I start every morning the same way. Teeth brushed, slippers on, the rhythm of the house still soft and half-asleep around me. It's my pattern, my control, the only thing that keeps the chaos from spilling over before the world notices me.
I hum a little tune, tapping my fingers against the sink. The house is quiet, except for the faint hum of the fridge. Everything is as it should be — predictable, safe. And then my phone buzzes on the counter. I freeze. The name flashes: Louis Alvara.
My chest tightens. I stare at it. Why now? My mind races through every possibility. Family emergency? Corporate nonsense? Something trivial? Or… something worse.
I answer before I can think.
"Charles," Louis' voice is smooth, calm, deliberate — everything he is. My heart skips, and I hate that it does. "I need to tell you… I'm engaged. Alistair Vale."
The words hit like a whip. My stomach twists, my hands curl around the phone as though I could crush it and undo what I just heard. Alistair. That name. That voice. My body reacts before my brain can even process what Louis is saying.
I manage a small laugh, bitter, shaky. "Engaged. Of course. Congratulations, Louis."
"Thank you," he says, and I hear it — the pause, the weight beneath his carefully measured tone. "I… wanted you to know personally. I couldn't… wait."
I close my eyes, taking a breath, trying to steady the trembling in my hands. I want to hate him. I should hate him. But even as I swallow the words, my chest aches in a way I haven't felt since… well, ever.
"You'll be home for dinner, I assume?" Louis asks. His voice is velvet, but I hear the command underneath. Always the Alpha, even when soft.
I mutter, "Yeah. I'll be there."
And I hang up, staring at the phone as if it could explain itself, as if it could tell me why the world has twisted itself into something I don't recognize anymore.
The rest of the morning passes in a haze. I go through my motions mechanically, brushing my teeth again — maybe out of habit, maybe to ground myself. I pace the floor, sip water, check the fridge, ignore the messages popping up from family about dinner. My mind spins: Louis, Alistair, the engagement, the way my chest aches just thinking about him.
By the time I reach the dining room, the house is buzzing — my adoptive parents in cheerful chatter, the soft clatter of silverware. And then I see them.
Alistair. Leaning into Louis, laughing at something Louis said, the way his hand rests against Louis' arm, the tilt of his head that makes him look like he's the only person in the room. My pulse hammers. I know him. I know him. I know him.
Louis doesn't look at me at first. Calm, composed, untouchable. But I feel it. The way he's aware of me — the faint flicker in his eyes that says you know too much, you feel too much.
I slide into my seat, trying to breathe, trying not to look at them too long. Alistair glances at me once — fleeting, just enough to make my stomach clench.
In that moment, the air feels heavier, and I can't tell who I'm supposed to be — not here, not now.
The clinking of cutlery fills the silence I can't stand. My parents talk about business, the market, pheromone patents, and politics — everything that doesn't matter but sounds important when they say it.
Louis answers every question like he rehearsed it. He always does. He was born to fit. He belongs here.
Me? I'm just a guest in my own house.
Alistair sits beside him, polite smile in place, hands folded. He's everything the Alvaras would choose — beautiful, refined, calm. But there's something else there, behind his eyes, something soft and distant that catches me off guard.
He glances at me, just for a second. It's quick — too quick — but it's enough. My pulse skips. His lips curve in a small, almost invisible smile, and for a heartbeat, I remember the past. The way his voice used to sound when it wasn't trapped behind good manners.
"So," my mother says, cutting into the silence. "Alistair tells us he's read about our company for years. Such dedication."
"I've always admired what you build here," Alistair says smoothly. "Your research into pheromone compatibility is revolutionary."
My father beams. Louis looks proud. I stare at my plate.
He's good. He's really good. Polished, perfect, like Louis. Like everything I'll never be.
Then Alistair adds, quietly, "Louis told me about your family. About all of you. Especially Charles."
The room stills for a second, faint but sharp. My head lifts before I can stop it.
"Oh?" my mother hums. "And what did he tell you about Charles?"
Alistair's gaze meets mine — steady, knowing. "That he's the one who keeps the house warm."
My parents laugh lightly, relieved at the compliment. Louis' expression doesn't change. But I see it — the flicker in his eyes, something dark and silent.
"Charles bakes," Louis says, voice even. "He's always been good at it."
It's the first time he's acknowledged me all night. It feels like being pulled out of the dark by force.
"Maybe you could teach me sometime," Alistair says, smiling at me now, more genuine this time. "Louis said your pastries could make anyone happy."
I nod, forcing a smile that doesn't reach my chest. "Sure. Maybe I can show you how to make my brother happy."
The words leave before I think. The air thickens instantly. My father chuckles awkwardly, trying to shift the mood. My mother changes the topic. But Louis' hand tightens around his wine glass.
The dinner moves on, but the tension doesn't fade. It lingers — in the scent of the food, in the quiet scrape of forks, in the pulse in my throat that won't calm.
When it's finally over, Louis stands first, helping Alistair up. His hand rests on Alistair's back a second too long — possessive, claiming. He glances at me, and there's something in that look. Not anger. Not jealousy. Something worse.
Something that says: You remember him. And he remembers you. But he's mine now.
Alistair gives me one last look before they walk away — soft, careful, almost apologetic.
And I sit there in the aftermath, surrounded by silverware and silence, pretending I don't feel the weight of every unsaid word pressing against my chest.