Chapter 373: Chapter 373: Greed of Benedict
Benedict stirred his coffee, slow, measured, the motion so perfectly casual it could’ve belonged to any businessman passing through the Fitzgeralt district for a client meeting. To anyone watching, he was unremarkable, an expensively forgettable man in a dark wool coat, brown hair artfully tousled, blue eyes dulled just enough to blend in.
The restaurant around him buzzed with soft chatter, the kind born of wealth and comfort: porcelain cups, crisp laughter, and the faint hum of a string quartet recording. His reflection in the window was still, composed, but his gaze wasn’t fixed on himself.
It was on the mansion across the avenue.
No, not a mansion. A fortress wrapped in marble and vines, sprawling and self-assured, just like the man who owned it. The Fitzgeralt estate stood proud among the noble quarter, sunlight glinting against its white stone facade. Every balcony was guarded, every window veiled in discreet layers of glass and silence.
And somewhere inside that perfect, sterile peace was him.
Lucas.
Benedict’s lips curved, a faint, unreadable smile cutting across his face. "My prized possession," he murmured, just low enough that the waiter setting down a plate couldn’t hear him.
He lifted his eyes again, tracing the lines of the estate like one might study a wound that refused to heal. The last time he’d seen Lucas, he had been pale, defiant, trembling, but alive. Alive because Trevor Fitzgeralt had reached him first. Because the Empire had chosen to make a saint of his disobedience.
Because he had slipped through Benedict’s fingers.
He leaned back, taking a slow sip of his coffee. It was good, Palatine beans, medium roast, but it still tasted cheap to him. Everything did these days. Comfort had a way of rotting once power was stripped from it.
His phone buzzed once in his pocket, a coded alert. He didn’t need to check it; he already knew the message. The last of his people had been intercepted that morning, Trevor’s men again, efficient, silent, and merciless. Those who weren’t dead were being "reassigned" overseas. The polite word the Fitzgeralt administration used for exile with paperwork.
He smiled again, sharper this time. Trevor always did have a talent for cruelty under the guise of civilization.
The waiter approached, offering dessert menus. Benedict waved him off with the easy grace of someone used to being obeyed. His attention remained fixed on the mansion beyond the glass.
"He’s right there," Benedict said softly, almost to himself. "Breathing my air. Living his life. Wearing the name of another man."
He set his cup down with a quiet clink, the sound too controlled to be calm.
He had once called Lucas his. Not out of affection, he wasn’t delusional enough for that, but out of greed. The kind born from envy and familiarity, from the illusion that being close to brilliance made it somehow his to claim.
In that other life, Lucas had been everything the world wanted and everything Benedict couldn’t have. Formally recognized as the Emperor’s bastard son, the later named Prince Lucas D’Argente of Palatine was the most desired omega of his generation. Brilliant. Powerful. Maddeningly beautiful. The kind of man who could silence a boardroom with a single glance and make the press turn poetry into scandal.
Benedict remembered the cameras flashing when Lucas walked into a gala, the diamond pins at his collar, and the perfectly unbothered smile that had driven alphas and omegas alike into obsession. He’d been untouchable then, shimmering under a thousand lights, and Benedict had stood beside him, the loyal friend, the confidant, the man who believed, naively, that Lucas’s hand on his arm meant something more than courtesy.
He had thought he’d been chosen.
And for a while, Lucas had let him believe it, those long nights in shared cars after fundraisers, the quiet texts, the way his laughter softened when Benedict made him smile. But it had never been love. Not for Lucas.
Lucas had chosen Trevor Fitzgeralt.
Of all people... Trevor. The military heir with old money and a sharper mind than anyone gave him credit for. The man who didn’t chase him like a star but stood still and waited for Lucas to burn closer instead.
Benedict’s fingers tightened around his teacup until the porcelain creaked in warning. "He was supposed to be mine," he murmured, voice low, eyes still on the marble facade of the Fitzgeralt estate. "He was mine."
He could still see it... the moment the news broke, the engagement photos, Lucas standing beside Trevor in that perfect dark suit without explanation of how it happened or even an apology. Just a quiet smile and a look that said he’d chosen peace over power.
That look had haunted Benedict ever since.
Because Lucas had been born for crowns and chaos, not quiet suburban mansions and private estates. He had been his... a creature of brilliance and ruin, a reflection of everything Benedict could have ruled beside. He could have been the Emperor... Benedict planned for it.
Now, he was nothing but a distant figure behind bulletproof glass, hidden away in a life too small for him, a life Trevor had built.
The coffee had gone cold in his hand, but Benedict didn’t notice. He was staring past the rain-streaked window, past the city, to the manor where the most beautiful omega in the world was tucked away.
The thought made his pulse quicken.
He leaned back in his chair, the faintest ghost of a smile curving his mouth. "Enjoy your quiet little life, Lucas," he murmured. "I wonder how long before you start missing the world that used to bow for you."
He picked up his phone, thumb hovering over the screen. The encrypted message app blinked open.
To: J. Moraine
Message: Confirm Fitzgeralt’s security detail rotation. Access points, perimeter staff, and medical contractors. No contact. Just names.
Follow-up: If they’ve changed the codes, I want them by dawn.
He hesitated for half a second, then added one more line:
Note: The prince always liked his freedom. Let’s see how far it goes this time.
He hit send, slipped the phone back into his coat, and smiled into his reflection, a man with brown hair, a harmless face, and blue eyes too soft to suspect.
It was the perfect disguise.
And across the avenue, the Fitzgeralt estate gleamed like a promise.