Trapped in a Novel as the D-Class Alpha I Hated Most

Chapter 193: How Do I Become Heartless… Like Him?

Flashback 🌸 — Moon & Zyren

The car glides to a stop in front of the Arden mansion, its sleek black surface gleaming under the soft glow of evening lights.

The sky above is a bruised purple, the last traces of daylight bleeding away beyond the treeline.

Servants stand in a neat row along the marble steps, their postures perfect, heads bowed low, waiting to welcome their young master home.

The door opens.

Twenty-one-year-old Moon steps out, his movements unhurried—almost reluctant.

His face is unreadable, a mask shaped by exhaustion and something deeper, something that sits behind his blue eyes like a stone beneath still water.

There’s a weariness to him that doesn’t belong to someone his age, a heaviness in his shoulders that speaks of carrying too much for too long.

He walks toward the entrance, his footsteps echoing against the marble path. The evening air is cool against his skin, carrying the faint scent of night-blooming jasmine from the gardens his father tends with such care.

"Young Master. Good evening."

The servants greet him in unison, their voices a practiced chorus of respect. Moon doesn’t react. He doesn’t nod, doesn’t smile, doesn’t acknowledge them at all. He just keeps walking, his gaze fixed on the grand doorway ahead, disappearing into the shadows beyond.

Inside, the living room glows with warm light. Candles flicker on the mantel, their flames dancing in the still air.

Milan Arden and Elias Arden sit together on the velvet couch, wine glasses in hand, their voices low and easy as they talk about nothing and everything.

The room smells of aged oak and candle wax—of comfort, of time, of a quiet life untouched by the storm Moon carries in with him.

Moon walks past them without a word.

Milan’s gaze lifts, following his son. His face brightens, a smile spreading across his features—warm, genuine, the smile of a father who doesn’t see his son often.

"Son." His voice is soft, welcoming. "You’re home."

Moon doesn’t greet them. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even glance their way.

He starts up the stairs, his back straight, his steps heavy—each one a quiet declaration of distance.

Milan’s smile fades slowly, like light retreating from a room.

Elias watches their son disappear up the staircase, his expression unchanged. He lifts his wine glass, taking a slow, deliberate sip—calm and measured, as always.

"His behavior grows ruder by the day," Elias says quietly. There’s no anger in his voice. Just observation.

Milan reaches over and pats his husband’s shoulder, a soothing gesture—familiar, worn.

"Honey, please don’t be angry with him. You know how he gets when he returns from Qi Country."

Elias sets his glass down, the crystal clinking softly against the table. The sound lingers in the quiet room.

"He goes there every year." Elias’s voice is steady, but there’s an edge beneath it. "Every year, he hopes Zyren will see him. And every year, he comes back with nothing but more heartbreak."

"He loves him." Milan’s voice is soft, almost a whisper. "You know that."

Elias’s jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath his skin.

"How many times must I tell him? That boy is not an Omega. He never will be. Why does he keep chasing someone who has made it clear he doesn’t want him?"

Milan’s voice stays gentle, patient—the voice of someone who has had this conversation a hundred times before.

"Honey, you know Moon has loved him since childhood. Whether Zyren is an Omega or not... whether he ever returns those feelings or not—Moon’s heart won’t simply let go."

A quiet pause.

"You can’t command a heart to forget. You can’t force someone to stop loving."

Elias looks away, his expression unreadable. He stares into the fireplace, at the slow dance of flames—at something Milan can’t see.

Milan stands, smoothing the front of his shirt. "Don’t worry. I’ll talk to him."

Elias nods once.

Milan walks toward the stairs, his steps slow, deliberate—as if buying himself time.

The staircase is long and winding, lined with portraits of family—ancestors watching with painted eyes, their secrets buried with their bones.

He reaches the second floor and stops outside Moon’s room. The door is closed. Light seeps from beneath it—a thin gold line.

Milan knocks once.

Then, quietly, he opens the door.

Moon sits on the couch near the glass wall, curled inward, a cushion pressed to his chest like a shield.

His blue gaze is fixed on the glass, watching as day surrenders to night, as the last traces of sunlight bleed from the sky. The room is dim, lit only by the fading glow outside and the soft light of a single lamp in the corner.

Milan’s heart clenches at the sight—so young, so alone, carrying a love that has nowhere to go.

He walks over and sits beside him, close enough to feel the sadness radiating from him like heat from dying embers.

"My son looks so sad," Milan says softly.

Moon doesn’t look at him.

Milan pats his head gently, his fingers threading through his hair, the touch soft and familiar.

"Did he not meet you this time?"

For a long moment, Moon is silent. The only sound is the distant hum of the city outside, muffled by the glass.

Then, after a long silence—

"No. He met me."

Milan’s smile returns, small and hopeful—a fragile thing.

"Then did you two make up?"

Moon turns to look at him. And Milan sees it—the shine in his eyes, the tears he’s fighting to hold back, the crack in the armor he wears so well.

His lips part, hesitate, then part again.

"He said he hates me." His voice is barely a whisper, fragile as glass.

A pause.

"He said he never wants to see my face again."

Another breath.

"Not ever."

Milan’s smile fades completely, replaced by something softer—grief, maybe, or the helplessness of a parent who can’t fix their child’s pain.

He reaches up and wipes the corner of Moon’s eye, catching the tear before it can fall.

"Son," he says gently, "Zyren is only fifteen. At that age, people say things they don’t mean. They make mistakes. They hurt others because they don’t know how to handle what they feel."

He pauses, choosing his words carefully.

"When his anger fades, he’ll understand. He’ll regret it. Maybe he’ll even come to Country K... just to see you."

Moon looks away, his jaw tight, his profile sharp in the dim light.

"You’re lying, Dad." His voice cracks. "You said the same thing last year. And the year before that. And the year before that."

He swallows hard.

"He doesn’t care about me. He never did."

A breath.

"I was just a child who believed in fairy tales."

Milan takes Moon’s hand, holding it between both of his own. His son’s fingers are cold.

"Moon, listen to me carefully." His voice is low, earnest. "Zyren is an Alpha. Not an Omega. He won’t feel things the way you do. And maybe—"

"I know." Moon cuts him off, his voice sharp. "I know what he is. I know what I am. I know we’re both Alphas. I know we don’t fit the way the world says we should."

He looks at his father, and his eyes burn—with frustration, with pain, with a love that refuses to die no matter how many times it’s wounded.

"I don’t care about traits. I don’t care about dynamics. I don’t care what anyone else thinks."

His voice breaks.

"I love him. That’s all I know. That’s all I’ve ever known."

Milan squeezes his hand, his voice softening.

"I know how much my son loves him. I’ve watched you carry this for years... watched you leave and return, leave and return, hoping each time will be different."

His throat tightens.

"But Moon... you can’t force someone to love you back. You can’t make someone choose you."

"But he did love me." Moon’s voice turns stubborn, almost childlike—an echo of the little boy who once believed in promises.

"He promised."

A breath.

"He said he’d be my bride."

Milan cups Moon’s face in his hands, tilting it up so their eyes meet. His son’s cheeks are wet, his lashes clumped with tears.

"That was a long time ago, son." His voice is gentle, but the words settle heavily between them.

"You were both children. Children make promises they don’t understand. They play at love the way they play at games... not knowing some games leave scars."

He pauses, his thumb brushing Moon’s cheek, wiping away a tear that has already fallen.

"And besides..." He hesitates. "You’re both Alphas. Maybe... that’s reason enough."

His hands fall away.

"Maybe it’s time for you to move on, son. To find someone who can love you the way you deserve."

He stands, his heart heavy.

"Don’t hurt yourself chasing someone who won’t be caught."

His voice softens, final.

"Rest now."

He walks to the door, his footsteps slow, reluctant. He pauses at the threshold, looking back at his son one last time.

Moon sits in the gathering darkness, his silhouette framed by the window, by the last light of day, by the stars just beginning to appear.

Milan steps out and closes the door behind him.

The room falls silent.

His father’s words linger in the air like smoke, curling around him, suffocating him.

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak.

The tears slide down his cheeks, silent and unstoppable, falling softly onto the cushion pressed against his chest.

"How do I stop?" he whispers to the empty room, to the fading light, to the boy who isn’t there.

"I don’t know how. I can’t."

His voice breaks.

"How do I become heartless... like him?"