Chapter 147: Proud
Chapter 146
Baron Rosengarde
"Ah yes, this is where he grew up."
I gesture lightly as the reporters move through my estate, their cameras flashing, their eyes scanning every detail for something sentimental to package into a narrative.
The walls are polished. The floors gleam. The curtains are drawn back just enough to let natural light spill in curated humility.
"He always preferred the west-facing windows," I add casually. "Said the sunset made everything look softer."
It’s a lie.
But it sounds good.
They scribble it down anyway.
I guide them toward the staircase and into the sitting room, where a large oil painting hangs prominently above the mantle.
It’s one of the few things I truly invested in.
A portrait of myself and my son.
He looks younger in it. Composed. Beautiful in that quiet way that turns heads without trying.
"A painting?" one of the reporters remarks. "Not many commission those anymore."
"Ah," I say with a small chuckle, folding my hands behind my back. "I’ve always been old-fashioned. And I raised him that way."
Disciplined.
Presentable.
Valuable.
The reporter takes a few more photos, zooming in on the brushstrokes.
It had been enough, at first, that he caught the attention of a duke. I remember the night that offer arrived. I remember calculating the implications. A duke’s favor could secure generations.
Still, I had been... dissatisfied.
A toy.
That’s what he would have been.
Beautiful, yes. Displayed. Desired. But never central.
I had hoped for better.
A marquis, perhaps. Even a count with proper influence.
His beauty, from his commoner mother has always been something too striking, and I thought it shot me in the foot, garnering the attention of a duke, for a duke would not make a Baron’s omega a consort.
And yet.
Now look at him.
Royalty.
A prince.
My chest expands at the thought.
Now I am the father-in-law of a prince.
Ha.
If only those insufferable nobles who once dismissed me as "provincial" could see me now.
No ,they already have.
The calls began the moment the announcement spread.
Invitations. Congratulatory messages. Thinly veiled networking attempts.
Those same people who used to barely acknowledge my presence at gatherings now address me with careful respect.
The reporters finish their photographs, thank me profusely, and leave with promises of favorable headlines.
I straighten my cuffs once they’re gone, glancing once more at the painting.
My gaze drifts to the painting again.
Not through the blurred lens of fatherly affection — I have never been sentimental. I see him clearly.
Ciel has always been exceptionally beautiful.
Not the delicate prettiness that fades with novelty, but the kind that lingers. The kind that reshapes a room the moment he enters it. In older times, men would have marched armies over a face like his.
He takes after her.
Her bone structure. Her eyes.
Alas, if only she had not been a commoner.
But then again — had she not been a commoner, I would never have touched her. And had I not touched her, I would not be standing where I am now.
My phone begins ringing again.
It has rung like this for years now.
Persistent.
Demanding.
I remember the day I discovered he had run away from the duke.
The dread.
The cold sweat.
The suffocating realization that everything I had built might collapse because of one impulsive act.
Dukes, plural.That revelation had come later.
They treated my son — my son, whom I raised meticulously to be a consort — as a paramour.
An indulgence.
Disposable.
I’ve always known my son’s beauty was worth more than being some nobleman’s indulgence.
Circumstances simply required patience.
What could a mere baron have done differently?
And not one of them paid me the courtesy of acknowledgment.
His father.
No formal visit. No tribute. No alignment of houses.
Nothing.
The insult burned far more than the scandal.
Still, beneath the anger was fear.
Real fear.
That their displeasure would crush my house entirely.So I joined the search, dreading his beauty that brought disasters upon my house.
And now—
Ha.
A prince.
The irony is almost divine.
My phone continues to ring. I glance at the screen without picking it up.
One of them.
They cannot touch me anymore.
Not now.
Not when my son stands beside royalty.
I toss the phone onto the rug. It vibrates there, persistent, almost pathetic.
Their fault lies with them.
Had one of them given him a proper position — a recognized title, a secured place — we would never have reached this outcome.
But alas, they were arrogant.
They likely believed an omega from a minor house could never formally stand as consort to a dukedom. That beauty could be possessed in private, but never elevated in public. That blood outweighed value.
Short-sighted fools.
In their arrogance, someone else has accomplished what they could not.
Recognized him.
Claimed him properly.
Raised him higher than any of them would have dared.
A prince.
The title still amuses me.
I toss the phone aside again and smooth my collar, ensuring not a single crease mars the line of my suit.
Presentation is everything.
A man is judged before he speaks ; by the cut of his coat, the polish of his shoes, the steadiness of his posture. I learned that long before I ever stepped foot into Sol’s inner circles. A baron cannot afford carelessness. Not in speech. Not in alliances. Not in appearance.
The phone vibrates against the rug again, an insistent tremor that disturbs the quiet of the room.
For years, I prepared Ciel for elevation. Etiquette lessons beyond what our rank required. Tutors I could scarcely afford. Exposure to gatherings where he did not yet belong. I invested carefully, patiently.
And they thought I did so out of naïveté.
No.
I understood exactly what I was cultivating.
I pick up my coat, draping it over my shoulders with deliberate precision. When I step into Sol this time, it will not be as a supplicant or a peripheral noble hoping to remain tolerated.
It will be as a man whose lineage has ascended.
And those who once dismissed my house will measure their words very carefully.