Chapter 143

Michael slept soundly, and dreamed of nothing.

This is quite strange. Ever since he was sixteen years old and was first brought to those important people by his father, he has had a hard time sleeping well.

Sometimes when I can't sleep, I think about it. Maybe it's because of my Omega identity that I'm not as well off as my Alpha brother, and that my parents abandoned me so easily. Or maybe it's because he's so healthy that he doesn't receive as much love and pity as my sickly twin beta siblings.

Childhood memories are hazy; what remains are mostly things that evoke strong emotions. I vaguely recall my father's voyage when he returned home with three golden apples. They were novel but not particularly valuable. However, after my younger brother lost his, he secretly took Michael's apple instead.

Michael cried and screamed, but his mother scolded him and then took his frightened brother upstairs.

Michael went to his father crying. His father, with a pipe in his mouth, said to him, "Dear Michael, you should know that your mother loves you very much. You should be understanding of her. Oh, by the way, how is your piano learning going? Mr. Mort hopes you can perform at his banquet."

Michael wiped away his tears with his chubby little hands while practicing the piano.

He just didn't have any talent for playing the piano, and he played without emotion, but that didn't matter.

He traveled from place to place performing from a young age, far from his family, and became increasingly indifferent. At the age of sixteen, he lived in the house of an earl and did some special part-time jobs.

He would be scared at night, but because he was so calm, no one noticed that he couldn't even hold the whip properly.

He was afraid to sleep in an unfamiliar environment. If someone slapped him, he would be terrified, worried that strange people would break in and retaliate against him while he was asleep.

But once you get used to it...

Faced with those Alphas who willingly knelt at his feet, he felt no fear, only indifference and disgust.

He lived there until his early twenties before realizing that his daily life was not truly that of an aristocrat.

Even when he got home, he would just stare blankly at the lake. Michael was disconnected from the outside world. He started having trouble sleeping and became depressed.

The father was very worried about his condition, probably because he never expected that a worthwhile deal that wouldn't hurt him would turn his Omega son into this state.

His mother had another child, and perhaps it was maternal instinct, but he became much gentler and often talked to Michael.

Although Michael was not very interested, he still tried to communicate with him.

However, whenever he tries to say something, his younger brother cries and fusses, as if subconsciously reminding his mother to stay away from him.

The mother also seemed somewhat anxious. Although she didn't say anything about leaving or urge Michael to speak, her frequent glances upstairs were still noticeable.

Michael's memory of his mother returned to the missing golden apple.

His mother sat with him for a while, and he said lazily, "You go ahead and do your work."

Michael felt that it wasn't that he didn't love him, but rather that the small piece of love he painstakingly carved out from the love he gave to the other children was something Michael had no interest in picking up.

He instantly sobered up and realized that once he gave up looking for a way out, the world suddenly became much quieter, and insomnia was no longer a big problem; a cup of milk with added ingredients by the pharmacist could solve it.

Michael's parents accepted his treatment and took the initiative to find him a reliable pharmacist. They bought him many clothes and jewelry that he had never worn before. However, they would occasionally look at him with mixed feelings, a sense of exhaustion and relief that they had done their best.

Because I made amends to him, I am no longer ashamed.

Michael didn't need their shame; he found it boring, but he didn't abandon them either. Perhaps deep down, he still needed that unrealistic concern.

Family is the initial connection between life and the world at the beginning of life. People who cannot complete this piece of the puzzle are always prone to going to extremes.

On this point, Michael believed he was not so extreme. He did not hate Alphas or Omegas; in fact, he sympathized with the little people who were tossed about by fate.

But as an Omega, he couldn't help but cling to false relationships, such as his family and his husband. He preferred to be surrounded by them, enjoying their cautious concern, rather than be able to ruthlessly sever all ties and become... become what?

The sound of birdsong woke Michael from his reverie.

He got out of bed in his pajamas and opened the window.

Warm sunlight streamed into the room, and the roses outside the window were in full bloom. Michael leaned against the windowsill, and in the distance, lush green grass stretched to the foot of the mountain, creating a vast and bright beauty.

Cynthia carried breakfast into the house.

The door was open, and the lady was standing on the balcony.

A gentle morning breeze stirred his robes, the soft white fabric fluttering softly. He stood with his back to Cynthia, gazing into the distance on tiptoe. Both vibrancy and coldness faded from him; he resembled a Pottichelle painting, exuding the essence of summer, elegant and pure.

Cynthia stared blankly, then blushed, then her eyes welled up with tears.

Michael, who doesn't have eyes in the back of his head, noticed someone coming in. He clicked his tongue, crossed his arms, and turned around with a cold face. Cynthia was holding her burning cheeks, staring at him in a daze.

Michael: "..."

Michael didn't have any particular feelings towards same-sex Omegas, but when faced with such gazes, he couldn't help but pull his low-cut nightgown up a little.

He sat down gracefully, his long dress trailing on the ground: "What, it's you again? There are no other servants at Keaton Manor."

Of course, it's because he's the most capable!

Cynthia, feeling a little proud, was not discouraged by her wife's disdain and served breakfast with great enthusiasm.

Michael crossed his arms and glanced sideways at the exquisite, steaming food on the tray, including bread with rose patterns and a colorful, adorable salad platter.

childish.

But it looks delicious.

But could it be that it was made for the child and then made for him at the same time?

Lady O's face was cold, disdainful, and difficult to please. She coldly raised her chin and said sarcastically, "What is this thing? It looks so stupid."

Then she turned her head away, indicating that she had no interest in such a tasteless breakfast.

Cynthia noticed, however, that the lady's neck was long and flawless when she raised her head.

Cynthia's cheeks flushed slightly: "Well, I'll have them redo your breakfast, and I... I'll go to the bathroom to prepare something for your bath."

Cynthia turned around gracefully, but was stopped by the lady. He turned back nervously.

The lady said, "What do you mean, 'Go to the bathroom to prepare'?"

Cynthia bit her lip lightly and glanced quickly at the lady: "I was supposed to prepare a bath for you, but I couldn't beat Bella to it."

Then his tone suddenly became lighter: "But since you're not satisfied with the breakfast I prepared, then your opinion is my standard. I should switch jobs with Bella."

Michael stared at Cynthia for a moment, then pulled up his robe again. He picked up the leftover wine from last night from the table and said coldly, "Put down your breakfast. And, by the way, I need to see Hena." He emphasized, "I need to see Hena."

Michael, with a cold expression, thought he had intimidated Cynthia, but then Cynthia quickly took the wine glass from his hand and replaced it with a glass of warm milk.

Michael's expression nearly cracked.

He pushed the milk away with great disgust: "This is Satan's taste, Little O, I'm warning you."

Cynthia knelt beside him, readily agreeing and shyly saying, "Then I'll go prepare a bath for you."

Michael was incredulous. He snorted coldly, his face tense, and distanced himself from Cynthia: "Hena should offer a third option."

Cynthia instantly looked aggrieved, clutching her apron, glancing at Michael, and tears streamed down her face.

He cried without making a sound; his eyes were red, his nose twitched slightly, and tears streamed down his face, making him look extremely pitiful.

A moment later.

A handkerchief was thrown on the ground.

The noblewoman was quite impatient, her voice laced with a mixture of confusion and perfunctory consolation: "Cynthia?"

Cynthia picked up the rose-scented handkerchief, put it in her pocket, and continued to cry, sobbing, "I know the lady doesn't like me. I come from a poor background and I'm not a personal servant."

"But I felt an instant connection with you... cough cough, I felt an instant connection with you. From the moment you mentioned that pregnant women at Keaton Manor would receive work benefits, I knew that you were a truly kind person. I am grateful for your help and I long to repay you. You are a truly kind and generous lady."

Michael arrived at Keaton Manor without any personal servants, but nobles always had very high requirements for the people who served them personally.

Michael disliked being close to others due to his own reasons, and the housekeeper, Heiner, was even more hesitant to assign servants to her due to his reputation for being strict.

She was frowning, but when the lady came to the manor, she not only did not dismiss anyone, but also arranged work benefits for pregnant O. Many servants were grateful to him, so every servant was fiercely competing for the position of his personal servant.

A handsome widow who inherited the Duke's wealth—a position many people envy. Although Cynthia's status is special, since the lady has asked him to stay, Heina will not deliberately make things difficult for him and will give Cynthia a fair evaluation.

But now he's crying as if he's been bullied.

Michael did indeed, inevitably, have this feeling a little. Cynthia was, in the end, just a victim of A-power; her life was never voluntary.

Having experienced those ugly things, he had no fondness for the nobility, and the few acts of kindness he had in his life did not come from those "noble" gentlemen and ladies.

Michael indifferently lifted Little O's chin with his folding fan. A pair of eyes, clear and clean as the sky after being washed by tears, looked at him, so pure that one wanted to crush them.

Even Michael, who hated tears, paused for a moment, then gave a slightly stiff command: "Alright, I didn't say you were unqualified. Stop crying. Don't you think that as a servant, you've already failed in your duty?"

Then, he used another handkerchief to wipe away Little O's tears rather ungently, and casually tossed it aside. Cynthia quietly reached out her paw, and Michael noticed his intention, frowning and scolding, "Don't pick it up."

Cynthia pouted and put her hands in her pockets: "Oh."

The lady paused for a moment, then picked up the milk glass instead of the wine glass: "The liquids I hate most in this world are tears and milk."

Cynthia lifted her skirt: "Then I'll help you bathe."

Michael: "Kneel down."

Cynthia obediently sat down.

Michael took a sip, his tongue, accustomed to alcohol, enveloped in the warm liquid. A mustache appeared around his lips. Michael pursed his lips, his expression indifferent, and said coldly, "I don't hate it that much."

Cynthia: "Eek."

Author's Note: