I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)

Chapter 252: The Emergency Nobody Ordered

The silence that fell over the garden after Cherion spoke was so thick it felt like everyone had collectively forgotten how to breathe.

Heinrich stood entirely frozen in his place, his fingers trembling violently as he gripped the handle of his empty porcelain teapot. The black umbrella resting against Cherion’s chair served as a mocking monument to Heinrich’s utter failure. His light blue silk suit remained flawlessly, aggravatingly dry.

But while Cherion was completely untouched, those sitting right beside him hadn’t been quite as lucky.

A few stray, steaming droplets of tea had splattered across the table, catching the hem of Marielle’s fine dress and speckling the armored leather coats of Reiner and Ezek. Reiner didn’t even blink, his expression darkening into something lethal as he brushed a warm drop of moisture from his cuff. Ezek’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek, his hand instinctively dropping toward the hilt of his weapon as he waited for his master’s order to draw.

"Lord Cherion, are you alright?" the Marchioness asked, her voice sharp with sudden panic as she leaned forward, completely ignoring the trembling Heinrich. "Did any of it catch your skin? Heavens, someone bring fresh linens immediately!"

"Cherion!" Marielle gasped, instantly turning her full attention to him, her hands hovering anxiously as she frantically scanned his suit for any signs of dampness or burns. "Tell me you’re not hurt. Did it touch you?"

"I’m completely fine, sister-in-law," Cherion said. His calm smile never changed. He casually folded the umbrella shut with a loud snap before smoothing his lapels as if none of this had happened.

Heinrich’s face flushed a violent, humiliated shade of crimson. He opened his mouth to snap back, but under the heavy, judgmental glares of the surrounding nobles, only a pathetic, choked squeak came out.

Before Heinrich could completely sink into the earth from pure embarrassment, Philia smoothly stepped forward. He adjusted his clothes, putting on his best expression of soft, tragic concern as he looked around at the watching crowd, deftly trying to twist the narrative and save their faction’s face.

"Oh, Lord Cherion, please do not be too harsh," Philia murmured. "I am sure it was all merely a clumsy accident. Lord Heinrich simply lost his footing while trying to be attentive. Surely, someone as gracious and understanding as you wouldn’t accuse a fellow noble of doing something so terrible on purpose? We are all friends here, after all."

Marielle, who had promised Zarius she would try her absolute best to behave and not cause a scene at the capital, reached her absolute breaking point. Philia’s blatant, slimy lies shattered her restraint.

"An accident?" Marielle’s voice rang out, sharp, clear, and dripping with cold, aristocratic fury. "Do you take us for fools, Philia? Anyone with working eyes and a shred of sanity can see he literally threw that pot entirely on purpose!"

Philia flinched, his fake smile faltering as he stepped back, but Marielle was already advancing around the white-clothed table. Her eyes flashed dangerously as she glared down at the trembling Heinrich.

"L-Lady Marielle, you go too far..." Heinrich stammered, his bravado completely vanishing under her intense gaze. "I am a lord of the capital, you cannot simply accuse me of..."

"I can and I will!" Marielle cut him off entirely, her posture rigid with righteous anger. "Look at the trajectory of that tea! What were you planning to do if Cherion’s skin had been severely burned by that scalding water? Do you have any concept of the consequences of your petty, pathetic little trick?"

She took a slow, deliberate breath, ensuring her next words carried to every single ear in the pavilion.

"You all know my brother’s temperament," Marielle said, her voice dropping into a chillingly quiet register. "Though he may not be in the best of health, do you truly believe Zarius would hesitate for a single second to march a legion of northern troops straight to the gates of your family’s estate to tear it down brick by brick if his partner was harmed?"

The mention of Zarius’s name, and the terrifying mental image of the Northern’s army descending upon the capital, sent a visible wave of panic through the surrounding tables. Several noble ladies froze with their fans still raised, while one lord suddenly looked very uncomfortable and quietly edged his chair farther away from Heinrich. Heinrich looked as if he might actually faint from sheer terror, and Philia shut his mouth instantly, completely unwilling to get dragged into a treasonous military dispute.

Cherion secretly wanted to applaud his sister-in-law. Damn, he thought, thoroughly impressed by her protective fury. Note to self: never break a promise to Marielle. Not that I will.

Seeing the atmosphere rapidly spiral into a political disaster, Marchioness Avery stepped in, clapping her hands together sharply to break the tension. Her high social standing allowed her to smoothly patch over the cracks before blood could actually be shed in the garden.

"Now, now, let us all lower our voices," the Marchioness declared, her tone carrying the smooth, practiced authority of a veteran social coordinator. "We are here to enjoy a beautiful afternoon, not to debate military logistics. Lord Heinrich, it is clear that your presence is no longer required today. You had better go. I will be having a word with your father later about this entire matter."

Heinrich’s remaining bravado shattered instantly. The threat of Marchioness Avery speaking directly to his father was a death sentence for his social standing and his inheritance. With his head lowered and his broad shoulders slumped in absolute defeat, Heinrich slinked away from the pavilion, looking entirely small and humiliated. As he retreated, Cherion simply glared at him.

Not long after, Cherion stood up from his chair.

"I think it is best if we take our leave as well," Cherion said.

"Oh, please, Lord Cherion, wait," Marchioness Avery quickly urged, stepping forward to block his path. She looked at him with genuine earnestness, desperate to keep the North’s representatives from walking out in anger. "I ask that you stay. I assure you, no one else here will be quite as stupid as Heinrich. Let us put this unpleasantness behind us."

She smoothly gestured toward a group of servants who were carrying fresh, beautifully arranged silver platters into the pavilion.

"To clear the air, I insisted that our hosts serve a very special delicacy today," the Marchioness continued, guiding the focus away from the scrambling Heinrich. "These are specialized pastries from that exclusive new shop that just opened in the capital’s central district. People have been queueing for hours just for a taste. Let us sit, try them, and discuss more pleasant matters."

The surrounding nobles eagerly clung to the lifeline, desperate to escape the terrifying shadow of Zarius’s army. The tense silence dissolved into forced, high-pitched chatter about the new bakery’s soaring popularity, the quality of the sugar glazes, and upcoming capital events.

Cherion sat back down, completely relaxed, watching the fake smiles return to the pavilion. Marielle took a slow, grounding breath, smoothing her skirts as she reclaimed her seat, her point thoroughly made. Reiner and Ezek lowered their hands from their sides, though their eyes remained sharp as hawk-eyed guards.

Servants laid out the delicate, beautifully layered pastries. The Marchioness’s son, Derrick, eagerly grabbed one of the thick, heavily frosted tarts, clearly eager to stuff his face and ignore the lingering social awkwardness. He bit into the dense, sticky dough with aggressive enthusiasm, barely chewing before swallowing as he engaged in loud conversation with a neighboring lord.

The conversation drifted back to mundane capital gossip, the laughter rising up to fill the garden, but the peaceful interlude lasted less than five minutes.

"Gah....! Ack....!"

A sudden, violent noise shattered the pleasant chatter. Cherion blinked, turning his head toward the source of the commotion.

He let out a weak, muffled cough before aggressively thumping his fist against his own chest, trying to force something down. When that failed, his expression instantly shifted into one of suffocating terror. His hands flying up to clutch desperately at his own throat in the universal sign for choking.

His chest heaved frantically, but no air was passing through.

"Derrick? Derrick!" Marchioness Avery shrieked, entirely throwing her refined composure out the window as she frantically shook her son’s shoulders.

Nearby, nobles scrambled around. Someone tried to force a glass of wine down the choking boy’s throat, while another delivered a heavy, completely ineffective slap to his back.

Seriously? Another crisis?