"Ashen!" his mother's voice trembled with worry as she hurried toward him.
He sat on a hospital bed, an IV drip slowly emptying beside him. After what happened at the bank, the paramedics insisted he be brought in. He had told them he was fine, but one of the medics said his blood pressure had spiked, and that he should rest. Earlier, he had even struggled to breathe, so before anything worse could happen, they advised him to stay for observation.
"Ma?" he said, startled when he saw her.
"What happened? Are you hurt?" she asked, her voice tight. "The hospital called and said you were here. What kind of trouble did you get into this time?" She took his arm, scanning him for wounds.
"Ma, I'm fine. I'm just resting," he said with a faint smile. "The police and medics just overreacted. You know me—I don't break that easily."
"Really?" she said, skeptical.
"Really! The doctor said I can go home once this IV is finished. Honestly, I could leave now if I wanted to. They're just making a fuss."
It wasn't entirely a lie. He had only pretended to be in shock—played weak so the police wouldn't ask too many questions. They didn't need to know how close he'd come to killing those robbers. To them, he was just a fragile Omega who needed protection.
"Well, if that's the case," his mother said softly, "I'm glad. You know you're all I have, Asheren. I don't know what I'd do if anything happened to you."
"Nothing will happen to me," he assured her.
"You can be discharged now," said a young woman's voice. A doctor approached them with a polite smile. Both mother and son turned toward her.
"Thank you, Doctor—Eira—for taking care of my son," Lyra said, her tone carefully composed, though her voice caught slightly as she stopped herself from saying the doctor's first name.
"It's my job," Eira replied, her tone clipped but polite. "Excuse me, I have other rounds to make." She turned and left.
Both Asheren and his mother watched her go. Lyra's expression softened, but there was a hint of sadness in her eyes.
"Should we skip the family gathering?" Asheren asked quietly.
"Skip it? Why?" Lyra looked at him, surprised. "Your father invited us himself. You know how he gets when we don't show up."
"But you'll be uncomfortable there," Asheren said, lowering his gaze. "Let's just say I'm not feeling well. They probably saw the news anyway—we can tell them I'm still confined here."
"We can't, Ashen. You're part of that family, whether they acknowledge it or not. You have every right to be there."
He looked at her, concern flickering in his pale eyes. "Will you be okay?"
She smiled faintly and squeezed his hand. "You're with me. Of course I'll be okay." He forced a small smile in return, though a shadow crossed his face that his mother didn't see.
The family gathering was held in one of the private restaurants at the Thessara Hotel. The entire place had been reserved for the evening—an exclusive event for the Thessara clan.
It wasn't often that the elder Thessara called for a family dinner, which made attendance practically mandatory.
When Asheren arrived with his mother, his father was already waiting in the lobby. The moment he saw them, he approached and greeted Lyra with a polite kiss on the cheek.
"I'm glad you both made it. I was worried," he said softly to her before turning to Asheren.
"I saw the news earlier. Are you all right? You weren't hurt, were you?"
"I'm fine, Dad," Asheren replied with a polite smile.
"That's good." His father nodded, his hand briefly resting on Asheren's before giving a faint smile. "Very well then. Let's go."
He offered Lyra his arm and led her toward the restaurant. Asheren followed a step behind, quiet and observant.
They were led to a grand dining room, its doors swinging wide to reveal an assembled court. The eyes of the Thessaras turned as one — children, wives, all seated in their rightful order.
Inside, the restaurant gleamed with candlelight and crystal. At the head of the long table is the seat of Lucien Thessara—the family patriarch and founder of the vast Thessara hotel chain, one of the most powerful names in the country, and Asheren's father.
He moved with the calm authority of an Alpha who never needed to prove his rank. His presence filled the room before his voice ever did. Dark hair slicked neatly back, silver dusting his temples, his face marked by discipline and a lifetime of command. Those deep, assessing eyes pinned Asheren where he stood — not cruel, but sharp, weighing him like a man appraising territory.
The cut of his charcoal suit was exact, the black tie a line of precision. Broad shoulders, posture unyielding, hands steady at his sides — Lucien was stillness itself. Not passive, but coiled restraint, a predator at rest.
Two women walk towards them to greet them.
Seraphina Thessara, the First Wife, her poise as unshakable as carved stone, pearls glinting at her throat — the strategist, the foundation.
And Yvette Thessara, the Second Wife, draped in velvet, beauty softened by allure but sharpened by experience — the flame, the charmer, the one who turned every glance into influence.
Yvette Thessara, Lucien's second wife, was her opposite and complement: an omega who thrived not on strategy but on allure. Once a celebrated singer and actress, she brought to the stage the captivating charm of her performances, her movements graceful, her smile magnetic, every glance deliberately layered with meaning. Where Seraphina built walls, Yvette opened doors, softening Lucien's severity with warmth and elegance. She wielded influence through charisma, adaptability, and instinctive insight into people's hearts. Draped in velvet and refinement, she was the flame of the household — fluid, alluring, and unforgettable.
The weight of their gazes pressed against Asheren's chest. For a heartbeat, his instincts screamed at him to lower his head, to submit. The Alpha presence in the room was suffocating — Lucien's especially, commanding and absolute.
But Asheren clenched his fists. He forced his chin up, his eyes meeting Lucien's steady stare.
And in that charged silence, the room seemed to hold its breath.
The air in the dining hall tightened the moment Lyra stepped through the doors. She wore champagne silk that caught the light with every movement, a fabric that clung not in vulgarity, but in unapologetic elegance. Her beauty was impossible to ignore — the kind that silenced conversations before anyone realized they had gone quiet.
At Lucien's side, Seraphina and Yvette exchanged a glance.
Seraphina's pearls glimmered faintly as she tilted her chin, her eyes cool and assessing. She did not speak, but her silence was its own verdict: measured disapproval, a judgment passed without the need for words.
Yvette, however, let her lips curl into a soft, mocking smile. "So the infamous actress joins us," she murmured, her voice honeyed with venom. Her gaze flicked over Lyra's figure, lingering a heartbeat too long before shifting away — dismissive, like an audience turning from a performer who had overstayed her welcome.
Lyra did not flinch. She felt the weight of their disdain pressing against her, sharp as glass, but her shoulders remained straight, her expression composed. She had faced harsher eyes — the cameras, the critics, the unyielding glare of society. She knew how to stand tall even when they tried to reduce her to nothing.
Asheren, standing just behind her, bristled at the silence and the unspoken insults that clung to the air. His fists curled at his sides, but Lyra placed a gentle hand on his arm, steadying him. Her touch was soft, but her eyes, when they flicked to Seraphina and Yvette, burned with quiet defiance.
"I'm not here for your approval," Lyra said evenly, her voice low but steady, every syllable carrying the weight of her poise. "I'm here because he asked me to be."
For a moment, silence reigned.
Lucien Thessara's gaze swept across the women — his wives, his mistress — before settling, unreadable, on Lyra.
And in that stillness, the balance of the household shifted, fragile and dangerous.
The tension that followed was suffocating.
Seraphina was the first to speak, her voice calm, precise. "You must forgive the formality, Miss De Luna. In this household, appearances matter." Her eyes swept over Lyra's gown, the champagne silk shimmering softly in the light. There was no overt insult in her tone, but the verdict was clear: you do not belong here.
Yvette, in contrast, laughed lightly, swirling the wine in her glass. "Formality? Oh, Seraphina, you're too kind. The whole city already knows who she is. Every magazine, every paper… She's been called many things, hasn't she? Starlet. Mistress. Temptress." Her lips curved into a slow, deliberate smile. "Tell me, Lyra, which title do you prefer?"
Asheren stiffened beside his mother, anger flashing across his face. But Lyra placed a hand on his hand — a warning to stay calm. Her own expression remained composed, her eyes fixed steadily on Yvette.
"I prefer my name," Lyra said evenly, her voice cutting through the silence. "It's enough for those who actually know me."
A flicker of amusement lit Yvette's eyes, but Seraphina's mouth pressed into a thin line. She leaned forward slightly, her voice as smooth as silk. "Names carry weight, Miss De Luna. But reputations…" Her gaze sharpened. "They can sink empires."
Lyra's smile did not falter. "Only if you let them."
The words hung in the air like a gauntlet thrown.
For a heartbeat, silence reigned. The wives' disdain clashed with Lyra's calm defiance, the rest of the family watching with thinly veiled interest.
Lucien had not spoken, but his gaze never left Lyra. Deep, assessing, unreadable. A predator watching his prey — or perhaps testing her resilience before his court.
Asheren, unable to bear the weight of the stares any longer.
"My mother doesn't need to explain herself to anyone." His voice was tight, angry, but it faltered under the sheer dominance radiating from Lucien.
The Head of the Thessara family finally moved, His voice was low, commanding, and it silenced everyone instantly.
"Enough."
The single word rippled through the room like a blade drawn from its sheath.
Yvette lowered her gaze, a smile playing at her lips. Seraphina sat back, composed, though her eyes lingered on Lyra with cold calculation.
Lyra, however, did not flinch. She inclined her head slightly, accepting Lucien's command — but in her poise, in the quiet steel of her gaze, there was defiance still.
And Asheren realized, with a sinking weight in his chest, that this was only the beginning.