Fallen General's Omega (BL)-Chapter 189: Carlton and Celia 2

Celia stared at her reflection in the vanity mirror, her expression as lifeless as the doll-like persona she had perfected for years. The woman staring back at her bore no resemblance to the girl she once was. Her raven-black hair cascaded down her back in soft waves, framing a face that many called ethereal, yet she saw only a hollow shell. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and her blue eyes held a perpetual emptiness.

"I hate this life," she thought, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of the chipped wooden vanity. Every night, she danced for the lecherous eyes of men who saw her not as a person but as an object, a commodity to be purchased and consumed. No matter how much they paid, they never truly owned her, but they took pieces of her nonetheless. "I am not a person. I am a product."

She exhaled shakily, her mind drifting to the cruel blessing of her status. She was considered untouchable by many, her value so high that her "services" were a rarity compared to the other girls. But this privilege came with its own curse. When men did pay for her, they were often the most vile, the most depraved. She had learned long ago to endure them, to shut down her mind and let her body become a lifeless vessel.

Her chest tightened as her thoughts shifted to the boy she left behind in her small, dimly lit quarters—a boy she bore when she was only 14, the result of one of her earliest nights in this hell. She couldn’t bring herself to hate him; he was innocent in all of this, a victim of the same cruel world that had claimed her. Yet, she couldn’t love him either. The part of her capable of affection had been crushed under years of despair and degradation. When she thought of him, she felt... nothing. A deep, aching void. "He deserves better," she told herself. But better was something she could never give him.

She glanced at her trembling hands and clenched them into fists. "I should end it." The thought flitted across her mind, as it often did during these moments of solitude. The balcony outside her window beckoned her on the darkest nights, promising an end to her suffering. But something—a sliver of fear, or perhaps the faintest flicker of defiance—always pulled her back.

"Celia, you have a client," a voice called from the hallway, shattering her fragile peace.

Her body stiffened. She took a deep breath, pushing the despair deep into the recesses of her mind. Her face transformed into the practiced mask of indifference as she stood, smoothing the fabric of her blue dress. She followed the voice down the narrow corridor, her footsteps heavy despite her graceful stride. The hallway reeked of stale perfume and despair, an ever-present reminder of the lives wasted within these walls.

As she neared the designated room, she paused. A young girl stood nearby, holding a small cup of dark liquid. The girl’s face was soft and childlike, her beauty untouched by the ravages of time and sorrow. But it wouldn’t last. Celia knew the girl’s fate too well. Men were already bidding for her, and soon she would be drawn into this endless nightmare. "She doesn’t even know what’s coming," Celia thought bitterly as she took the cup. The liquid burned as she drank it down in one gulp, numbing her mind and dulling her senses. It was the only way she could survive these nights.

She adjusted her dress one last time before pushing open the heavy wooden door. The man inside startled her. He was young, far younger than her usual clients, with a sharp jawline, striking white hair, and piercing gray eyes. He sat on the edge of the bed, his posture relaxed but commanding. For a brief moment, she faltered. She couldn’t remember the last time she had a client so... handsome.

"Good evening," she said, bowing her head slightly. Her voice was steady, but her heart pounded against her ribcage.

"Evening," he replied, his voice deep and smooth, almost soothing.

She straightened, studying him briefly. Men like him didn’t pay for women like her. With his looks and apparent wealth, he could have any noblewoman, any court beauty. The fact that he had spent so much to have her meant only one thing: his desires were dark, perhaps even dangerous. She steeled herself, reminding herself of her place. "I am not a woman. I am a doll. A thing to be used and discarded."

Closing the door behind her, she turned to face him fully. Her fingers moved to the delicate knot at the back of her neck. She untied it in one fluid motion, and the fabric of her dress slid from her body, pooling silently around her feet.

She stood before him, exposed and vulnerable, yet completely numb. Her gaze fixed somewhere beyond him, her mind already detaching. Whatever happened next didn’t matter. It never did.

*

Carlton lay awake in the pale light of dawn, his gray eyes fixed on the woman beside him. Even in her sleep, she was breathtaking. Her raven hair spilled across the pillow like silk, framing a face so delicate it seemed almost unreal. Her long lashes rested against her cheeks, and her lips, slightly parted, looked as if they had been sculpted from the softest rose petals. Yet, it wasn’t her beauty that captivated him—it was the stark contrast between her appearance and the haunting emptiness he had seen in her eyes the night before.

He reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face, his fingers ghosting over the curve of her neck. His gaze lingered on her bare skin, glowing softly in the fragile light. She was perfection incarnate, her body tempting and flawless, but last night, when he had looked into those cold, detached eyes, he couldn’t bring himself to touch her. Something about her resignation, the way she carried herself as though she were no more than a tool for his pleasure, had unnerved him deeply. So instead, he had simply laid beside her, holding her as she drifted into a sleep that seemed almost unnaturally deep.

His hand moved of its own accord now, tracing the curve of her spine with gentle, deliberate strokes. Her skin was soft beneath his fingers, almost impossibly so, like the finest silk. He couldn’t help but wonder how many men had touched her, how many had failed to see the human beneath the veneer of perfection. His chest tightened at the thought.

Celia stirred under his touch, the unfamiliar sensation dragging her from the heavy fog of sleep. Her brows furrowed slightly as her mind registered the warmth of a hand trailing down her back—gentle, almost... tender? For a moment, she thought it must be a dream. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had touched her like this. When she reluctantly opened her eyes, she was startled to find that it wasn’t a dream at all.

She blinked, her vision clearing to reveal the man beside her. He looked impossibly handsome in the soft morning light, his white hair tousled and his gray eyes watching her with an intensity that made her heart lurch. She quickly quelled the reaction, forcing her features into their usual mask of detachment.

"She finally wakes up," he said, his deep voice rumbling in a way that sent a shiver down her spine.

Celia pushed herself up slightly, studying him with cautious curiosity. "You did say I could sleep," she replied, her voice flat, betraying none of the confusion she felt. Why had he let her sleep? Why had he spent a small fortune just to lie beside her?

"I did. And I’m glad you did," Carlton said, leaning back against the headboard. "You slept so soundly, in fact, you even snored a little."

Her eyes widened in surprise, and before she could stop herself, she blurted out, "I did not!" Her voice, tinged with indignation, was louder than she intended. frёewebnoѵēl.com

Carlton’s lips curved into a smile, his heart skipping at the unexpected flash of emotion in her face. It was fleeting, but in that brief moment, her beauty became something else entirely—alive, radiant, devastating. He chuckled softly. "How would you know? I’m the one who heard you."

Her lips pressed into a tight line, and she quickly averted her gaze. The momentary spark was gone, replaced by the same cold mask she had worn the night before. She slid out of bed without another word, her movements quick and deliberate as she crossed the room to retrieve her dress.

Carlton watched her, his eyes tracking the way her shoulders squared, the rigid precision of her posture. She moved like a doll, her face devoid of expression as she slipped the blue fabric over her head and began fastening the ties at her back. He found himself clenching his fists, frustrated by her transformation back into the lifeless persona she seemed to wear like armor.

"You don’t have to put it back on so soon," he said, his voice soft but firm.

She paused for a fraction of a second before continuing to tie the knot at her neck. "I’ve fulfilled my purpose," she said quietly, not looking at him. "There’s no reason for me to linger."

Carlton rose from the bed, his bare feet making no sound as he crossed the room to stand behind her. He hesitated, his hand hovering just above her shoulder. "Is that what you believe?" he asked, his voice low, almost a whisper.

She turned to face him then, her eyes meeting his for the first time that morning. They were as cold and empty as he remembered, but there was something else buried deep within them—a flicker of pain, so faint it was almost imperceptible. "It doesn’t matter what I believe," she said, her tone resolute. "This is the life I’ve been given."

Carlton’s jaw tightened, and he felt an unfamiliar surge of protectiveness well up inside him. He wanted to argue, to tell her she was more than this, that she deserved more. But he knew words would mean nothing to her. Not yet.