I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)

"Why haven’t I ever seen her before, Harlond?"

The birthday party had ended three days ago, but the heavy, warm smell of spilled wine and crushed flowers seemed to linger in the corners of his study. Alderon sat sprawled sideways across a leather armchair by the unlit hearth, his long legs stretched out, lazily twirling a half-empty glass of dark red vintage between his fingers.

Harlond didn’t look up from his desk. His quill moved with steady, dry precision across a thick stack of regional grain reports, leaving neat lines of black ink on the rough paper.

"Lady Nerissa rarely comes to the Capital, Your Highness," Harlond said, his voice flat and unhurried. "Count Delvaris keeps his household almost exclusively at their eastern estate in the valley."

"Huh." Alderon let out a short huff through his nose, staring at the dark liquid sloshing against the glass. "I had no idea the Count had a daughter hiding out in the East. You’d think a man with that much pride would have brought her to court years ago."

Harlond’s quill paused. The quiet scratching stopped, leaving the room in a heavy silence. He slowly raised his head, his expression giving nothing away as his eyes locked onto the back of the Prince’s golden hair.

"I must remind you, Sire," Harlond said, his voice dropping an octave as his tone turned serious, "Count Delvaris is a foundational pillar of the First Prince’s faction. He finances your brother’s political council and holds three major trade passes."

"I know who he is, Harlond," Alderon snapped lazily, waving his free hand through the air as if swatting away a fly. "I haven’t forgotten the geography or my council notes. I’m just saying... she’s striking. That’s all."

"I strongly advise against ’just saying’ anything concerning that family, Your Highness," Harlond replied, his voice devoid of any humor. "A Crown Prince showing personal interest in the daughter of his chief political rival will be read as a bribe, a weakness, or an open provocation. It is an unnecessary risk."

"It’s only a risk if we’re stupid about it," Alderon murmured. He took a slow, deep swallow of his wine, his eyes fixing on the empty hearth with a strange, sharp intensity. "Find out what she likes."

Harlond stared at him for a long, silent moment before letting out a soft, tired breath. "Your Highness..."

"You heard me," Alderon said, his tone shifting out of its usual loose, playful pitch into something quiet and absolute. "Find out what she likes."

In the weeks that followed, the imperial court watched in complete confusion as the Crown Prince’s routine drastically shifted.

The late-night card games in the west wing stopped entirely. The easy, casual flirtations with visiting noblewomen vanished. The small crowd of court ladies who usually hung around his drawing room found themselves turned away at the heavy doors by Harlond, who offered flat, polite excuses about royal duties and council paperwork.

Alderon had a single, consuming focus now, and he threw himself into it with the reckless, relentless energy of a young man who had never been denied a single thing in his entire life.

Because of the political landmines surrounding the Delvaris name, every single step had to be handled with extreme, covert caution. Harlond spent his late nights bribing private couriers, scrubbing official entry logs, and burning paper trails just to ensure no one in the First Prince’s faction realized the Crown Prince was reaching out to the East. It was exhausting, dangerous work, but Alderon didn’t care about the logistics, he only cared about the response.

First came the roses. Alderon ordered three carriages of rare, pale winter blooms brought up from the border estates, had them arranged in heavy vases, and sent them directly to the Delvaris town house under a neutral royal seal.

They were accepted at the front gate by a butler with a formal bow. Two days later, a stiff, three-line letter arrived at the palace, written in immaculate black ink, thanking the Crown for its generous consideration of a provincial family. No personal note. No mention of her name.

Next came the silver. Alderon spent an entire afternoon in a jeweler’s workshop downtown, picking out a delicate haircomb inlaid with dark blue river pearls. He sent it with a short, handwritten note asking if her father’s health had improved since the party.

The reply came back forty-eight hours later. Lady Nerissa expressed her formal gratitude for His Highness’s concern, noted that her father was recovering well, and informed him that the comb had been placed in the Delvaris family treasury for safekeeping.

She didn’t wear it. Not once.

"She put it in a vault, Harlond," Alderon said three weeks later, pacing the floor of his private study like a caged animal. He had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his hair slightly rumpled where his fingers had dragged through it. "She took a gift carved by the best silversmith in the city and locked it in a dark box."

"She is a sensible woman, Your Highness," Harlond said calmly from behind his desk, sealing an envelope with red wax. "She knows wearing a gift from the Crown Prince while sitting in her father’s house would start a civil war among her family’s retainers."

"I don’t care about her retainers," Alderon growled, stopping near the window and staring out at the courtyard. "She’s doing it on purpose. She’s treating me like a tax collector."

Harlond set his brass seal stamp down on the desk with a dull, heavy clack.

"She is treating you like what you are to her, Sire," Harlond said, his voice entirely flat, utterly unbothered by the Prince’s growl. "A political danger."

Alderon turned around slowly from the window. His eyes were narrowed, his jaw set so tight the bone showed sharp under his skin. "I gave her family three passes through the gates without a single tariff hike this morning. I cleared her father’s trade tax dispute with the Treasury. She knows who did that."

"And Count Delvaris will gladly take the gold, Your Highness," Harlond replied, sweeping his ink-stained fingers across the desktop to organize his ledger. "The First Prince’s faction will take your concessions, swallow your favors, and use them to buy two more battalions for their private garrison. They will take everything you offer, and they will still never hand you Lady Nerissa."

"I am not asking them to hand her to me," Alderon said softly. His voice had lost its frustrated edge, dropping into a low, quiet murmur that made the hairs on the back of Harlond’s neck stand up. He walked back to his desk, leaning both palms flat against the dark wood, towering over his aide. "I don’t need her father’s permission, Harlond. I don’t need the my brother’s blessing. I need her to look at me without that ice in her eyes."

Harlond looked up, meeting the Prince’s gaze dead-on.

For the first time in thirty years, Harlond saw something in Alderon that went far beyond spoiled royal stubbornness. It wasn’t the fleeting impulse of a womanizer hunting a new conquest. A wild, desperate fever taking root deep inside a man who had never learned how to stop once he set his sights on a target.

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