "scary" and "the kind of person you don’t want to et in a darkalley."

Really?

"Not physically," he says with a laugh, and I should be offended, but the way he’s looking at makes my chest feel weird.

"I’ve only ever seen the version of you whose identity is embedded in Ciel. You’re his protector. His safe haven. His ho. You’re in love with him." He pauses, and his voice softens.

"And all of that is beautiful."

My throat feels tight.

"But I think," he continues, his eyes holding mine, "the Nolan that’s his own person—the one who gets excited about spreadsheets, who talks about data visualization like it’s magic—that Nolan....he is the most beautiful and attractive version of you."