Fallen General's Omega (BL)
Chapter 155: Rumors

Chapter 155: Rumors

I’ve always hated these—tea parties. On Aspen, I was fortunate that Thorne never needed me to play socialite at these excruciatingly dull affairs. Tea parties are illogical, really, a senseless gathering where people sit around pretending to enjoy each other’s company while exchanging gossip that rarely holds any substance. I stay seated, bored out of my mind, fingers fidgeting with the embroidery on my sleeves.

The room buzzes with conversation, laughter tinkling like false music, and I feel a sense of disconnect, as if I’m a misplaced puzzle piece in this world of polite facades. Even Felix’s never-ending ramblings about poisonous plants and the best way to brew toxins would be preferable to this monotonous charade. At least his voice was something lively, something with substance.

"-unlike her royal highness Mirelle, you are so well-behaved," a lady’s voice cuts through the droning background noise, and for the first time, I lift my head, my curiosity piqued. It’s not often I hear people mention my mother in these circles, and something about the way they do makes my ears perk up.

"I’ve heard tales about her," I reply, a little cautiously, unsure whether to brace for more scandal or something entirely unexpected.

The lady chuckles, her expression softening with a hint of wistfulness. "You have no idea, Princess Mirelle, the only daughter of the royal family, was anything but what you’d expect from a princess," she says, and there’s a fondness in her voice, a trace of sadness that makes me pause. I study her face, the longing in her eyes, and wonder if she was once my mother’s friend.

"I didn’t even know she was royalty until I was much older," I admit, my voice betraying a touch of nostalgia.

"But my mother was always proud, confident, and fiercely self-serving." I smile faintly at the memories, at the wild stories I’ve pieced together about her. Mirelle, the village wildcard, the woman who raised me in a world far removed from the court, had never been the type to conform to expectations. She was a storm, a force of nature, always dancing to her own rhythm.

"Yeah, if only the king hadn’t—" one of the women starts, but she’s quickly hushed by another. An uncomfortable silence settles over the table, like a shroud, and I force myself to remain quiet. It’s an open secret, whispered about in dark corners and behind closed doors: the king’s obsession with his sister. My mother’s sudden departure from the kingdom has always been a mystery, one shrouded in gossip and scandal. They say that mere days before she fled, there had been a heated argument between her and the king, one that left ripples throughout the entire court.

What exactly happened between them? What could have driven a spoiled princess, beloved and infamous in equal measure, to abandon everything she knew, cross the seas, and build a new life in a foreign village—pregnant and alone?

The rest of the tea party continues around me, a chorus of idle chatter that I can’t bring myself to engage in. I become a silent observer, drifting in and out of awareness, the sound of their words blurring together. My thoughts return to my daughter, to her sweet babbles and the way she giggles when I tickle her tiny feet. I miss her. Her laughter is more genuine, more interesting than anything here.

I hold back a sigh, counting the minutes until I can escape, until I can return to something more interesting.

"Apparently, the reason Duchess Remiro isn’t here is because her bastard son is in the capital," one of the women says in a hushed whisper, her voice laced with malicious delight.

"Yes, I’ve heard that too," another agrees, leaning in as though sharing a delicious secret.

"Oh dear, how embarrassing," chimes in a third, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. From there, the conversation spirals into a series of snide remarks and thinly veiled insults directed at Duchess Remiro. Their words blur together, a storm of hateful gossip.

I only know bits and pieces about Duchess Remiro. It’s common knowledge that she’s a former commoner who married into nobility, a fact that has never sat well with many of these so-called aristocrats. They resent her, some out of sheer elitism, others for more complex reasons I don’t fully understand. Still, their venom surprises me. It’s ugly.

The sudden sound of a cup slamming against the table interrupts the flow of gossip. The room falls into stunned silence as a pregnant woman stands, her tan skin flushed with barely contained anger. Her dark eyes flash as she addresses the group, her voice clear and firm despite the tension in her shoulders.

"I would appreciate it if you didn’t speak of my mother-in-law that way," she says, her hands cradling her protruding belly protectively. Her hair, tied back in a neat ponytail, shimmers under the sunlight filtering through the garden’s ornate canopy.

The lady who first mentioned the gossip smiles, her expression cold and condescending. "Oh, it’s only a fact, isn’t it, Lady Remiro?" she says, her voice saccharine sweet.

Lady Remiro stiffens, her composure breaking only for a moment before she takes a steadying breath. Without another word, she turns on her heel and leaves the tea party, choosing to protect her peace rather than engage further. The air crackles with awkwardness, the other women exchanging uncomfortable glances.

Her exit gives me the perfect opportunity to escape. I push my chair back and rise to my feet, brushing imaginary crumbs from my skirt. "If you’ll excuse me," I say, my voice polite but detached, and make my own exit.

As I step out of the extravagant garden with its artificially enhanced flowers—petals painted with vibrant dyes, and stems treated to grow unnaturally straight—I feel the weight of the fake surroundings lift from my shoulders. My palace is my destination, and I can’t wait to see my daughter, to hear her sweet laughter and escape the suffocating atmosphere of the tea party.

But before I can make my way too far, I nearly collide with a young woman, her shoulders shaking as she sobs. Tears stream down her face, and she looks lost, her distress pulling at my heartstrings despite my initial instinct to avoid the drama. Oh dear. I try to sidestep her, but she seems rooted to the spot, her anguish impossible to ignore. I really really want to ignore though.

I awkwardly reach out, my hand hovering uncertainly before I give the pregnant woman a gentle pat on the shoulder. "There, there," I murmur, my voice soft but filled with the overwhelming urge to make an internal escape route. I’m not particularly skilled in handling emotional strangers, and this situation is no exception.

She sniffles, wiping at her tear-streaked cheeks. "I don’t know why I’m like this," she says, her voice breaking as another wave of tears threatens to spill. She cries for a bit longer, her sobs gradually slowing until she takes a deep, shaky breath.

"It’s okay," I offer, feeling a bit more confident now that she seems to be calming down. "I would cry a lot too when I was pregnant." I try to sound comforting, hoping it helps.

She turns her teary gaze toward me, surprise flickering across her face. "You have a child?" she asks, her voice carrying a note of wonder.

"Yeah," I reply, a genuine smile breaking across my lips. "A daughter. The cutest." The thought of her brightens my mood, even in this awkward moment. But before I can get pulled into a deeper conversation, I make a quick exit.

"Well, take care!" I call over my shoulder, slipping away before she can respond or pull me into more small talk.