I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)

Chapter 250: The Worst Possible Afternoon

"What did you say?"

Cherion’s voice dropped.

The easy amusement vanished from his face so fast it was almost unsettling. For the first time all afternoon, his usual I-don’t-care-enough-for-this attitude cracked. He simply stared across the white-clothed table at the pale, picture-perfect Omega.

Philia caught it immediately. A flash of profound satisfaction flickered deep within his eyes, though he instantly masked it with an expression of deep, tragic sympathy. He leaned forward, tilting his head as if the very words he was speaking were breaking his own heart.

"Oh... so the Duke really didn’t tell you anything?" Philia murmured, his voice a soft, trembling whisper that perfectly carried to the surrounding noblemen and ladies. He let out a delicate, mournful sigh. "I suppose it makes sense. It is an delicate diplomatic arrangement currently being discussed. It must be so incredibly difficult for you to hear it like this."

Cherion didn’t flinch. Instead, he let out a short, amused chuckle, swirling the tea in his cup with absolute indifference. He looked up, his eyes locking onto Philia with a sharp, mocking glint that completely derailed the other Omega’s tragic performance.

"You really shouldn’t throw around words like ’diplomatic arrangements’ so casually, Lord Philia," Cherion said. "Dragging foreign royals into your little gossip just to get under my skin seems a bit desperate, don’t you think? If the Solaric palace found out you were using their imperial family as a cheap prop to pick a fight with me, I doubt they’d find it very flattering."

Philia’s delicate, mournful smile instantly stiffened at the edges.

"I know you’re dying to see me throw a tantrum or burst into tears," Cherion continued, leaning back comfortably in his iron chair and offering a pitying smile. "But if you’re going to invent a grand political scandal to try and make me angry, you should at least make it sound believable. Right now, it just looks like you have too much free time on your hands."

"It is quite alright if you choose not to believe me," Philia replied. "I merely wanted to give you the news out of the goodness of my heart. Political realities are often so much harsher than simple, domestic promises, and I would hate for you to be entirely humiliated when the official imperial decree is handed down."

Cherion didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his gaze instinctively darted slightly to the side, locking onto Marielle.

She seemed every bit as stunned as he was.

But as the murmurs began to rise around him like hissing snakes, Cherion’s survival instincts instantly slammed the brakes on his spiraling emotions. Calm down, he told himself fiercely, taking a slow, steady breath. It’s just what Philia said. Don’t let him get into your head. Panicking right now was exactly what they wanted. He wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction.

He forced himself to stay calm, smoothing his expression into one of complete indifference.

And it was a good thing his reflexes reset when they did. Because directly across the table, Heinrich was already executing his move.

"You certainly talk big for someone who is about to be cast aside, Lord Cherion," Heinrich scoffed loudly, deliberately drawing the attention of the surrounding tables. "Here, let me refresh your tea. You look like you need to wash down your denial."

With a sudden, violently aggressive twist of his wrist, the young lord tipped the heavy, ornate porcelain teapot completely over in mid-air, sending a massive, scalding wave of boiling, dark, heavily staining tea arcing across the white tablecloth, flying straight toward Cherion’s lap and his light blue silk suit.

To the capital nobles, Cherion was trapped. He was seated in a heavy, restrictive iron chair, completely distracted by Philia’s devastating news, with a wave of boiling liquid traveling toward him at high speed. Heinrich’s face was already twisting into a victorious, malicious grin.

"Cherion!" Marielle’s voice sharp, alarmed cry cut through the air. Out of the corner of his eye, Cherion could see Reiner and Ezek instantly lunging forward, their faces tightening in sheer panic as they reached out to try and block the scalding wave.

But Cherion’s hand was already inside his bag.

With a swift, practiced motion, Cherion reached into his canvas bag and grabbed the black handle. In one fluid, explosive movement, he thrust his hand forward, sliding the runner up the shaft with a sharp snap.

THWACK!

With a loud, sudden crack that sounded like a small firecracker exploding over the lawn, the black umbrella violently snapped wide open right across the table.

It struck the edge of a silver tiered pastry stand, sending a shower of frosted tarts scattering across the grass, and created an absolute, impenetrable wall between Cherion and the rest of the table.

The massive wave of boiling dark tea slammed directly into the black fabric with a heavy, wet splat.

The entire garden went utterly, completely dead silent.

The soft plucking of the harp near the fountain seemed to stutter and die. The noble ladies froze with their lace fans halfway to their faces, and Heinrich stood entirely paralyzed in a half-stumbled posture, gripping an empty porcelain teapot while staring blankly at him.

Cherion casually tilted the handle, lowering the rim of the black umbrella just enough to peek over the top. His light blue and white silk suit was completely, flawlessly dry.

"Goodness, Lord Heinrich," Cherion remarked, his voice echoing deadpan and entirely clear through the stunned silence of the pavilion. "For a prominent capital noble, your physical coordination is truly tragic. Have you considered seeing an imperial physician for an inner ear fluid imbalance? Falling over flat iron tables on a sunny afternoon really isn’t a good look for your family’s social standing."

Heinrich’s face instantly flushed a violent, humiliated shade of crimson, his jaw working silently as he looked like a fish gasping for air.

Keeping his movements entirely cool, Cherion reached into his coat pocket with his free hand and pulled out a soft, neatly folded linen handkerchief. He began to gently blot away a few stray droplets of moisture that had splattered onto the outer strap of his bag, ensuring his properties were completely clear of any residue. Every small, precise dab of the cloth was a silent, agonizing slap to the pride of everyone watching.

As he systematically wiped down his bag, a wave of dark amusement washed over him. He had read this exact kind of petty scene a few times in various novels before, but the real irony was his own character history. Hell, even OG Cherion used to pull these exact, trashy tea-spilling stunts to bully Philia.

But to think he would actually be so openly assaulted like this? Geez. The sheer lack of creativity from these nobles was almost disappointing.

He casually spun the umbrella over his shoulder, resting the sleek black canopy against his chair, and looked directly at them with a calm smile.

"If this is the best the capital’s elite can brew up to shake me," Cherion said, "I suggest you all go back to the drawing board. Your tea tastes bitter, and your execution is even worse."