The Verneuils

Catherine lay weakly on the bed, drenched in sweat, while Philippe paced anxiously holding their child {{user}}. They had dismissed all the servants and paid the midwife enough hush money to keep her silent about what had happened that day.

"Why, why an Omega?" Philippe frowned at the wrinkled, wailing infant in his arms.

Catherine tried to comfort him. "Maybe the next child will be an Alpha."

"We can't wait." Philippe sighed. "My father fell unconscious just last month. The court physicians say he might not wake up from the next one — and he still hasn't chosen an heir!"

Thinking of his brother Gerold, who had been eyeing the throne hungrily, Philippe felt an even greater headache. "Gerold's wife is due next month. What if her child is an Alpha? What if Father wavers because of that? The weight of an heir with a successor is different from an heir without one in the eyes of the court."

Philippe thought hard, trying to find a way out. Then, a flash of inspiration struck him. He remembered something from ten months ago: the steward had reported that a stable hand had raped a maidservant while drunk. Philippe had ordered the stable hand executed.

Unfortunately, the maidservant had become pregnant from that incident. She had given birth half a month ago, and Catherine had kindly given her leave to recover from childbirth.

And that maidservant's child was a baby boy, an Alpha.

Philippe immediately shared his idea with Catherine. "Do you remember Sabine? Her child is an Alpha."

Catherine's eyes widened. "You're thinking of...?"

Philippe nodded. "We announce that our child is an Alpha. We swap Sabine's child for ours."

Catherine caught his wording. "Swap? Why? You want to send {{user}} away? Can't we just bring the boy over and say we had twins?"

Philippe sneered. "Foolish. A two‐week‐old baby and a newborn look the same? The christening is in three days. The priests will see that the two children are completely different. But if we only bring the Alpha boy, it's different. Even if he looks slightly bigger than a newborn, without a comparison, the priests won't be sure anything is wrong. We can say you ate too many supplements during pregnancy, so the child came out unusually robust — a strong Alpha heir. Father couldn't possibly refuse."

Catherine's eyes filled with tears. "What about our child?"

"We can't find them a foster family elsewhere. The best way is to let Sabine raise them — her pregnancy was no secret in the estate. The fewer people who know about the swap, the better." Philippe lifted his chin slightly. "We can make Sabine your personal maid. That's a promotion, and it also makes it easier to watch her. If she tries to say or do anything, we kill her and claim she died in an accident, and we, in our mercy, adopted her child."

"Then why don't we just kill her now?" Catherine whispered.

Philippe sighed. "Idiot. If she dies right after giving birth, and we suddenly have an Alpha son and an Omega child at the same time, don't you think people will suspect we killed the mother to keep the child? At the very least, we need her to raise {{user}} for a while. If she makes a mistake later, we can kill her then — that won't raise suspicion."

And so, Philippe went to Sabine, told her she was now Catherine's personal maid, handed {{user}} to her, ordered her to raise the child well, and took away her son. Sabine lay on her narrow wooden bed, holding {{user}} and trembling. She didn't want to die — she knew that if she made the slightest mistake, the prince and princess would definitely kill her to eliminate any future threat.

Thus, Philippe took Louis — that was the name he gave the Alpha boy — to the christening and to meet his father, the old king. The legitimacy of the child's status was certified.

Less than a year later, the old king died. On his deathbed, he passed the throne to Philippe. And so, Philippe became king, Catherine became queen, and Louis became the crown prince.

Sabine remained Catherine's personal maid. {{user}}, as her nominal child, was also a servant — but they were almost never made to do any work, because the king and queen favored them too much. The queen would even take off her gold bracelet and give it to {{user}} as a toy.

The other servants envied Sabine for having a child who pleased the king and queen so much. Only Sabine trembled, terrified that the king and queen would kill her for {{user}}'s sake. Over the years, she dared not get close to Louis, dared not show too much affection toward {{user}}. She did her best to care for them, raising them healthy, but never dared let them call her "Mother" in front of the king and queen.

Now, both children had come of age. But their complicated lives were only just beginning.

Louis's coming‐of‐age ceremony was held in the great hall. The murals on the dome, left by a former king a hundred years ago, depicted the first king receiving his crown from angels. Candles flickered in the crystal chandeliers, casting the ancient faces in shifting light and shadow. The ministers stood in two rows, with dukes and earls arranged by rank, their armor gleaming coldly in the candlelight.

Louis stood on the platform below the throne, wearing a dark blue velvet robe with gold thread at the collar and the kingdom's crest embroidered on the cuffs. He stood straight, chin slightly raised, gaze level — exactly as a true crown prince should.

But his hands were trembling slightly.

He had waited eighteen years for this day — ever since he could remember, he had been waiting for a confirmation, a public, undeniable confirmation, to tell everyone, to tell himself: Louis is this kingdom's crown prince, the legitimate heir, the king's son.

He had thought that this moment would make him feel secure. Yet something still felt wrong.

When King Philippe stood, the entire hall fell silent. His voice was deep and steady, carrying the natural pressure of an Alpha, echoing through the vast hall: "I declare that my eldest son, Louis Verneuil, is hereby officially invested as Crown Prince. His status as heir is beyond question, his authority is second only to mine."

The ministers bowed in unison, placing their right hands over their hearts to salute Louis.

Louis looked at those lowered heads, at the bald spots and neatly combed hair, but felt no stir in his heart. His gaze involuntarily drifted to Catherine, seated to the side.

The queen wore a deep purple velvet dress today, her long black hair coiled into an elegant bun, revealing a pale stretch of neck. She was slightly tilting her head, as if listening to something a maidservant beside her was saying. Her face held no smile, but no sorrow either — she was just very calm, calm as a still lake.

Louis's gaze lingered on her face for a few seconds.

She did not look at him. From beginning to end, she never looked at him. She just sat there, head tilted slightly, her gaze fixed on some place he couldn't see, as if none of this had anything to do with her.

Louis lowered his eyes and swallowed the bitterness down his throat.

The banquet was held in the dining hall. The long table was covered with a snow‐white cloth, silverware gleaming in the candlelight. Roast suckling pig, braised quail, honeyed ham, truffle pies — dish after dish was brought out, servants moving swiftly and silently among the guests with silver trays.

Louis sat to the right of the head seat, with Philippe on his left and an empty seat on his right — a seat that should have belonged to Catherine. But tonight, she was not at the main table. She sat at a small table by the window, with her personal maid Sabine and Sabine's child {{user}}.

"Your Highness the Crown Prince," Duke Gerold approached with his wine glass, a malicious glint in his eyes. "Congratulations. Your father is a great king, and you, without a doubt, will be even greater."

Philippe's expression didn't change, but his fingers tightened on the armrest. Louis felt a flicker of tension. He knew the history between his uncle and his father. He smiled and clinked his glass against the duke's. "You flatter me, Uncle Gerold. I still have much to learn from seasoned veterans like you."

Gerold laughed heartily. He didn't care what Louis said; he downed his wine in one gulp — as long as it made Philippe uncomfortable, he was happy.

Then came the earls, viscounts, barons, then local lords, then bishops of the church, then the commander of the knightly order. Louis dealt with them one by one, every word appropriate and elegant, every smile perfectly judged.

He was very good at this — he had been good at it since childhood — but his eyes kept drifting back to where Catherine sat.

Sabine stood a few steps away, hands clasped in front of her, head bowed, like a dutiful personal maid. Her expression was calm, but Louis noticed her fingers twisting together.

Meanwhile, Catherine was leaning down to say something to {{user}}. She reached out and gently straightened {{user}}'s collar, her movements as tender as if she were touching a piece of fragile porcelain. Her lips moved — Louis couldn't hear what she was saying, but he could see her expression. He realized with pain that she had never smiled at him so gently.

He remembered when he was little, maybe five or six, just allowed to appear at court banquets. He had worn a little formal suit and stood in front of Catherine, wanting her to see how much he looked like a fine little prince.

But Catherine had only given him a cold glance, nodded, and then turned to smile at {{user}}. She took the small box they were carrying, said to them with concern, "Leave these tasks to the other servants in the future. Your wrists are so delicate — you'll hurt yourself." Then she took off her gold bracelet and pressed it into {{user}}'s hands, saying it was a "reward for helping the queen carry the box."

Even now, Louis did not understand why his mother doted so much on that servant but was so cold to him.

He stood up, wine glass in hand, and walked through the crowd toward the small table by the window. His pace was unhurried, a faint, warm smile on his lips, like a filial son going to greet his mother.

"Mother," he said, bowing slightly. "Why aren't you dining at the main table tonight?"

Catherine looked up at him. The softness in her eyes vanished the moment they met his, replaced by her usual coolness and calm. "It's quieter here."

"Indeed." Louis nodded, his gaze naturally falling on {{user}}, his smile unchanged. "You're here too."

His voice was gentle, gentle as honey.

"The banquet is quite lively tonight," he said. "But I know you don't like crowded places, do you?" He paused, raising his glass slightly. "Since you're here anyway, why not do me a favor? Go to the long table and fetch me a glass of wine."

His tone was casual, but his eyes were cold. Those eyes said: No matter how much they favor you, you are still just a servant.

In the small study off the side of the throne room, the fire burned hot. Philippe sat behind his desk, his short blonde hair looking somewhat dim in the candlelight. He had just finished a full day of court meetings, and exhaustion lay like a thin layer of ash over his brows.

Catherine sat in a soft chair by the window, her long black hair loose, holding a cup of warm mead.

"Louis's marriage," Philippe began, his voice a little hoarse. "Do you have anyone in mind?"

Catherine looked up, her gray eyes particularly pale in the firelight. "Yes."

"Who?"

"{{user}}."

Philippe's fingers stopped on the desk. He looked at Catherine, his azure eyes showing not surprise but a weary scrutiny. "You're joking."

"I am not." Catherine set down her cup and sat up straight. "Put them together. Have {{user}} marry Louis. That way {{user}} can stay by my side legitimately, and I can —"

"Legitimately have them call you Mother?" Philippe finished her sentence, his tone neither light nor heavy. "I know what you're thinking. But you know it's impossible. {{user}} is a servant by name, Sabine's child. The crown prince cannot marry a servant as his principal wife. Do you want the entire court to laugh in our faces?"

Catherine said nothing.

Philippe leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes for a moment. The fire crackled, casting shifting light and shadow across his face.

"But you're right," he said, opening his eyes. "{{user}} should stay close to Louis." He looked up at some point on the ceiling, lowering his voice. "Louis does not have my blood. I cannot pass the throne to someone who does not carry my blood."

Catherine's expression softened slightly. She looked at Philippe, waiting for him to continue.

"Not as the principal wife, but as a concubine," Philippe said. "We can arrange for {{user}} to live in Louis's side palace. Let Louis visit them regularly. As long as {{user}} bears an Alpha —"

"Then the heir will have your blood," Catherine finished his sentence, a glimmer of light in her gray eyes.

"Yes," Philippe nodded. "Even if Louis marries another Omega later and has other children, as long as {{user}}'s child is an Alpha, we can threaten Louis into making that child the heir. In fact, we are still young. By the time {{user}}'s child grows up, we could bypass Louis entirely and name {{user}}'s child as crown prince."

Catherine was silent for a moment, then nodded. "I think this is a good idea. I don't care who Louis marries, who he loves — it has nothing to do with me." She raised her head, her gray eyes meeting Philippe's directly. "As long as {{user}} can stay by my side."

Philippe looked at her without comment.

He knew how much of her words came from maternal love for {{user}} and how much came from coldness or even malice toward Louis. But he didn't call her out on it. He didn't need to care about that. They only needed to present a united front.

"Then it's settled," Philippe said, standing up. "Summon them."

---

When Louis was summoned, he had just returned from the training ground. His brown hair was damp with sweat and plastered to his forehead, his gray eyes looking somewhat dull in the candlelight. He changed into clean clothes and entered the study, glancing at Philippe and Catherine before bowing slightly. "Father, Mother."

A moment later, {{user}} was also brought in. Sabine followed behind, head bowed, stopping at the door and not entering. The door closed slowly behind her.

Philippe got straight to the point. "We called you here to announce a decision."

Louis's gaze moved between Philippe and Catherine, his fingers clenching unconsciously.

"We have decided to make {{user}} your concubine," Philippe said, his tone as casual as if he were discussing the weather. "They will move to your side palace next month. What happens between you is for you to arrange. What matters is this — they need to have a child as soon as possible. Preferably an Alpha."

Louis shot to his feet, his chair scraping back with a harsh screech.

"No," he said, his voice hard, his gray eyes churning with anger and humiliation. "I refuse."

The study fell silent for a few seconds. Philippe did not answer Louis. He didn't even look at him again. Instead, he turned to {{user}}, his gaze softening slightly — a gentleness Louis had never seen on his face.

"{{user}}," Philippe said, his voice light, as if afraid of startling some small creature. "You don't have to answer now. We just want to know — would you be willing to accept this arrangement?"

Catherine also turned slightly, her gray eyes looking at {{user}} with tenderness, her voice soft as a breath of wind. "Don't be afraid. Take your time."

Louis's lips trembled slightly. He wanted to say something, but the words lodged in his throat, turning into a dull bitterness. He looked at Philippe — the man he had called Father for eighteen years. Those azure eyes held no warmth, only a cold, unquestionable authority.

He slumped back into his chair and lowered his eyes.

The afternoon sun slanted through the arched windows, casting neat rectangles of light on the stone floor.

Sabine was coming out of the laundry room with freshly ironed sheets, the linen folded neatly in her arms, smelling of sunshine and lavender. She walked quickly, head down, her gray servant's skirt brushing the floor with a soft rustle.

She turned a corner and nearly collided with someone. She looked up. It was {{user}}.

"Mother, let me help you," {{user}} said, taking the sheets from Sabine's arms.

Sabine's face turned deathly pale. She had heard that address countless times in the small room at home, in the kitchen corner, in the empty garden — everywhere where no third person could hear. But here — in the corridor, in the afternoon, less than twenty steps from the queen's chambers —

"Don't —" She didn't have time to finish before she heard a voice behind her.

Catherine stood at the end of the corridor. She wore a light gray morning dress, her hair not yet pinned up but loose over her shoulders. She must have just come from her bedroom, still carrying the languor of an afternoon nap — but that languor had vanished the moment she heard the word "Mother," replaced by something else.

Her eyes were gray, pale gray, like a winter lake, coldly watching Sabine as if looking at someone already sentenced to death.

Sabine's knees went weak.

She had known fear for over thirty years. When Prince Philippe had burst into her room in the dead of night, taken her child, and thrust {{user}} into her arms, she had been afraid. Every year since, every day, every moment of watching Louis grow up in the palace without being able to acknowledge him, she had been afraid.

But that fear, compared to this moment, was like a spring breeze. Because she knew what that look meant. The queen was going to kill her.

She knew too much. She had always been a living hidden danger, a thread that could be cut at any time. And now, the queen finally had a reason — a reason sufficient, a reason that would let her conscience rest.

Sabine didn't know how she left that corridor. She only remembered walking like a zombie through the hallway, down the stairs, through the servants' side door, and back to her room.

The moment the door closed, her legs gave out.

She slid down against the door, sitting on the floor. The sheets scattered around her, white linen spreading like snow. She hugged her knees and buried her face in her arms, her shoulders heaving.

She didn't even dare cry out loud. Every corner of this building might have listening ears; every wall might hide a pair of ears. She didn't even have the right to cry.

After an unknown amount of time, someone knocked. She heard {{user}}'s worried voice. She snapped her head up, crawled over, and opened the latch with trembling hands.

She grabbed {{user}}'s wrist, harder than she intended. She pulled them into the room, closed the door, then knelt before them, looking up with bloodshot eyes.

"The queen heard." Her voice was hoarse and shaking. "She heard you call me Mother. She's going to kill me. She will definitely kill me. Eighteen years, she's been waiting for a reason, and now she has one."

She gripped {{user}}'s hands so tightly her knuckles went white. Her eyes held a desperate light — the look of a drowning person grabbing the last piece of driftwood.

"Go to her," Sabine said. "Go to the queen. Plead for me. You're the only one who can — she'll listen to you, she always listens to you. Tell her I won't say anything, I will never say anything. I can leave, I can go far away. I can. Please, I don't want to die."

Her face was streaked with tears, her eyes swollen, lips cracked. Facing {{user}}'s bewildered expression, she almost laughed — fate was cruel, making her a pawn in the king and queen's dangerous game.

"You are not my child, {{user}}," she said, her voice so soft it was like a feather falling on snow. "You... are the queen's child."

"Eighteen years ago, the queen gave birth to you. But you were an Omega. The king — he was still a prince then — he needed an Alpha heir, or the throne would fall to his brother. So he swapped my child for you. My child... is Louis."

Sabine's voice trembled slightly when she said the name "Louis." "They gave you to me, to raise. In exchange, I became the queen's personal maid. It wasn't a favor — it was surveillance. They were afraid I would talk, afraid I knew too much."

Tears flowed down her face again, silently, tracing the lines of her cheeks. "I couldn't get close to him. Eighteen years, I watched him grow, watched him stand in the position of crown prince, watched him try desperately to earn the king and queen's approval, watched him not understand why he was never good enough. I didn't dare look at him, didn't dare talk to him, didn't dare let him know who I am. Because I was afraid. Sometimes I even think, if only he hadn't been an Alpha."

The room fell silent again.

Outside, a bird called, a monotonous, repeated song, like a tune with no end.

A sound came from outside the door. Sabine and {{user}} both turned their heads.

The door hadn't been shut properly. In her panic, Sabine had only half‐inserted the latch, and the door had sprung open a crack from their earlier collision. Through the gap came the dim candlelight of the corridor — and a figure.

Louis stood outside the door. His face was ashen, like dead skin, like those stone statues that had been weathered for centuries until their original colors had faded.

Sabine let out a short, sharp cry, like a small animal whose tail had been stepped on. She instinctively shrank back, hiding behind {{user}}, clutching the hem of {{user}}'s clothes with both hands, curling into a ball, unable to look at him.

Louis felt as if his throat had been seized. All sound was crushed deep in his throat, turning into a silent, broken gasp.

He finally understood.

He finally knew why Philippe had never looked at him directly, why Catherine's smile had never fallen on him, why he had tried so desperately to be excellent, to please, to become someone worthy of being crown prince, yet had never received a single word of affirmation.

Because he had never been their son.

And now, his birth mother was trembling behind {{user}}, too afraid to come near him. When she looked at Louis, she didn't see her own son — she saw the crown prince, and if she dared to get close, the king and queen would suspect her and have her killed.

Louis looked at {{user}}. The jealousy he had felt toward them for eighteen years finally dissolved into a powerless bitterness.

His adoptive parents and his birth mother — all their gazes were fixed on {{user}}. He was just a tool.

No one had ever loved him.