Mated To The Crippled Alpha-Chapter 101: Known faces

Sergio stood beside me, calm but unshakable. His voice carried through the hall like a quiet command no one dared challenge. He wasn’t just standing up for me. He was tearing the mask off the Morrigans and showing everyone what they really were.

I could feel it in my chest. That steady pull. The same instinct that tells you when to stand your ground and when to wait.

I chose not to reveal everything today.

There was still one truth I kept locked away. The thing between Camilla and Julian. The way their eyes lingered too long. The closeness that crossed lines without leaving visible marks.

Sergio knew. As my therapist, he had seen through my smiles. Heard the things I never said out loud. He knew exactly what pushed me into that dark place back then.

But I wasn’t ready to unleash that truth yet.

They hadn’t crossed a line the world would judge harshly enough. Not yet. If I exposed it now, the damage wouldn’t stick. It wouldn’t destroy them the way it needed to.

So I focused on what mattered today.

The years of silent pain.

The way I was treated in that house.

The name and identity that were stolen from me.

Camilla had already walked into my trap.

From this moment on, her place in the Hudson family would never feel secure again. Doubt would follow her like a shadow. Every smile would feel forced. Every whisper would sound like judgment.

And the child she carried?

That bond growing inside her was now fragile. A ticking clock. I didn’t need to touch it yet. Time would do the work for me.

I had chosen restraint. And even this much truth was enough to shake her to the core.

Someone in the crowd shouted, "Camilla, are you really S? Just answer!"

She stiffened.

Denial was useless now, so she did what she always did.

She twisted the truth.

"Dr. Zimmer," she said, forcing calm into her voice, "I don’t deny Elena struggled emotionally. But that doesn’t mean she was S. You all knew her. She was quiet. Gentle. She never showed signs of being someone like that."

Her words were careful. Clean. Designed to separate my pain from my talent.

Malcom jumped in quickly, his tone sharp with panic.

"Yes, we failed Elena," he said. "We didn’t see how much she was hurting. That’s on us. But accusing Camilla without solid proof is wrong. You said yourself you only saw Elena painting. That doesn’t make her S. Plenty of people paint without becoming famous."

He pointed toward me, voice rising. "Those dramatic stories online? They’re fiction. Entertainment. You’re reaching."

Then he turned back to Sergio, almost pleading.

"Camilla is delicate. These accusations are cruel. If you truly care about mental health, stop this public humiliation and apologize."

I stood there in silence.

My chest was tight, but not from grief.

It was disgust.

These were people tied to me by blood. And still, they treated my suffering like a minor inconvenience. They erased my pain while protecting Camilla with everything they had.

Even now, they painted her as the victim.

Sergio’s expression changed.

The warmth drained from his eyes, replaced by something cold and sharp.

"No wonder Elena lost her light," he said quietly. "With a family like this, how could she ever feel safe?"

The hall went still.

"You think that because Elena is gone, she has no voice?" he continued. "You’re wrong. Some people leave a mark so deep that even after they’re gone, the world still feels it."

Then he turned toward the side of the stage.

"Please come in."

The doors opened.

People walked in slowly. Teachers from remote mountain schools. Leaders from small charities. Faces worn by hard lives, eyes filled with gratitude.

Camilla’s face drained of color.

She knew.

Sergio raised his voice so everyone could hear.

"Elena never wanted recognition. She stayed hidden. But every donation made under the name ’S’ required real names. Real accounts. Paper trails. She left proof behind. Quietly. Carefully."

This wasn’t just words anymore.

These were living witnesses.

People whose lives Elena had touched without ever asking for praise.

Camilla was finished.

She knew it.

Sergio stepped toward a small boy standing near the front.

My breath caught.

Miguel.

He’d grown so much.

The last time I saw him, he was barely four. His parents had died in a factory accident. His grandmother struggled just to keep food on the table. I had stepped in silently. Paid for his schooling. Made sure he was safe.

I’d only met him twice.

But every New Year, without fail, he sent me a handwritten card.

I never forgot him.

The first time I saw him, he was so small. All bones and fear. His fingers were knotted into his grandmother’s skirt like that fabric was the only thing keeping him upright. He wouldn’t look at me. Not even once.

Now he stood there on his own.

His back was straight. His shoulders steady. The fear that once clung to him like a shadow was gone, replaced by something quiet and strong.

I never thought the boy who once hid behind his grandmother would be the one to step forward for me.

Sergio’s voice carried across the hall, calm but firm.

"Ms. Elena didn’t only donate money earned from her art. She gave her time. Her care. She supported families in that mountain village for years. Most of them couldn’t travel this far, but one of them is here today."

He placed a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder.

"This is Miguel Stroud. One of the children she helped. Miguel, can you tell us is the person who supported you standing here today?"

Miguel couldn’t be more than seven now, but there was a stillness to him that felt older. Like someone who had learned early how to stand on his own feet.

His eyes moved slowly across the stage.

When he looked at Camilla, there was nothing. No spark. No memory.

Then his gaze landed on me.

Something flickered in his eyes. He lifted his hand and pointed straight at me.

"She’s not Ms. Elena," he said softly, "but she looks like her. Only... Ms. Elena didn’t have a red mark here."

He touched his own forehead as he spoke.

The lie cracked wide open.

The room shifted. I could feel it. Like the air itself had turned.

Sergio didn’t pause. He turned toward a man standing near the aisle.

"Mr. Kaufman, would you please tell everyone who has been making those yearly donations?"

Cyrus Kaufman stepped forward. His hands shook as he held a thick folder. His eyes were red.

"I didn’t even know Elena had passed," he said hoarsely. "She was one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. She never wanted recognition. Never."

He opened the folder.

"These are official records. Donations made under Elena’s name. Most came from auctioning her artwork. Everything was filed and verified. Anyone is welcome to investigate."

Then he looked at Camilla.

His disappointment was clear.

"In all these years," he said, voice sharp now, "we have never received a single donation from Ms. Camilla Morrigan."

Gasps rippled through the hall.

And still, the truth wasn’t done.

Another voice rose from the side.

"I can confirm it too!"

The director of the city orphanage walked forward. Beside him was Sera. Behind them stood several children, their eyes bright and curious.

The moment I saw them, something inside me tightened.

I pressed my nails into my palms to keep myself steady.

These were the children I had helped in silence. And now they stood here, protecting me without hesitation.

Their presence warmed the stage. Softened the cold edges in my chest.

Compared to them, the Morrigans looked like strangers.

The orphanage director stepped forward. He was a big man, but his voice trembled.

"Elena... she..."

He stopped, overwhelmed. Sera gently touched his arm.

After a breath, he continued.

"She gave without asking. Without expecting anything back. She was sincere. Gentle. She didn’t care for fame. And now she’s gone."

His gaze hardened as it shifted toward the Morrigans.

"And after all that, someone stole her work. Others stood by while she was insulted and accused. Tell me what did she ever take from you? Not even a bowl of rice. You had no right. None at all."