Fallen General's Omega (BL)-Chapter 182: Awkward conversation

After two long days, I finally have the chance to see my elusive son-in-law. Thorne, as expected, has been hoarding him away, as though afraid someone might steal him. And perhaps he has reason to be—after all, I’ve never seen a man so stunning in my life.

There he is, seated in the garden on a rocking chair, looking like he belongs in a portrait destined to hang in the most prestigious galleries of the Empire. His long, jet-black hair cascades over his shoulders like silk, catching the soft glow of the afternoon sun. He wears a pastel peach silk shirt that shimmers subtly, paired with simple yet elegant pants. On his chest rests Mirelle, my darling granddaughter, with her little pigtails bouncing as she giggles at something her father has done.

The sight is so perfect it nearly stops me in my tracks. If this moment were captured on canvas, it would fetch thousands of gold coins at auction. Perhaps even more. It’s not just the beauty of the figures themselves, but the tranquility of the scene—the soft laughter, the way Noelle’s delicate hands cradle Mirelle as if she’s the most precious treasure in the world. And maybe she is, at least to him.

For the first time in years, I feel nervous. This is a strange sensation for someone like me, who has commanded the attention of dukes and kings with nothing but a glance. But as I approach, I can’t ignore the murmurs I’ve heard from Thorne’s servants. If Noelle doesn’t like me—or anyone, for that matter—then neither does Thorne. My son is utterly enthralled by his husband, a truth that became abundantly clear when he threatened to behead the king. If ever there was a henpecked husband, it’s Thorne.

I was the most desired hostess of my time, a woman who snagged a duke through nothing but wit, charm, and, of course, a face that made men forget their own names. Thorne inherited his looks from me, after all, and while I say it with humility, I am not blind to the power of beauty. Noelle, though... Noelle is something else entirely. Ethereal, otherworldly even. And little Mirelle—born of two such striking parents—has inherited the best of both. She is a perfect blend, a little masterpiece of genetic artistry.

As I draw closer, Mirelle’s giggles grow louder, her sweet baby babble filling the air. It’s a sound that could melt the hardest of hearts, and I can’t help but smile as I watch her tiny hands clutch at her father’s shirt. Noelle looks down at her with such tender affection that it makes my breath catch.

Finally, I steel myself and step closer. "Hello," I say, my voice soft but confident as I address the father-daughter pair.

Noelle’s green eyes turn toward me, soft and curious, as if appraising me for the first time. His expression is serene, but there’s a flicker of something—perhaps amusement—lurking behind that gaze.

"I’m Celia," I say, offering a gentle smile. It feels strange introducing myself to someone who has, in some way, already transformed my son’s life so completely.

Noelle smiles back, and for a moment, it’s as if the garden becomes brighter. I suddenly understand why Thorne would move mountains and hand him the moon if he could. That smile could convince anyone to do the impossible.

"Yeah, I can see that," he replies, his tone light and unassuming.

There’s an ease in his voice, a quiet confidence that makes me feel simultaneously welcomed and uncertain. I clear my throat, gesturing lightly to Mirelle, whose tiny fists are curling sleepily into his shirt. "It’s nice to finally meet the man we’ve heard so much about," I say, attempting to bridge the gap. My words come out a little more formal than I’d intended, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

Noelle shifts slightly, adjusting Mirelle in his arms as he begins to gently pat her back. Her eyelids are drooping now, her earlier giggles replaced by the soft, rhythmic sound of her breathing. He glances down at her, and there’s an almost reverent softness in the way he looks at his daughter, as though the rest of the world has faded away.

"I heard my husband may not have been the nicest," Noelle says suddenly, breaking the silence. "I apologize for that. I’d like to say he gets better, but..." He trails off, offering a small, knowing smile. "Thorne really is a grumpy old man. Forgive him."

The words catch me off guard, not just because they’re spoken with such casual honesty but because of the way he speaks—like I’m a stranger. Like Thorne isn’t my son but some distant figure I’ve barely known.And perhaps, in Noelle’s eyes, that’s exactly how it feels, he is not wrong. The realization stings, a sharp and unexpected pang in my chest.

I swallow the lump in my throat and nod, my hands folding neatly in my lap as we lapse into silence. It’s not an uncomfortable one, but it carries an unspoken weight, a quiet acknowledgment of the distance between us.

Noelle finally speaks again, his tone lighter this time. "I see where Thorne got his looks from," he says, his eyes flicking up to meet mine. "Because it definitely wasn’t Robben."

That earns a startled laugh from me, and for a moment, the tension eases. "The Duke of Aspen," I muse aloud, shaking my head at the memory of Thorne’s father. "Well, former duke, I suppose. You’re right—his looks certainly didn’t come from Robben. Not his temperament, either."

Noelle chuckles softly, and the sound is warm and genuine. "I can’t imagine," he says, a playful glint in his eye. "Thorne’s temper is bad enough, there’s no need to add on the negative qualities that the Robbens seemed to have."

I smile at his words, but there’s a part of me that aches with the truth in them, this is probably the only person in the world that knows Thorne inside and out—I realize Thorne has found the one person in the world that is his.

The thought warms me, even as it leaves me feeling slightly melancholic. Noelle seems to handle my son in ways I never could, with a balance of patience and firmness, like someone who understands exactly what Thorne needs and isn’t afraid to provide it. It’s humbling—and bittersweet—to witness.

"I must say, Mirelle is quite the little masterpiece," I venture, gesturing toward the small bundle nestled in his arms. Her tiny fingers curl instinctively around a loose thread of his shirt, and it’s almost too precious a sight to bear. "A perfect blend of both her parents."

Noelle’s smile softens, his gaze lingering on his daughter. "She’s our greatest achievement," he says quietly, almost as if speaking to himself. "Though between you and me, I think she’s a bit more Thorne than me. The stubbornness is already showing."