Chapter Text
The grand hall of Kensington Palace shone with an almost supernatural intensity. Thousands of candles reflected their light off the crystal chandeliers and the gilding of the moldings, creating a ballet of shadows and glimmers over the assembled nobility. The air, heavy and cloying, was imbued with the scent of exotic flowers, the expensive perfume of the attendees, and the anticipation that always floated around the Omega Presentation Ball. It was the most exclusive social event of the London season, the moment when great families displayed their most precious jewels in the flower of their youth, hoping to forge advantageous alliances.
Among the crowd of alphas, betas, and chaperones, Franz Verstappen moved with a calculated calm. At nineteen, his youth contrasted with the maturity of his gaze, a piercing, icy blue. He was not there out of mere whim or a desire to find a simple consort. His goal was strategic, coldly outlined: he needed a marriage that would anchor him in British high society. As the heir to a colossal fortune from his Dutch family's shipping and financial businesses, money was never a problem. The problem was stability, legitimacy, access to the closed circles of the aristocracy and industrial bourgeoisie who distrusted newcomers, no matter how rich. A marriage to an omega from a well-connected family was the master key to those doors.
He observed the ritual with detachment. A line of young omegas, all freshly turned fifteen, paraded with studied elegance. Some with timid smiles, others with inherited arrogance, a few with visible fear in their wide eyes. There were also those who, having gone unnoticed in previous seasons, were trying again to find a bond. Franz analyzed every face, every gesture, evaluating not just beauty, but lineage, family influence, the potential of the connection.
And then, in a semi-hidden corner between an arch of white flowers and a marble column, his gaze stopped. There, set apart from the central bustle, like an accidental spectator at his own function, was a figure who seemed to have escaped from a painting.
He was a young omega of an ethereal and fragile beauty. He wore a dress of sky-blue silk, so subtle it almost blended with the candle smoke, fitted to a slender, delicate torso. His hair, short and adorned with small chestnut curls that resisted imposed perfection, framed a face with impeccable features. His eyes, a clear, translucent blue like glacial ice, observed the scene with absolute, almost bored, indifference. He did not follow the dancing couples, nor did he seek the approval of any alpha. His gaze was distant, as if he were analyzing a peculiar tribal custom foreign to him. His lips, a pale, natural pink, were slightly parted, and his skin, a porcelain whiteness, seemed never to have been touched by the sun.
Something in that attitude of total detachment, in that beauty that did not seek admiration, fascinated Franz. It completely broke the pattern of the event. It wasn't anxiety or ambition; it was a glacial curiosity. Unable to help it, Franz felt drawn towards him, like a magnet. He set aside his calculating analysis and was guided by a primal impulse, a need to decipher that mystery.
He approached with an innate elegance, his impeccable black tailcoat contrasting with the light colors around him. He stopped in front of the young omega, gave a slight but deep bow, and extended his gloved hand, breaking the invisible shield of solitude that enveloped him.
"Would you grant me the honor of this waltz?" His voice was deep, polite, but with a firmness that brooked no easy refusal.
The blue eyes, those clear eyes that had been wandering the hall, finally settled on him. Up close, Franz could appreciate the true magnitude of his beauty. He was even younger than Franz had thought, and the perfection of his features took his breath away for a second. He looked like a Saxon porcelain figurine, priceless and extremely fragile.
However, the omega did not respond. There was no yes, no no, not even a gesture of acknowledgment. He just looked at him, with the same distant curiosity with which he had observed the ball. Franz felt the rejection, silent but clear. A whisper beside him, from Lady Covington, a known gossip, warned him: "Don't waste your time, Mr. Verstappen. The Leclercs have presented their youngest son, Charles. He's a much more… lucrative connection. That young one isn't available. Not yet."
But Franz didn't see the Leclercs. His world had narrowed to those blue eyes and that silence. He did not insist. His alpha pride prevented him from begging for attention that was not granted. With another slight nod of his head, colder this time, he withdrew. "Forgive the interruption," he murmured, and turned away, taking with him the image of that melancholic, unattainable beauty seared into his mind.
The ball proceeded, but he had lost all interest. He needed air. He slipped out through a side door leading to the palace's private gardens. The night was cool, a clean breeze that swept the oppressive scent of the hall from his lungs. The moonlight silvered the precisely geometrically trimmed boxwood hedges and reflected off the still surface of a nearby pond. He walked a few steps, trying to order his thoughts, the inexplicable frustration that gripped him.
And then he felt it. A gaze. The same one he had felt in the hall, but now charged with a different intensity. It was not distant. It was expectant, curious, almost probing.
Franz turned slowly.
There, framed in the French door, bathed in the golden light escaping from the hall, was him. The omega in the sky-blue dress. He had followed his steps. His slender, young figure seemed to tremble slightly, whether from the night's chill or the audacity of his action. His blue eyes no longer looked with indifference; now they were fixed on Franz, shining with a mixture of nervousness and determination.
Franz said nothing. He just looked at him, arching an eyebrow in a silent question. He considered turning on his heel and leaving, letting the mystery remain unsolved. It was the prudent thing to do.
But before he could move, the young omega spoke. His voice was soft, melodious, and tinkled with the clarity of a bell in the garden's silence.
"I'm sorry." The phrase came out as a hurried whisper. "It's not that I didn't want to dance with you. It's that… I can't. Not yet."
Franz remained silent, encouraging him to continue with his gaze.
The omega twisted his silk-gloved hands slightly. "I only had permission to observe. How the whole presentation affair is. To… to be prepared for next year." He paused and took a deep breath. "I'm not of age yet. I won't be presented until next season."
The puzzle piece clicked into place in Franz's mind. It wasn't disdain; it was prohibition. An almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. Strategy returned, but this time tinged with a personal desire he had not anticipated.
"I understand," said Franz, and his voice sounded softer than usual. "A front-row observer. An intriguing role." He approached slowly, not wanting to scare him. "And what is the name of such a curious spectator?"
The young man looked down for a moment, blushing in a way the moonlight made even more enchanting. "George," he murmured. "George Russell." Then, he looked up again, challenging himself to maintain eye contact. "And I am fourteen years old."
Fourteen. A year's wait. For a man like Franz, accustomed to getting what he wanted instantly, it was an eternity. But in that moment, he knew it would be worth it. George Russell. The name resonated within him. It wasn't one of the great surnames he had prioritized on his list, but that was irrelevant now.
With deliberate slowness, Franz closed the distance between them. He raised his hand and, with an extreme delicacy that contrasted with his powerful figure, took George's gloved hand. He felt it small and fragile within his own. It wasn't a handshake, but an envelopment, a gesture of future possession.
Leaning in slightly, until his face was only inches from George's, Franz spoke in a deep voice that was both a promise and a command.
"George Russell," he said, and each syllable was a nail sealing a destiny. "I will see you in one year. And then, you will dance with me. Exclusively with me."
The blush on George's cheeks intensified, but he did not look away. In his blue eyes, curiosity had been replaced by awe, and then by a serene acceptance. He nodded, once, a slight but unmistakable movement.
Franz held his gaze for a second longer, imprinting the image of the promised omega on his memory: blushing, expectant, and, for the first time, connected to him. Then, he released his hand with the same delicacy, straightened up, and, with a polite but utterly confident salute, turned away.
He walked down the gravel path without looking back, climbed into his black carriage waiting on the street, and sank into the leather seat. As the carriage moved off, jolting gently over the cobblestones, Franz Verstappen knew, with a certainty that burned in his gut, that he had not only found the key to the London society he so craved.
He had found, far more importantly, the object of a desire he hadn't known he could feel. And he was willing to wait a year, or as long as it took, to claim him.
The great Russell mansion, steeped in the morning mist of the Surrey countryside, was a world apart for George. At fourteen, his heart and mind were a fragile balance between a childhood innocence resisting death and the overwhelming reality of his designation as an omega in a society of strict hierarchies and relentless expectations. The memory of the previous year's Presentation Ball was a sweet, stinging wound. He had observed everything from his corner, a ghostly spectator in the great theater of ambitions.
Most of the alphas swarming the hall, haughty and sure of their right, caused him visceral repulsion. They were men in their thirties or even older, with heavy gazes, laden with a lust they didn't bother to disguise. Their eyes scanned the young bodies of the presented omegas as if evaluating livestock, calculating fertility, beauty, and family connections. George felt nauseated seeing how these men, with their unctuous smiles and overly eager hands, took the hands of boys barely out of childhood. Dreaming of love, of a true connection, seemed a ridiculous fantasy, a fairy tale written to deceive the naive before being devoured by harsh reality.
Until he saw him.
Franz Verstappen burst into the hall not with noise, but with the dominant stillness of a predator sure of his territory. His posture was erect, almost military, his shoulders broad and his back straight under the impeccable black tailcoat. He did not smile easily, but when he did, it was a quick, genuine flash that completely transformed the severity of his features. George, hidden among the flowers, watched him fascinated. Franz moved with an elegant economy of gesture, spoke with a politeness that seemed innate, and his blue gaze, cold and analytical, did not wander with lust, but scrutinized the surroundings with the precision of a strategist. He was the embodiment of the princes from the novels George devoured in secret in the family library: distant, powerful, honorable.
But George immediately restrained himself. "Don't dream, idiot," he whispered to himself, digging his nails into his palms. "A man like that wouldn't look at you. You're not even presented. And Charles Leclerc, with his perfect smile and impeccable lineage, is here. He'll take him." Charles, a year older than him, was the omega everyone talked about, the most prized jewel of the season. George was nobody, a specter waiting his turn.
That's why, when that prince of his dreams materialized before him, bowing with a gravity that took his breath away, George was paralyzed. The world narrowed to Franz's blue eyes, much more intense up close, and the deep sound of his voice asking for a waltz. His heart hammered against his ribs. He wanted to say yes, to shout it, but fear, shame, and the certainty of his own unworthiness sealed his lips. He could only look at him, feeling the blush burning his cheeks, wishing the floor would open and swallow him. Franz's retreat, though polite, was a winter that settled in his soul. He thought he had lost him forever.
It was that hopeless chill that gave him the courage, minutes later, to follow him into the garden. The night smelled of damp earth and roses. There, under the moon, his fear was overcome by an overwhelming need to explain himself, to ensure that alpha didn't leave thinking he had been scorned. He stammered his apology, confessing his age as if revealing a terrible crime. "I'm fourteen years old." He expected a grimace of disinterest, a condescending farewell.
But Franz's reaction was the opposite. The intensity of his gaze redoubled. And then, it happened. Franz not only listened to him but took his hand with a delicacy that made George's stomach clench. The contact through the thin silk glove was an electric shock of promise and possession. The words that followed, "I will see you in a year and you will dance with me," were not a question, but an oath carved in stone. George believed him. In that instant, something in him broke and remade itself differently. He belonged to that man, even if only in the waiting.
From that night on, George's life acquired a new purpose, a single gravitational center: to prepare for Franz. He no longer saw himself with his own eyes, but with the ones he imagined Franz would have. Every morning, he cared for his chestnut, curly hair with special oils imported from France, combing it meticulously to tame the curls without flattening their volume. His skin, already impeccable, became an obsessive ritual of milk and petal baths, creams perfumed with essence of violets, protecting it from the sun to maintain its porcelain pallor. His manners, always polished, were refined further. He learned to walk with an ethereal grace, to speak with a modulated, melodious voice, to incline his head in the most charming way. He wanted to be perfect. He wanted to be the vision Franz Verstappen deserved to find after a year of waiting.
The gray months of England passed, tinged with gold by a monthly correspondence that was his only sustenance. The Dutch seal on the envelope made his heart pound. Each letter from Franz, written with a firm, sure handwriting, did not speak of love—it was too early, too improper—but it spoke of waiting. He told him, in a veiled way, about his business in London, about the acquisition of an imposing house in Mayfair being furnished, about how time seemed to stretch. George read each line a dozen times, searching for hidden meanings, promises between the words. He kept the letters in a sandalwood box by his bed, perfumed with his scent.
His family and close ones noticed the change. George's beauty, always notable, became radiant, illuminated from within by a glorious secret. The first engagement inquiries began to arrive, from influential alphas who saw in the young Russell an exquisite match. His father, proud, presented them with hope. But George, with a firmness that surprised everyone, rejected them all. "No, thank you," he said, with a sweetness that brooked no reply. "My destiny is already decided." An aura of mystery began to surround him. Who was that powerful alpha who had claimed George Russell's heart without even formally presenting himself?
George himself didn't fully understand the mechanics of what it meant to "be ready," but he knew, from the whispers of the maids and his secret readings, that his first bleeding would be the signal. The key that would open the door to his future. He awaited it with a mixture of terror and longing.
Finally, it came on a particularly chilly morning. George woke with a dull, strange pain in his lower abdomen. Upon rising, the crimson stain on the white sheets confirmed it. He didn't scream, didn't cry. A solemn calm took hold of him. With meticulous, almost reverential care, he cleaned everything himself, refusing the maid's help. It was an intimate moment, a threshold he crossed alone, thinking of Franz.
Then, he sat at his mahogany desk, took his favorite quill pen, and wrote, with a trembling hand but clear script, a letter. It only said: «The signal has come. I await you.» He sealed it personally and ensured a messenger on horseback took it immediately to the London address he knew by heart.
Only after that did he announce the news to his family. The joy was general, but George remained serene amidst the excitement. Preparations for the Presentation Ball began immediately. His mother spoke of fabrics, Parisian designers, family jewels. But George had already made an irrevocable decision.
"I will only be presented for one," he said, his voice soft but with a subterranean steel they did not know. "And I will only dance with him."
The wardrobe, the manners, the beauty carefully cultivated for an entire year, all had a single recipient. As the social season approached, George Russell, now officially in the flower of his youth, was not an available omega. He was a promise about to be fulfilled, an oath walking the earth, awaiting the arrival of the only alpha who had held the key to his heart since a moonlit night in the gardens of Kensington. He knew Franz would come for what was his. And he was ready to be claimed.
The great night had arrived. The ballroom of the Savoy Hotel, even more splendid than Kensington's the previous year, resonated with the symphony of London high society in its maximum splendor. The chandeliers, this time with thousands of pieces of Bohemian crystal, cast rainbow glimmers over military uniforms, gleaming decorations, and evening gowns worth fortunes. The air, charged with anticipation and an even more exquisite perfume, vibrated with the murmurs of hundreds of guests. It was the Presentation Ball of the new season, and George Russell, now fifteen years old, was at the center of that universe.
Standing beside his parents, George was the embodiment of serene elegance. His presentation suit, of a deep cobalt blue that enhanced the clear blue of his eyes, was cut with impeccable precision that accentuated his youthful slenderness without hiding it. Every chestnut curl of his hair was in place, his skin looked as pure and luminous as the finest porcelain. But his beauty, now in its fullness, was animated by an inner light that was missing the previous year: certainty. He did not observe with indifference; he scrutinized the crowd with a calm expectancy, seeking a single figure.
Franz Verstappen did not disappoint him. He appeared on the grand staircase not as just another guest, but as a sovereign arriving at his domain. He wore a jet-black tailcoat, impeccable, and his gaze, as icy and analytical as George remembered, swept the room until it found him. There was no smile, just an almost imperceptible nod, a flash of recognition that made George's heart lurch so violently he feared everyone could hear it.
The presentation was a ritual George went through as in a dream. He received dozens of alphas and their families, inclined his head, smiled politely. But his attention never truly strayed from Franz, who remained at a respectful distance, observing, waiting for his moment. It was then that George's father, Sir Arthur Russell, a man proud of his lineage but conscious of his financial limitations, followed his son's gaze. Upon seeing its object, he visibly paled.
This was not just any alpha. He was the absolute heir to the Verstappen empire. A fortune so vast it was almost abstract, woven from the threads of global trade, banking, and industry, with an influence extending far beyond Dutch borders. Sir Arthur felt a mixture of vertigo and apprehension. Never, in his most ambitious dreams, had he thought his family could be linked to a titan of that magnitude. The initial excitement was quickly smothered by worry. Families like the Verstappens, he knew, were often insular, distrustful of foreign lineages, however ancient. He feared this interest was a passing whim of the young alpha, and that when the first obstacles arose, the pressure from his powerful family would be unbearable. "My God," he thought, his face still pale, "may that young man have the courage to face his own clan if necessary."
But Franz was not a capricious young man. He was a strategist who had spent a year deliberating. When he finally approached to claim his dance, the room seemed to hold its breath. The music began, a Strauss waltz, and Franz took George in his arms. It was as if the year of separation had never existed. Franz's hand on George's waist was firm, possessive, but incredibly gentle. He led with absolute assurance, and George, despite his nervousness, let himself be carried away, floating over the parquet, lost in the blue eyes that now, up close, were no longer icy, but burning with a contained intensity. They danced the entire night. Franz did not grant a single dance to another omega, and George rejected with sweet firmness any other alpha who dared approach. The message was clear and unequivocal to all present.
At the end of the evening, Franz, with George by his side, addressed Sir Arthur and Lady Russell. His announcement was formal, direct, devoid of the empty flourishes of many suitors. "Sir, Madam," he said, in a voice that admitted no doubt, "the courtship for your son's hand begins officially tonight. It is my intention, if you permit it and George accepts, to lead this courtship to marriage."
The Verstappen family, from Holland, accepted the news with a coldness that confirmed Sir Arthur's fears. They saw it as an eccentric whim of Franz's, a dalliance with an English omega of good name but modest fortune. They assumed that Franz, once his initial interest was sated, would grow tired and seek a wife from a continental lineage more in keeping with his status. What they completely ignored was the depth of Franz's obsession. It was not a whim; it had been a year of silent delirium. A year in which the image of the fragile omega from the Kensington gardens had become a constant presence in his mind, fed by the monthly letters and the certainty that George was the key piece not only to his London strategy but to his own peace.
The courtship was brief and intense. Franz was relentless in his determination, overcoming any possible objection with the force of his conviction and his wealth. The wedding was arranged with a speed that left society stunned. And so, the day arrived.
The church of St. George in Hanover Square was packed. The midday light filtered through the high stained-glass windows, illuminating a sea of hats and dark suits. Franz, standing before the altar, wore an impeccable black ceremonial tailcoat. His face was serene, but for the first time in his adult life, drops of cold sweat trickled down his back under the thin shirt. A wave of nervousness assailed him. What if George changed his mind? What if the pressure was too much? What if, upon seeing Franz's imposing figure at the altar, he chose to flee?
But then, the great church doors opened. And there was George.
He advanced on his father's arm, wrapped in an almost celestial light. His wedding attire was not an exaggeration of lace, but a work of art of white silk and satin, cut with a simple elegance that highlighted his slenderness. The fabric fell in perfect folds, accentuating his height, unusual for an omega, and his graceful thinness. A veil of finest tulle covered his face, but through it, Franz could see his blue eyes, bright and fixed on him, filled with an absolute confidence that evaporated all his doubts in an instant. George was not walking to the altar out of obligation; he was walking toward his destiny with his head held high and a small, radiant smile.
The ceremony was a dream for George. The vows, exchanged in clear voices that resonated in the silent church, seemed the logical conclusion of the promise made in a garden. The exchange of rings, two simple, elegant bands of white gold, was a tangible seal. And when the priest pronounced the final words, Franz firmly lifted George's veil. For a moment, they looked into each other's eyes, and the world disappeared. Then, Franz leaned in and placed a kiss on his lips. It was not a passionate kiss, but a deep, slow one, full of a solemn promise that sealed their union before God and men. George, tall and thin, felt finally enveloped, complete.
The banquet at Claridge's Hotel was sumptuous. The parents' speeches were polite and full of good wishes. Sir Arthur, with relief and new respect, praised Franz's determination. Lady Russell cried with emotion. The party proceeded without a single incident, in a bubble of contained joy and elegance.
As the celebration continued, Franz watched his new husband dance with his mother. George was laughing, his face illuminated by pure happiness. Franz felt a wave of possessiveness as fierce as it was tender. He loved everything about his omega. His height, which made him look like a most elegant gazelle; his thinness, which promised the fragility he longed to protect; the intelligence shining in his eyes; the silent strength he had shown in waiting for him.
The wait was over. The promise of the gardens had been fulfilled. And for Franz Verstappen, the true empire he had just secured was not in the ports or the banks, but in the person of the tall, slender omega who, with a smile, had conquered his world from the shadows.
The wedding banquet at Claridge's had been a kaleidoscope of lights, polite laughter, and resonant toasts. For George, every moment had been a heartbeat of pure happiness, a confirmation that the wait and the dreams had not been in vain. Yet, when the last carriage departed and they ascended into their own, a new silence, laden with profound meaning, settled between them. The sound of hooves on London's cobblestones marked the rhythm of their journey to their new home, the imposing Mayfair house Franz had meticulously prepared.
George, barely fifteen, felt a butterfly of nervousness fluttering in his stomach. He knew, from vague hints and whispers among maids, that the wedding night involved a "consummation," an intimate act that sealed the union beyond vows and rings. But the details were foreign to him, a nebulous and slightly intimidating territory. The stories he'd heard, always half-told, spoke of pain, of a trial to be endured.
Franz, in contrast, understood the mechanics with the same clarity with which he understood the intricacies of his business. At twenty, he was a man of the world, and he had made sure to understand exactly how to proceed to make the experience as un-overwhelming as possible for his young husband. His determination was not one of unbridled lust, but of a deep possessiveness and an almost reverential desire to make George completely his, in the most careful way.
The Mayfair mansion welcomed them in silence. The servants, discreet, withdrew after wishing them good night. Franz guided George up the wide stairs to the main apartments. The bedroom was enormous, dominated by a four-poster mahogany bed with a canopy. The light from the oil lamps created an intimate, golden ambiance.
"Are you tired?" Franz asked, his voice softer than usual.
George shook his head, not trusting his voice. His blue eyes, huge in his pale face, looked around with a mixture of awe and apprehension.
Franz approached and, with infinite delicacy, began to undo the buttons of George's tailcoat jacket. His movements were slow, deliberate, giving George time to grow accustomed to each new level of intimacy. "There's no hurry," he murmured, catching the fear in his omega's eyes. "Just us. No one else matters tonight."
Each garment that fell—the jacket, the waistcoat, the thin shirt—was a veil being drawn aside. Franz did not tear anything; he folded each piece with a ritualistic care, as if unsheathing a precious work of art. George, trembling, let himself be handled, blindly trusting the security emanating from his alpha. When they were both finally undressed, Franz did not pounce on him. Instead, he took him in his arms and laid him on the cool silk sheets, covering him first with his own body just to transmit warmth, to let him get used to the weight, to skin-on-skin contact.
"Trust me, George," Franz whispered against his neck, where George's sweet omega scent intensified with nervousness. "I swear I will not hurt you."
And it was true. Franz was patient to an extreme. His hands explored every inch of George's slender, graceful body with an adoring curiosity, finding points of pleasure where George didn't even know they existed. His kisses were persuasive, not demanding. When the crucial moment arrived, Franz was as attentive to George's reactions as to his own desire. He spoke to him in a low voice, reassuring words in Dutch and English, ensuring every movement was slow, gradual, allowing George's body to adapt.
George, initially tense as a bow, gradually relaxed under his husband's meticulous attention. The pain that many said was inevitable never came. Instead, there was a sensation of fullness, of a union so deep it transcended the physical. It was not traumatic. It was a surrender, a merging that culminated not with a cry of pain, but with a gasp of astonishment from George and a rough, satisfied grunt from Franz, who collapsed beside him afterward, enveloping him in a protective embrace.
After that foundational night, the ones that followed were of total and trusting surrender on George's part. He had discovered that intimacy with Franz was not a dreaded duty, but a source of connection, warmth, and a strange peace. He learned to respond to his alpha's caresses, to seek his proximity in the big bed, and each night sealed their bond with a quietness and belonging that filled him with contentment.
Within weeks, the obvious bore fruit. One morning, while breakfasting in the solarium lit by the faint London sun, George brought his cup of his favorite tea, a mild blend of Earl Grey, to his lips. Suddenly, a scent he had always found pleasant hit his nostrils with a nauseating intensity. A wave of such violent disgust swept through him that he had to push the cup away abruptly, feeling saliva accumulate in his mouth.
That was the first of several symptoms. A profound fatigue that overcame him in the afternoon, slight dizziness upon rising too quickly, and above all, an extreme emotional sensitivity that made him cry for the most insignificant reasons. His caregiver, an elderly, kind-faced beta woman who had been in the family's service for decades, observed the changes with a smile she couldn't hide.
One afternoon, after George had to run out of the dining room because of the smell of fish, the caregiver approached him and took his hands in hers, which were rough but warm.
"Young master," she said softly, "these are not ailments of the weather. These are signs of life."
George looked at her, confused, until understanding illuminated him like lightning. His eyes widened. "Do you mean…?"
"Yes, Master George," she affirmed with a broad smile. "You are with child. You will have a baby from Mr. Franz."
The happiness that flooded George was so intense it took his breath away. One of the deepest fears of any omega, the possibility of sterility or not being able to quickly produce an heir, vanished. He brought his hands to his still-flat stomach, imagining the life growing within. That little being was the tangible proof, the fruit of Franz's love and patience.
That night, when Franz arrived home, George waited for him in the library, unable to contain his emotion. He didn't make a grand announcement. Simply, when Franz approached to kiss him, George took his hand and placed it on his lower abdomen.
"Franz," he whispered, his voice laden with tears of joy. "Here. Our child."
Franz's reaction was instantaneous. His face, usually so composed, was transfigured by pure, overflowing effusiveness. A wide smile, the most genuine George had ever seen on him, illuminated his features. He hugged him tightly, but carefully, as if afraid of breaking him. "A son," he repeated, astonished. "Our son." He was going to be a father with the omega he had deliriously longed for for an entire year. The news was an absolute triumph.
The Verstappen family, from Holland, sent a cold note of congratulations. In their minds, they assumed that, given George's lineage, the baby was most likely to be another omega or, hopefully, a beta. An alpha heir, a pure Verstappen, could hardly come from an English scion.
Ignoring the family's coldness, George and Franz immersed themselves in their happiness. George took every precaution, becoming the center of a network of care. One afternoon, while resting on the sofa with a book of names, Franz sat beside him.
"Maximilian," George suggested, running his finger over the page. "It means 'the greatest.' Because he will be the greatest child for us."
Franz looked at the name and then at his husband, and a smile of agreement bloomed on his lips. "Maximilian Verstappen. Yes. It is perfect."
The months passed and George's belly rounded in a way Franz found miraculous. His thinness made the curve even more evident, more sacred. One night, the sky over London unleashed a furious storm. Rain lashed against their bedroom window. Suddenly, George felt a warm wetness soaking the bed. It wasn't pain, but a strange sensation, an uncontrollable flow. "Franz," he said, with surprising calm. "The time has come."
The mansion became a hive of contained activity. They called the doctor, an eminent figure in high-society births. The night turned into a long, exhausting struggle for George. The waves of pain he had avoided on his wedding night arrived now with full force, a necessary price to bring his son into the world. Franz never left his side, holding his hand, wiping his brow, whispering words of encouragement. His presence was an anchor in the sea of pain.
Toward dawn, as the storm subsided to a persistent tapping, a sharp, vigorous sound cut the air of the room: the cry of a baby. The doctor, with expert hands, cleaned and wrapped the newborn in a white linen blanket. With a smile of deep respect, he placed him in George's arms, who, exhausted and sweaty, shone with a triumphant light.
Franz, who had stayed awake all night, leaned over to see. There, in his omega's arms, was his son. He had a small patch of light hair and blue eyes that already promised to be as penetrating as his father's. They were healthy. All three of them. The family he had built.
Upon leaving the room, the doctor addressed Franz aside. "Mr. Verstappen," he said seriously. "Your husband has been very brave. But he is very young. I strongly recommend you not have another child until George is more mature. His body needs to recover completely."
Franz nodded, without a hint of annoyance. He thanked the doctor with genuine gratitude. "Your advice is wise, Doctor. George's health is the only thing that matters." The doctor was surprised; he was used to powerful alphas becoming irritated at such suggestions, considering them an impediment to their legacy. But Franz was not one of them. For him, George was not an instrument; he was his everything.
Inside the room, bathed in the first light of dawn filtering through the clouds, George was cradling Maximilian. Franz sat on the edge of the bed, putting an arm around his family. The journey that began with a gaze in a garden had reached its most precious harbor. And Franz knew, with a certainty that filled him with peace, that he would protect that harbor with everything he had.