Chapter 165: You’re Not An Omega... You’re My Alpha...

The silence in the living room is thick, weighted—not with tension, but with a kind of comfort I don’t feel.

The wine glass rests in my father’s hand, catching the low golden light of the chandelier above us. He swirls it slowly—a habit worn smooth by years of repetition—watching the deep red liquid cling to the crystal before sliding back down in lazy, deliberate waves.

I sit beside him, my posture rigid, my face a carefully constructed mask of calm that I’ve perfected over years of practice.

But beneath that mask, beneath the stillness of my hands and the steadiness of my breath, my stomach churns. The dinner I forced myself to swallow sits heavy and rebellious, twisting with every slow inhale. I can feel the nausea curling at the edges of my control, patient and relentless, waiting for the moment I slip.

Dad’s voice breaks the quiet, low and unhurried, like he’s been sitting on these words for a while.

"It’s surprising..."

I blink, pulling myself from the fog of discomfort. I turn my head toward him.

"What is?"

He sets the glass down with a soft click, the sound deliberate, almost ceremonial. He doesn’t look at me right away. Instead, he studies the glass, turning it slowly between his fingers, watching the way the light catches the last drops.

"You didn’t touch the wine tonight." His voice is quiet, thoughtful. "Not at the table, and not now."

He pauses, letting the observation hang between us.

Then his gaze shifts to me, and a knowing smile warms his eyes, carrying a quiet hint of amusement.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes." My voice comes out flat and dismissive, a door closing before he can step through. "I’m fine."

"Then why aren’t you drinking?"

"Because I’m not in the mood."

His smile deepens, amusement sharpening at the edges.

"You’re not in the mood?" He repeats my words slowly, as though testing them. "Or you just don’t want to drink because of him?"

I meet his gaze, refusing to flinch, refusing to let him see the crack in my armor.

"Why would I stop drinking because of him?"

He leans back, his eyes drifting somewhere far away, caught in the amber glow of memory.

"You know..." he says slowly, his voice carrying the weight of years, "when your mother was pregnant with Everic, the doctor told her to stop drinking."

He pauses, and for a moment, something fragile crosses his expression—a tenderness he rarely allows to surface.

"And for her comfort..." His gaze returns to me, a gentle smile resting on his lips.

"I stopped too."

Damn. What are they thinking?

I feel my jaw tighten, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. Frustration rises, hot and sharp.

"Dad, it’s not like that. I’m just not in the mood."

"I know. I know." His voice is soft, almost dismissive, but I can hear the understanding beneath it.

I look away, unable to hold his gaze any longer. The heat in my chest spreads to my face, and I can feel the flush creeping up my neck.

I shift, the discomfort in my stomach sharpening.

"What did you want to talk about?"

His tone shifts—lighter now, but carrying an edge of seriousness that pulls my attention back to him.

"The Alpha International Leadership Conference." He pauses, letting the words settle. "I want you to attend in my place."

The nausea fades into the background, replaced by something sharper and more immediate.

"Dad..."

He holds up a hand, stopping me before I can say anything more.

"I know you don’t like gatherings, Ellis. I know you’ve always preferred to stay in the shadows, away from the noise and crowds." His voice is firm but gentle. "But it’s time for you to take my place. I’ve already told my secretary to register your name. You’re going this year."

"Why me?" The question comes out sharper than I intend. "Send Everic. Isn’t he your perfect son?"

A smirk touches his lips. He pats my shoulder, his palm warm and steady against the fabric of my shirt.

"Everic has decided to take over the overseas business." A pause. "And I personally want you to attend in my place."

I look away, the weight of his hand still lingering on my shoulder.

"Why me?"

He gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze, his voice dropping into something almost tender.

"Because your dad wants you to."

The words settle somewhere deep in my chest, unexpected and unwelcome. I let out a long, slow sigh.

"Fine."

"Good." He releases my shoulder, his hand returning to the armrest. "Your secretary will send you the details."

The door opens, and the moment shatters.

Mom steps in, her expression softening with surprise when she sees us sitting together like this. Her eyes move between us, taking in the scene, and a smile of quiet delight spreads across her face.

"Oh," she breathes, her voice light, almost teasing. "You two actually sitting together without arguing."

I rise quickly, the motion sharp and abrupt. I adjust my shirt collar, straightening the fabric with quick, decisive movements.

"Mom, where’s Silas? We’re heading back."

"Heading back?" Her voice rises with playful indignation. "Who said you’re leaving?"

"We’re going back."

She walks past me, settling onto the couch beside Dad with practiced ease, her hand finding his.

"No. You’re both staying here tonight."

"Mom—"

"Ellis, can’t you spend a little more time with us?"

I press my fingers to my temple, rubbing slowly against the pressure building behind my eyes, pulsing in time with the nausea still churning in my stomach.

"You can keep him. I’m going back."

"Ellis..."

Dad’s voice cuts through, firm but gentle, a warning wrapped in affection.

"Don’t hurt your mother’s feelings like this."

I look away, the words slipping out like stones dropping into still water.

"Where is he?"

Mom’s tone softens, brightening with a hint of amusement.

"He’s in your room." She pauses. "I showed him all your childhood pictures."

My eyes snap back to her.

"What do you mean, all of them?"

She blinks innocently, a smile playing at the corners of her lips.

"Yes. All of them." She tilts her head. "Even the one where you fell in the garden and cried so dramatically."

"Mom..."

She laughs softly, her eyes warm, reaching out to touch my arm.

"Son, he’s your partner. What’s the problem?"

Without another word, I walk out of the room, my steps fast and sharp, echoing down the hallway like a heartbeat.

Mom has a habit—she takes pictures of everything. Every moment. Every mistake. Every embarrassing fall. And now he’s seen them all.

I push open the door to my room, my breath coming faster than I’d like to admit.

The room is empty.

My gaze sweeps across the space before landing on a large album lying open on the bed, its pages filled with frozen fragments of my childhood. Several photographs are scattered across the sheets.

My brows draw together, a knot of anger and embarrassment tightening in my chest.

Where is he?

Then I hear it.

CLICK.

The door locks behind me.

I turn quickly, my body tensing.

Silas stands behind me, his eyes soft, his expression calm.

Before I can say a word, he wraps his arms around me and pulls me into a tight embrace.

I try to push back, my palms pressing against his chest.

"What the hell are you doing?"

His hand rises, gentle and deliberate, patting the back of my head.

"Shhh..."

My fists clench against his shirt, the fabric bunching beneath my fingers.

"Let go of me, you idiot."

His pheromones rise—strong and enveloping, wrapping around me like a warm current, a tide slowly pulling me under. His voice is soft, almost a whisper against my ear.

"I know you’re not feeling well." A pause. "Our Honeybun didn’t like what you ate tonight."

"Shut up." My voice is sharp. "And let me go."

"Please..." His arms tighten, pulling me closer, and I feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against my chest. "Just relax for a moment. My pheromones will help ease your nausea."

"How many times do I have to tell you?" My voice cracks at the edges, my anger giving way to something rawer. "I’m not an Omega."

His grip remains firm, unyielding, certain.

"You’re not an Omega." His voice is quiet, steady. "You’re my Alpha."

I try to push him away again—but this time, my resistance falters.

Slowly, almost without me noticing, the knot in my stomach begins to loosen. The nausea I’ve been fighting since dinner starts to ease, little by little. The frustration I’ve been carrying, the anger I’ve been using as a shield—all of it begins to dissolve into something softer.

My grip on his shirt loosens.

My body gradually relaxes against his.

His fingers slide through my hair, slow and soothing, tracing a gentle rhythm that pulls the tension from my shoulders and quiets the restless thoughts in my head.

"You’re safe here."

My eyes close on their own.

The frustration, the anger, the pain I’ve been carrying since dinner—all of it slips away, dissolving into the warmth of his arms.

I stop fighting.