Chapter 138
"lady."
He held a small child in his arms. The child had blue eyes with pale irises, like a pool of emerald water.
He had probably just learned to walk; everything about him looked chubby, with tiny hands and feet. When nestled in Omega's arms, he resembled a fragile fledgling.
Where is the male Omega who is holding him?
Unlike Alphas, who are not strong but rather slender, he has a slender, fleshy physique. It sounds contradictory, but in fact, he looks soft and fluffy all over.
Those barely visible collarbones, those well-developed chest muscles, that slender and rounded neck—in the candlelight, his skin looked like goat's milk jelly.
Like his children, he was weak and helpless, and prayed for Michael's mercy and compassion.
Michael didn't blame him, but he didn't care about him either. The world's definition of an Omega is that they can never live independently and will always sacrifice themselves for their family or Alpha.
Their nature as procreators bound them; Omegas submitted to fate and to those who marked them, but Alphas did not respect them.
Michael closed his folding fan and beckoned to him: "Come closer."
Little White Flower was taken aback, but he wasn't afraid as Michael expected; instead, he was somewhat shy.
He approached step by step, his footsteps so light that it was as if Michael himself was the restless cat, who would be frightened away by any loud noise from him.
Michael almost laughed at the idea.
Cynthia stepped onto the soft carpet, where the scent of roses intensified. He barely dared to breathe, carefully kneeling beside the lady's legs and looking up at her.
Michael raised an eyebrow at his gesture.
It's as if you've spotted a strange bird; before you've even fed it, it flies over and perches on your branch, singing sweetly.
A cool folding fan, adorned with black rose lace, gently rested against his chin.
Cynthia's heart was pounding. He didn't resist at all, obediently lifting his head to expose his neck. His small Adam's apple swayed restlessly as his owner swallowed frequently.
The lady looked down at him.
Cynthia's breath almost stopped. He felt a cool strand of hair touch his cheek. His pupils contracted, and tears, like morning mist, suddenly welled up in his eyes, threatening to fall.
So close, so close.
The lady's hair was beautiful, thick like seaweed, styled into an elegant bun, with a white rose tucked in at an angle. A few strands fell loosely onto her chest, the snow-white color making Cynthia dare not look.
He held his child, his eyes filled with helplessness, panic, and timidity, but not fear. He hid the child in his arms, not showing a single little face, but he submitted at the feet of another Omega, begging for his mercy and compassion.
Michael watched for a while, then curiously touched his face; it was very smooth.
Cynthia inexplicably felt that the lady's movements resembled those of a curious cat, reaching out a paw to scratch the ball of yarn. Unfortunately, his personality was just like a cat's, unpredictable. Perhaps dissatisfied with the feel of the yarn, he changed his posture, moving a little further away from Cynthia.
The floral scent that Cynthia smelled had faded considerably. He lowered his head, his gaze falling on the lady's beautiful calves.
Commoner Os are not allowed to wear skirts; they wear pants like most male Alphas. The lady comes from a wealthy family, and Cynthia finds both her skirt and herself incredibly charming.
"What's your name?" "My name is...Cynthia." "Are you cold?" "No." "He's your child." "Yes."
Do you want to leave?
Michael tapped his palm lightly with his folding fan. He had intended to say, "I can give you some money; you can go wherever you want." Childbirth is a noble thing, but unfortunately, those Alphas never empathize. They always boast shamelessly, with a hypocritical look of happiness, saying, "I want three or four children," only to dump all the responsibility on the Omega.
No matter how painful their struggles are in the delivery room, or the various risks they face after childbirth.
With a confused look on your face, as if you're the one doing something stupid, but you're Omegas!
Pshaw, give me a break.
The Omega who gave birth to an illegitimate child was scorned along with his child, while the Alpha who caused the tragedy pursued love elsewhere.
As for the Omega in front of him, he wondered if he was a foolish Omega or a scheming one. It didn't matter; Michael had no intention of knowing or exploring the matter. His curiosity about his ex-husband ended there, and he was uninterested in his dull taste in choosing lovers.
He said coldly, "You and Haina take some money and leave on your own."
Michael showed no emotion and paid no attention to the Omega's reaction, casually tossing away anything he didn't like in the manor.
He felt that things were just so boring. An O without an Alpha was like a tragedy, unable to be independent or free. Cynthia was like such a tragedy, but Michael had no interest in witnessing a tragedy unfold, nor did he want to leave a weeping widow in the manor.
Her consistent style is to throw away anything she doesn't want to see: previously her family, her husband, and now her husband's mistress.
The conversation was over, there was nothing more to say, and he had lost his patience, but strangely, there was no sound at his feet.
Instead, a hand gently rested on his knee. Michael looked at him in confusion. The male O's hand was very white, with pink fingertips, like lily of the valley buds. He picked up a rose leaf from the noblewoman's skirt and gently bounced the sleeping child.
It's strange, he doesn't seem obsequious at all, but rather has a kind of simple straightforwardness.
His eyes seemed to say, "You're beautiful," and his actions seemed to say, "I don't dislike you." He was a male Omega breeder, and also a young man of considerable age.
His mouth seemed to say, "Madam, may I not stay?"
The child was asleep in his arms. Cynthia's forehead was covered in a light sweat. He carefully held the lady's hand. He didn't know why he was so bold. His heart was pounding. He touched the hard rose ring.
Cynthia said softly, "Madam, if I leave Keaton Manor, I will soon be sold elsewhere, even if I have money. In many people's eyes, I am already a prostitute."
Michael pulled his hand away, somewhat angry at being touched, and wanted Haina to take the person away, but after hearing his words, he frowned: "Did Will force you?"
Cynthia froze, seemingly unsure how to begin: "Madam, if I were to bring up the matter of Duke Will, could I first send Dickin back?"
Michael stood up, giving him a cold look: "I don't want to hear it. Fine, stay if you want to leave. No one can force you."
Cynthia stood there blankly, hated but not driven away.
The shadowy housekeeper, Hena, appeared and said to Cynthia, "Come with me." He had taken over Cynthia's care and would arrange work for her. After all, Cynthia was no longer the Duke's lover, and he couldn't just stay in the manor and do nothing.
But what should we do?
Cynthia, dressed in a servant's uniform, stood at the very end. The butler who assigned him tasks gave him heavy and tiring work. He was working almost all day long and didn't even have time to take care of Dickin. He could only lock Dickin in the room by himself.
It wasn't until the afternoon, when Cynthia was weeding the new garden, that she suddenly heard someone calling her.
Cynthia looked up and saw a beautiful figure standing not far away, wearing a grass-colored gauze hat and a long dress of the same color. At her feet was a dusty-faced child.
"Di Ding!"
Cynthia ran over, and Dickin, his face covered in tears, silently burrowed into his arms.
Cynthia felt sorry for him, but was also angry that he had run off like that. She grabbed Dickin and spanked his bottom: "How could you..."
"He fell out of the window."
Cynthia was startled: "You fell down."
The faint scent of roses lingered around Cynthia. The lady circled him once, arms crossed, and said, "You locked him in the room alone."
Cynthia didn't complain at all, but apologized softly, "It was my fault."
Michael snorted and lazily fiddled with the flowers before walking to the other end of the path.
Cynthia put down Dickin, picked up the scissors and snipped a few times, then mustered her courage and called out to him, "Madam."
Michael turned around. The male O was holding a bunch of white roses with very delicate petals. He carefully brushed away the thorns: "Thank you for bringing Dickin over for me. This is for you."
Michael didn't take it. Looking at the bouquet of roses, he said disdainfully and coldly, "I'm not like Will. I don't like these flowers that cling to others for survival."
Cynthia seemed stung, but she didn't give up and asked after Michael turned away, "So what kind of flower do you like?"
Michael did not answer him; he had simply come out for a walk to see his beautiful estate, and to waste a lovely afternoon on a servant was a waste.
Cynthia watched Michael's departing figure, sighed in disappointment, and after a moment, gently kissed Dickin's chapped little hand, lifted him up, and made Dickin smile with pursed lips.
Dickin is introverted but well-behaved. Cynthia said, "Dad asked a silly question. Of course he likes roses, right?"
Dickin didn't understand, but he nodded in agreement.
Cynthia smiled and kissed him.
Afterwards, he originally planned to ask Haina to do more work, as long as he could keep Dickin by his side. The next day, when assigning tasks, Haina left him at the end: "Go and sweep the dust in the second-floor corridor."
That was an easy job, usually only high-ranking servants could get it. Before Cynthia could speak, Heina said, "Keep the child quiet in the corridor and don't make a sound."
Cynthia was surprised for a moment, then smiled and said, "Thank you, Ms. Hena."
Hena was serious, dignified, and more capable than many men. She straightened her back, glanced at Cynthia, and her eyes held a secret admiration for her mistress: "Madam believes that all Omegas at Keaton Manor should have corresponding benefits during their reproductive years."
Author's Note:
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