Mated To The Crippled Alpha-Chapter 87: Don’t Knock

I spent the night scrolling through page after page, learning everything I could about the upcoming international art exhibition.

It wasn’t just an ordinary show. This one was run by a powerful foreign figure whose name never appeared, only whispers of influence and deep pockets. The judges were legends in the art world. People whose opinions could raise an artist overnight or bury them just as fast.

They called it an exhibition, but it felt more like a trial.

Only a handful of artists would be chosen. And once inside, it wasn’t just about showing your work. It was about being seen, measured, claimed. Every piece could be auctioned. Every glance from a collector carried weight.

The prize money sounded impressive five million but everyone knew that wasn’t the real reward. The real value was attention. The kind that opens doors across borders and circles you were never meant to enter.

Among artists, excitement spread fast. Even within our own circles, the buzz was loud. One name kept surfacing again and again.

"S."

Camilla’s supporters were already celebrating. Her comments were filled with praise and demands, telling her she had to attend, that she was the pride of the country. They couldn’t wait to see what she would bring this time.

I almost missed the registration deadline completely.

Between learning my place at the Hale estate and handling matters tied to Lewis’s name, my days had blurred together.

"I want to apply," I told Lewis quietly, staring at the screen. "But I think I’m too late."

He didn’t even pause.

"There’s still time."

He leaned closer and pointed at the date.

"Two days. That’s more than enough."

The certainty in his voice settled something restless inside me. It wasn’t loud encouragement. It was calm. Solid. Like a hand at my back, steadying me.

"Alright," I said. "I’ll do it."

There was no room for hesitation.

Camilla had taken so much from me already. Paintings I created in silence. Pieces born from nights of hunger, hope, and stubborn belief. She wore them like trophies.

She could paint, yes. But talent isn’t just skill. It’s instinct. It’s the ability to bleed emotion onto a canvas without trying.

Even back then, our teacher had seen it. She worked hard, copied well but something in her work always felt empty. Like sound without echo.

I knew what she planned to submit. More of my stolen pieces. At her last exhibition, several had already been used. She was running out.

This time, I wasn’t fighting Camilla.

I was facing my past self.

The version of me who never got the chance to protect what she made.

I locked myself inside the studio and shut the world out.

Time stopped existing.

Memories came and went my life before, the moment everything ended, the strange second chance I’d been given in this body. Riley’s life. Her pain. Her silence. Her strength.

Then it hit me.

When I finally stepped outside the next morning, sunlight poured through the windows like a blessing. The air felt clean. Quiet. Balanced.

Lewis was there.

He sat just outside the studio, waiting.

The light softened his sharp edges, and for once, his presence didn’t feel heavy. It felt safe.

"Are you done?" he asked.

"Yes."

The word left me lighter than I expected.

He stood and came closer.

"I’ll handle the registration. What name are you submitting under?"

I didn’t hesitate.

"S."

That name had once been a random choice. A letter without meaning.

I never thought it would grow into a symbol. A shadow people chased. A title Camilla wrapped herself in without ever earning.

She never claimed it outright. She didn’t need to. She let others assume. Let praise fall into her hands while the truth stayed buried.

The Morrigans admired those paintings.

They praised the talent.

They never realized they were applauding the daughter they had already thrown away.

This time, the truth was coming back into the light.

And no matter how high Camilla tried to climb, I would be there waiting.

Not to chase.

But to remind her who truly belonged at the top.

When I was gone, I couldn’t fight.

I could only watch as my name was twisted, my work stolen, my existence erased like it never mattered.

But now?

Now I was here.

And I would peel her lies apart slowly, until there was nothing left to hide behind.

Let’s see how much the Morrigans still adore her once the truth is forced into the open.

"I’ll handle it," Lewis said beside me, his voice low and steady.

As always, he stood firm like a presence you could lean on without asking.

On my way downstairs, I passed the lounge.

Sera was sitting next to Julian.

They looked calm. Almost peaceful, if you didn’t know better.

Their bond had already been registered. Julian looked thinner, worn down, the sharp edge he once carried dulled by sickness. Sera stayed close, peeling an apple for him with quiet care, as if the rest of the world didn’t exist.

She played the devoted partner well.

After everything Julian had endured Camilla’s betrayal, my death there was no way he hadn’t figured out that Sera had set him up that night.

Whatever her reason for approaching him, Julian was empty now. The part of him that once believed in affection had gone cold. Love, trust, warmth he no longer reached for any of it.

Sera handed him the apple slices with a soft smile.

"I’m sick," Julian said suddenly.

Sera looked up, startled, but she kept her tone gentle.

"I know. That’s why you need to eat. You need strength."

"Stomach cancer."

The words fell flat and sharp.

Sera froze. The knife stopped mid-air.

Julian’s lips curved into a bitter smile.

"So after all that effort, you married a man who’s dying. Regret it yet?"

He had known all along. He had said nothing, agreed to the bond, waited patiently just to strike now. In his mind, this was justice.

But Sera didn’t break.

She took a slow breath, finished peeling the apple, and sliced it neatly. Then she held the plate out again.

"Then you need to eat even more," she said calmly. "Whatever you’re facing, I’m your mate now. I’ll face it with you."

Even I felt something stir at her words.

Sera wasn’t like Camilla. Or Lincy. Or even the woman I used to be.

She looked soft, easy to overlook. But underneath that calm surface was steel. She didn’t fight loudly. She endured. She waited. She pressed forward without rage, without fear.

If she ever turned against someone, she’d destroy them quietly.

But Julian wasn’t someone patience could reach.

He knocked the plate from her hands.

Apple slices scattered across the floor.

"Stop acting," he said coldly. "It disgusts me."

"Julian "

He didn’t look at her as he stood.

"Today makes seven days since my ex-wife died. I don’t want to see anyone. Especially not another woman."

Seven days.

It had already been seven days since I was buried.

As he walked past me toward the stairs, our eyes met.

There was no warmth in his gaze.

Only distance.

He went up.

I went down.

Once, our paths had been tangled together. Now, we moved like lines that would never cross again.

After comforting Sera and seeing her off, I went to find Lewis. I wanted to ask about the investigation if the lead about the statue had gone anywhere.

I opened his door without thinking.

And froze.

Lewis was shirtless, seated in his wheelchair, a dress shirt draped over his hand. His body was lean and strong, marked by quiet power rather than show.

I spun around instantly.

"I’m sorry I should’ve knocked."

I heard the soft roll of wheels behind me.

Before I could step away, arms wrapped around me from behind, pulling me close.

His chest was warm against my back. Solid. Steady.

"Lewis..." My face burned, my heartbeat turning uneven.

He let out a low chuckle near my ear.

"Why would you knock," he murmured, "in your own home?"