Chapter 289

Daphne

It wasn’t supposed to take this long.

But in the blink of an eye, four years have bled away. I genuinely didn’t notice the passage of time, buried under layers of corporate maneuvers, underworld consolidation, and the quiet, exhausting work of building a power base from scratch.

I wish the System had an automatic fast-forward button.

[Host, I cannot. Doing so would destabilize the temporal anchor. The world would recognize us as foreign entities and evict us from the timeline.]

Yeah, yeah. I know. It would look too buggy. Like skipping cutscenes in a game that’s hardwired to real life. Still. A girl can dream.

I stretch my arms, feeling the familiar, unwelcome pull of muscle across a broader back, and stand as the private jet glides to a smooth stop on the tarmac.

Time to get serious. Time to, in earnest, break the harem.

I’m on a nine-year time crunch, after all.

At this point in the "plot," it’s almost happily-ever-after time. All five of Elliot’s Alphas are aware of each other. They’ve carved out their fragile, tense peace—a delicate ecosystem of egos and arranged schedules and simmering jealousy.

What happens next is a parade of stereotypical triggers: a public scandal, a jealous outburst gone viral, a pregnancy scare, a rival’s manipulation.

The usual romance-novel glue that binds a harem together through shared drama. Within the next two years, they’ll finalize their "arrangement."

Then comes seven years of so-called domestic bliss... before it all explodes and takes the world with it.

I sigh, the sound swallowed by the hum of the jet’s engines winding down, and step out into the cool morning air of the city where it will all begin—or end.

***

Vivienne

I help my mother-in-law-to-be.

Olga is nice.

Like, really nice. I was terrified to meet her at first—what if she was cold? What if she looked down on my family’s lesser status?

But in the two years since Damien and I got engaged, she’s been nothing short of amazing.

A better mother than my own has ever been, that’s for sure.

Today, I’m helping her cook because her daughter is coming home. Her Alpha daughter.

In two years of being engaged to the Mayor, I’ve never met her. I’ve only heard her voice, low and smooth, on the phone when she calls Olga. I’ve seen her exploits splashed across newspapers and business feeds.

I just know it makes my fiancé....uncomfortable.

The brighter she shines, the tighter his jaw gets. So I suppose their relationship isn’t very good.

It’s a small, family get-together to welcome her back. Olga insisted on preparing everything personally, and I was happy to help.

"Vivienne, please place the sweet potatoes in the oven," Olga says, her hands dusted with flour.

I heed her request, with a smile, I know someone who likes sweet potatoes too. There it is again, that farmiliar,unfamiliarity because I do not know anyone that loves sweet potatoes.

For as long as I can remember, all I’ve ever wanted is a family. A real one.

With someone who feels like home. I have these dreams—vivid, haunting—but I can never remember them when I wake up.

Only the echo remains: a deep, aching sense of longing, and a sadness that lingers like a ghost.

When I first saw Damien’s face on a political broadcast, my heart did a funny little skip.

For the first time in my life, I asked my father—who was already shopping me around for a favorable political marriage—to arrange an introduction.

He agreed easily. That’s how marriages work in our circle.

Damien is... nice. He’s kind in his way, handsome, from an impeccable family, wealthy beyond measure. But there are two flaws in our union.

The first is that Omega he fancies. I don’t care about the infidelity,Alphas in our world are almost expected to have their dalliances. I’m just worried his interest in this one feels... different. More like an obsession.

The second flaw is harder to name. Sometimes, in the quiet moments, I can’t shake this nagging feeling that I’ve made a mistake. It’s not him, not exactly.

And sometimes, when the light hits him just right... he looks so familiar it hurts.

Whatever it is, it’s too late for doubts. I’m engaged now. The contracts are signed. The announcements have been made.

We’ll be married soon.

Dinner is prepared,perfectly and it’s time.

We all sit in the formal lounge: my fiancé, my in-laws, my own father (here begrudgingly, for appearances), and a scattering of close relatives from Olga’s side of the family. It makes sense, I suppose.

She’s successful. Probably one of the few Hans who’s achieved monumental success completely outside the political sphere, and she’s certainly achieved it.

I often join Olga on her charity runs—the sheer amount of money her daughter funnels into those initiatives monthly is staggering.

And I don’t know the full scope of what her company does, but I know about the suppressors.

The advanced, smooth-working pheromone suppressants her pharmaceutical wing produces. I’ve switched to them myself. They’re more effective, with fewer side effects, and somehow more affordable.

They’ve quietly revolutionized the market, giving Omegas a semblance of normalcy.

It’s not an understatement to say a significant part of the reason Damien polls so favorably seen as modern, competent, connected—is because of her.

I smooth my dress and wait, wishing desperately to make a good impression on my soon-to-be sister-in-law.

That’s when she walks in.

My heart leaps clean out of my chest.

She’s like Damien....just better. Which is a ridiculous thing to think, because they have the same face, the same sharp bone structure, the same intense eyes.

But where Damien’s handsomeness feels like a calculated asset, hers feels... lived-in. Effortless. She’s dressed in tailored slacks and a long-sleeved peach shirt, her hair cut short to frame her jaw.

I wipe my suddenly damp palms on my dress, once, twice.

Olga rises in a flurry of motion, greeting her with a warmth that makes my own mother’s hugs feel like transactions.

There’s a flurry of activity—laughter, introductions, the clink of glasses but I can’t hear any of it over the roaring thunder of my own pulse in my ears.

"Oh, Daphne, this is Vivienne,Damien’s fiancée," Olga introduces us, her voice warm and bridging the quiet space between us.

And she looks at me.

Her gaze is dark, sharp, and it doesn’t glide over me the way most eyes do. It feels like it strips me to the bone, reading lines I didn’t know were written on my skin.

She takes my hand, her grip firm and cool. Then she brings my knuckles to her lips, not with theatrical flair, but with a deliberate, almost thoughtful grace. Her eyes never leave mine.

"So this is the famous sister-in-law you’re so fond of, Mother?"