"Look at him. He must be so shocked he can't even move or say anything."
"Of course he is. That pitiful Omega's only hope of survival was being the Crown Prince's fiancé."
"The king might pity him. Or he might throw him away like the useless thing he is."
"But honestly, Lord Philia is far more suitable for His Highness. Pure, kind, beautiful. Compared to Cherion…"
The voices wouldn't stop. They circled him, smug and biting, like they found some twisted pleasure in his silence.
Cherion blinked. The light overhead was harsh, too bright. Chandeliers swayed above him, gold and glass throwing sparkles across the room like everything was dipped in starlight. A hundred strangers stared, packed into the hall in heavy silks and stiff brocade, collars too high, sleeves too ornate for any normal gathering.
He blinked. Once. Twice.
Where the hell was this place?
Everyone's attention seemed pinned to him. Their lips moved in hushed cruelty, and for one suspended second Cherion wondered if he was dreaming about some overpriced historical drama. He half expected a director to yell "Cut!" and for someone to shove a mic in his face.
But then….
"Cherion, are you even listening to me?"
And then one voice cut through the rest.
Cherion turned toward it and immediately forgot how to breathe, not from fear this time, but because the man speaking was beautiful in a way that didn't seem fair.
Right next to him stood another man. Younger maybe, gentler in his features. Pretty like porcelain left out in the heat too long, starting to crack where no one could see. But his gentle smile didn't touch his eyes.
The younger one touched the handsome one's arm and said, almost in a whisper, "Your Highness, perhaps he's in shock. After all… breaking off an engagement like this without warning—"
"Wait." Cherion lifted his hand, brows pinched. His mouth worked faster than his brain. "What engagement? With you?"
He pointed straight at the handsome shining man.
The hall gasped. Someone dropped a glass.
The golden-haired man who was apparently royalty just snorted, a sharp little sound that sliced through the room. "Fine," he said with thin patience. "Since you're having trouble listening tonight, I'll say it again."
It was the kind of voice that could win over a nation or choke the life out of it.
"I, Prince Yerel Darrath of the Glorian Empire, hereby annul my engagement with you, Cherion Hale. From this moment on, you're no longer my fiancé."
He reached out and wrapped his fingers around the porcelain man's wrist, pulling him in like he was showing off something he'd just claimed. "Philia is the one for me."
His ears buzzed, not with grief but with the sick punch of recognition.
Philia. Yerel. Cherion.
These names weren't random. He knew them all too well.
Cherion looked down at himself. The coat was ridiculous, embroidered like a costume. Lace scratched at his wrists. His boots were polished to a ridiculous shine. And just like that, his stomach turned.
This scene. This moment.
And then it clicked.
"Oh no," he whispered. His hand flew up to cover his mouth. His eyes went wide, wild, as he stared at the two men before him. It wasn't heartbreak, but a sheer horror.
The others mistook it for delayed grief. Yerel arched a brow, smirking. "A rather slow reaction, but I suppose shock has finally set in."
No. Cherion wanted to scream. This wasn't about shock over an engagement. This was worse.
Because he knew exactly where he was.
This was the opening chapter of that trashy omegaverse novel he once read years ago. The one he decided to read because it had a character with his name. The one where "Cherion Hale," the pathetic cannon-fodder Omega fiancé, was discarded by the Crown Prince, Yerel, in favor of the pure, gentle Philia and then quietly erased from the story.
And now?
He was inside it.
Cherion's breath stuttered. He had to get out of there before the whole scene swallowed him.
"Fine," he said suddenly, the word tumbling out harsher than he intended.
Yerel's expression flickered. "What?"
Cherion blinked back at him. "I said fine. I heard you. You're breaking the engagement? Okay. Fine. What, are you deaf now?"
The murmurs surged again, crashing like waves against marble walls.
"How dare he speak so rudely to His Highness like that."
"Well, can you blame him? He's being discarded in front of everyone."
Cherion managed a smile. Or something close to one. His legs wanted to give out, but his mouth moved first. His head tipped, just slightly, the way you'd nod at a waiter who'd gotten your order wrong.
What did Yerel expect? That he'd sob, cling to his boots, beg not to be replaced? Pathetic wasn't his style. Let Philia play the weeping heroine if he wanted.
"Enjoy your drama," Cherion said, turning before they could answer.
His legs trembled with every step but he didn't stop.
He shoved past shoulders, ignoring the hiss of whispers. Then the balcony. Finally, air.
Cool air hit him hard. At last, something real.
At last, his body gave in. He leaned against the stone railing, fingers trembling, gaze dragged to the tall window.
And there he was.
The reflection staring back wasn't really him. The reflection staring back wasn't his. Pale hair, too perfect to be natural. Blue eyes polished like glass marbles. A face powdered smooth until it stopped looking human. He looked like a showroom mannequin for God's sake.
"This is ridiculous," he muttered.
He slapped his own cheek so hard that the sting spread across it immediately.
"Oh, brilliant." He winced, rubbing at it. "So it's not a dream. Fantastic. Just fantastic."
He needed a plan and a way to slip from this cursed narrative.
But before he could gather his thoughts, footsteps approached. Light, measured, too careful to be coincidence.
Cherion turned.
Philia stood there, framed by the doorway. His beauty in candlelight was almost angelic, soft features, eyes glistening as if tears lingered at the edge. His smile, though, was carefully painted.
"Are you all right?" Philia asked gently, stepping closer. "I wanted to make sure you're… well."
Cherion stared at him. Words lodged in his throat.
This was the novel's protagonist Omega, the perfect one who replaced him.
Something twisted in Cherion's gut, not jealousy, not hurt, just the cruel awareness that the plot had already begun.
Before he could respond, Philia's smile faltered. The sweetness drained from his face like wine from a cracked cup.
"You know," Philia said, voice lower now, sharper, "for someone so pitiful, you still have a rather arrogant air. Don't you think so?"
Cherion blinked, caught off guard.
Philia stepped closer, tone dipped with quiet venom. "Did you really believe you deserved His Highness? That someone like you could stand beside him?"
The smile was still there, only smaller now.
Cherion's back met the railing. His fingers curled against the stone.
Philia's smile returned, brittle as glass, but his eyes gleamed with something poisonous. He leaned in, close enough for Cherion to catch the sweetness of his perfume.
"You were never meant to last in his life."
And then Philia's hand pressed forward.
Cherion's foot slipped. And then his stomach turned again, sharp and sudden.
The world tilted. He grabbed the railing, but it was too late.
Wind roared in his ears as he fell.
Wait… this wasn't how it was supposed to go.
His thoughts scrambled, chasing after the plot he remembered.
This never happened in the novel.
But the last thing he saw before everything went dark was Philia's cruel smile.