The silence of the night shattered beneath the scream of sirens, an ambulance tearing through the sleeping city like a steel predator. Red and blue lights pulsed across buildings and sidewalks, chasing shadows down empty streets. Inside the vehicle, a middle-aged man lay sprawled on a stretcher, his face pale as parchment, chest heaving with ragged, uneven breaths. The heart attack had come like a thief in the dark—without warning, without mercy.

Beside him, his Omega wife clung to his hand with trembling fingers, her knuckles white with fear. Her eyes, glassy with unshed tears, never left his face. Lips moving in frantic prayer, she whispered broken pleas to whatever gods still listened, willing him to stay. Stay with her. Stay alive.

But the hospital still felt too far. Too far when every second could mean the difference between life and death.

In another part of the city, tucked away from the chaos and flashing lights, a sixteen-year-old boy sat alone in a darkened bedroom. The screen of his phone lit his face—pale, tired, trembling. It flickered in his hands like a dying flame.

Khem had already tried three numbers. His mother’s. The family assistant’s. Even the emergency line for the villa staff. No one had answered.

Now, one number remained.

The one he had always saved for last.

Hima.

His sister. His only real family. The only person who had ever made him feel seen.

He closed his eyes. Swallowed hard. Then pressed the call button.

The line rang. Once. Twice. Then—

“Hello?”

But it wasn’t her voice.

It was a man’s voice. Deep. Familiar. Laced with smugness and cruel control.

Khem’s stomach twisted.

“Where is my sister?” he asked, voice taut, struggling to remain steady. “Where is Hima?”

A sigh oozed through the speaker, theatrical and lazy.

“Oh… Khem. What is it this time?”

His grip on the phone tightened until his knuckles ached.

“Dad,” he said, each word clipped with urgency. “He’s in the hospital. A heart attack. I need to speak to her. Now.”

There was a pause. A silence that felt like it stretched on forever. Then the man replied, voice soaked in indifference.

“She’s resting. You know how it is—it’s her heat period.”

Khem froze.

Lies. It was always lies with him.

“She’s in her room,” the man added, far too casually. “She needs her rest.”

Sleep. While their father could be taking his last breath.

Khem’s voice cracked. “Please. Just give her the phone.”

A soft, patronizing laugh echoed through the speaker.

“You’re always so dramatic, Khem. He’ll be fine. You should get some rest too.”

Click.

The call ended.

Khem stared at the phone in disbelief. His hand slowly dropped to his lap, his heartbeat pulsing loud in his ears. His sister was unreachable. His father was dying.

And he was helpless.

Hima had once been everything. The miracle child. A dominant Omega, born to a Beta father and an Omega mother—a rare genetic blessing in a world where status, strength, and control were determined by biology.

She had been powerful. Precious. And ultimately, a pawn.

At nineteen, she had been married off like a prize to a man. Not for love. Not for happiness. For leverage. A business transaction dressed in silk and ceremony. Her voice hadn’t mattered. Her future had been traded for influence.

And Khem?

Just a Beta. Just… average. No real use. No real say. Too weak to protect her. Too young to matter.

But he had hope.

There were two times in an ABO child’s life when nature made its decision. The first came at twelve—the early classification. Beta. That had been his fate so far.

But the final differentiation didn’t arrive until eighteen.

And sometimes—just sometimes—that second shift brought change. Rare, but not impossible. Some Betas bloomed late. Some found a new destiny inside them.

Two years. That’s all he had left.

Two years to hope that he would rise as an Alpha.

Because if he did, everything would change.

He would have the strength. The dominance. The power to protect the sister who had once protected him. He would not let her rot away in a gilded prison, bound by heat cycles and duty to a man who didn’t love her. He would not let their parents use her again.

But tonight… hope wasn’t enough.

His phone buzzed. He snapped upright, fumbled with the device, and redialed—this time, the landline to the villa.

Ringing. Once. Twice.

Then a voice answered. A woman. Drowsy. Irritated.

“Hello?”

Not Hima.

Khem swallowed the knot rising in his throat.

“It’s Khem. Please—I need to speak to my sister. Our father… he’s in the hospital. It’s serious. Please, wake her.”

The woman groaned softly. “She’s in her room. You know how she gets during her heat cycle.”

He closed his eyes. His hands shook. “Please. Just tell her. Tell her Dad needs her. Tell her I need her.”

Silence.

Then, a softer voice.

“I’ll tell her, Khem. But… I can’t promise she’ll come. You know how she is now.”

Click.

The line went dead.

He let the phone fall into his lap. His breath came in shallow waves. A hollow ache throbbed in his chest. The world around him had never felt so big—and he, so small.

His father might die tonight.

His sister was beyond his reach.

And he—Khem—was still nothing. Still Beta. Still just a boy with trembling hands and empty fists.

But not forever.

He stared into the darkness, and somewhere beneath the fear, the helplessness, and the despair… burned a flicker of resolve.

Two more years.

Two more years until the final shift. Until his body chose what he would become.

And maybe—just maybe—he would become something strong enough to change everything.

Inside the dimly lit villa, in a room adorned with luxury and secrecy—designed especially for the mistress of the house—a young woman lay curled upon a vast, silk-draped bed. Her slender form trembled, her limbs taut with tension that pulsed just beneath flushed, fevered skin. The air hung thick with the scent of Omega pheromones—deep, musky, and wild, like the damp earth of a forest just kissed by rain. It clung to every surface: soaked into the silk sheets, woven into the velvet drapes, hovering in the stillness like a fevered breath that refused to leave.

She was the source of that scent. She, Hima—withered by exhaustion, yet still ethereal.

Her face, oval-shaped and delicately balanced between fragility and grace, seemed sculpted from dusk itself. Her eyes—large, cat-like, a warm, glassy brown—held the color of burnt amber, blurred now by heat and emotion. They fluttered behind damp lashes, flickering with unrest and unspoken thoughts. Just above the gentle curve of herl small, upturned nose sat a single mole—a tiny beauty mark, subtle but unforgettable. The kind of detail one remembered in dreams and woke reaching for.

Her lips were thin, pale, and trembling, parted slightly as she drew in shallow, uneven breaths. There was something unfinished in her expression, as though her soul was caught in mid-sentence.

Her bronze-toned skin shimmered in the low light, flushed with the fire of her heat cycle and streaked with a sheen of sweat. Strands of her light brown hair clung to her temples and throat, framing her like a painting touched by stormlight. The silk slip she wore was soaked through, the fabric molding to her body—both vulnerable and striking, an outline of a woman undone.

And yet, even now—trembling, silent, waiting—Hima did not break.

She existed like a quiet force of nature. Not pleading. Not crumbling. Just enduring. A storm held in delicate hands. A fire behind shuttered eyes.

But the pain she endured tonight wasn’t from her heat.

As a dominant Omega, her cycles were usually brief—manageable, even forgettable. Her body had long since adapted. No, this was something else. Something crueler. A fever, punishing and merciless, layered over her heat like a second, sharper edge. A consequence of her Alpha husband’s discipline—a cold-blooded punishment for imagined defiance.

Shēn Mark had made her stand for hours in the rain—barefoot, soaked to the bone—as if she were a disobedient servant, not his wife.

It wasn’t the first cruelty.

And it would not be the last.

She clutched the sheets with one trembling hand, trying to ride out the pain, to stay quiet even as her body screamed.

It had been three years.

Three years since she was married into this loveless bond—a merger of bloodlines and assets, nothing more. A deal struck between two powerful business clans, and she, the bride, merely the signature that sealed it.

She still remembered the first time she saw Mark.

He had been tall, broad-shouldered, in his late twenties. His skin was smooth, his black hair always immaculately combed, his jaw sharp. His eyes—deep brown and unwavering—carried the weight of command. His voice was low, husky, perfectly tuned to control a room. He had seemed like the kind of Alpha any Omega might dream of bonding with.

For a brief moment, she had let herself believe.

Maybe, in time, he would soften. Maybe he would see her not as a pawn but as a partner. Maybe… she could matter to him.

But Shēn Mark was as cold in heart as he was in manner. The ice in his gaze touched everything—her hopes, her smiles, her longing. She had never been a wife to him. Only a transaction. A jeweled puppet to be displayed, silenced, and obeyed.

Outside, the night had deepened. Moonlight filtered through the heavy curtains, casting silver onto the wooden floors, glinting across the furniture, and settling in pale patches across the bed where Hima lay, bathed in pain and silence.

Then—a knock.

She flinched.

A soft voice followed, muffled behind the thick oak door.

“Madam Shēn… are you awake?”

As if she could sleep. As if rest were something someone like her could afford.

She bit her lower lip. Waited. Then rasped, “Yes… come in, Aunty Lú.”

The door creaked open. The scent of her pheromones spilled out into the hallway, escaping like a secret. But Aunty Lú, a Beta well past her sixtieth year, was unaffected. She had served the Shēn family for decades, watched Mark grow from a sharp, serious boy into a colder man. And she had watched Hima arrive—a bright-eyed nineteen-year-old bride be handed over in marriage like currency.

Aunty Lú entered quietly, carrying a tray with a glass of water and a damp, folded towel. Her lined face softened the moment she saw Hima.

Hima forced herself upright, bones protesting, muscles aching as she leaned against the headboard.

“Yes…?” she asked, barely above a whisper. “What happened?”

Aunty Lú sat at the edge of the bed, her voice low and gentle, laced with hesitance.

“Your brother called.”

Hima froze.

Her breath caught as if she’d misheard. “Who…?”

“Your brother,” the old woman repeated gently. “Rén Khem.”

The name struck her like thunder. Her eyes widened, tears welling instantly. Khem—the little brother she had raised, protected, adored. The one she had been forced to leave behind.

He had been only thirteen when she was married off and vanished from his world.

She could still remember that day in pieces—his arms around her waist, refusing to let go. Lily, his closest friend, crying beside him, clinging to her dress. Don’t go, they’d begged. Don’t marry him. Don’t leave us.

Her throat tightened. Aunty Lú gently placed the glass in her hands.

After a long pause, Hima managed to ask, “What did he say?”

There was silence. Aunty Lú looked away, as if unsure whether to speak.

Then, after a breath too long, she said softly, “Your father… is in the hospital. He had a heart attack.”

Hima’s world tilted. The glass slipped slightly from her hand.

She stopped breathing.

And then—she broke.

Her tears came in silence, falling fast and hot. No sobs. No sound. Just grief, long-held and merciless, pouring down her fevered cheeks as the moonlight spilled across her pain.

Time passed—minutes, perhaps. Maybe hours.

Grief had no clock.

Hima didn’t know how long she had knelt there, her body crumpled beneath the weight of everything. Her sobs had long since faded into silence, but their echo still lingered in the walls of the room like a ghost that wouldn’t leave.

When she finally raised her head, her eyes were red and swollen, her skin damp with tears. Her hands trembled as she wiped her cheeks, slow and deliberate, as though trying to erase the evidence of her own collapse. She drew in a breath—shallow, shaky—and it caught in her throat before stumbling out again in a quiet exhale.

Her gaze stayed fixed on Aunt Lú.

The old woman sat hunched on the small chair beside the bed, her posture stiff, hands clenched tightly in her lap. Her eyes shimmered with something too fragile to name. Pain, perhaps. Or fear. Or something caught between the two.

Hima’s lips moved, just barely. A soundless plea hovered in the air—fragile, desperate, like breath fogging against glass.

“Please…” The word came out cracked, splintered. “I need to speak to my brother.”

Aunt Lu’s expression shifted, her mouth softening as she blinked rapidly, trying to hold back her own tears. Her fingers twisted in her skirt as she leaned forward, voice low.

“Oh, child…” she whispered. “You know how the young master is. If he finds out you’ve contacted your family…”

She trailed off, the rest of the sentence curling away into the silence. The fear in her voice did not.

Her eyes met Hima’s—and what flickered there was something raw. A truth too painful to say aloud.

“He’ll punish you. And me too. And this time…” Aunt Lu’s voice trembled. “This time I won’t be able to protect you. If something happens to you… I couldn’t bear that weight.”

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Then, Hima spoke. Her voice was soft—but steadier than before.

“I don’t care,” she said.

Her eyes didn’t leave Aunt Lu’s. “He’s not here.”

She swallowed hard, and when she spoke again, her voice cracked, but it didn’t waver.

“Please, Aunt. My father’s in the hospital. My brother needs me. I’m all he has left.”

The tears returned then—rushing, unstoppable, scorching as they carved paths down her cheeks.

“I’m begging you, Auntie…”

And then silence—thick and suspended, like a held breath.

Aunt Lú looked down. Her shoulders shook. A war raged behind her eyes.

Then—slowly, hesitantly—her hand reached toward the phone. Her fingers hovered over the keypad, trembling. And then, with reverence, she began to dial.

Each number was pressed like a prayer.

When she handed the phone to Hima, it rang.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Then—

**Click.**

The hospital corridor was hushed, steeped in the sterile quiet of machines and grief.

Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting pale shadows across the tiled floor. Down the hallway, the heart monitor beeped steadily behind a curtain. But the man lying there—he made no sound.

Khem Ren sat hunched on a narrow bench, his fingers clasped tightly between his knees. His back ached, but the ache in his chest was worse. Across from him, their mother sat stiff and silent, her eyes glassy with shock. She hadn’t spoken in hours.

Khem rubbed a hand down his face. He had tried calling the villa’s landline earlier. It had connected. But it hadn’t been Hima on the other end.

It had been Aunt Lu. Her voice soft, careful.

> *“I’ll tell her,”* she’d said. *“But… I can’t promise she’ll come.”*

He hadn’t. Not really. Hope was something he'd buried years ago, alongside every unanswered letter, every birthday without a call.

Then—his phone buzzed.

He froze.

The number flashed on the screen. **That** number.

His heart stuttered.

No one else could call from there.

He fumbled to answer, his hand shaking. Pressed the phone to his ear.

“…Hello?”

There was a pause—long enough for his throat to tighten.

Then—

“Khem…?”

It was a whisper. A broken, breathless thing.

He stopped breathing.

“Hima?” His voice cracked. “Is it… really you?”

A sob came through the line.

“Yes. It’s me. It’s me… Hima.”

He blinked hard, trying to hold it together. The sound of her voice—it broke something in him.

“Where have you *been*?” His voice quivered. “You just left. You never wrote. You never called— I thought… I thought maybe you didn’t want me anymore.”

“No!” she cried. “I did. I wanted to—every day. But I wasn’t allowed. Mark, he—”

“You don’t have to explain,” Khem said quickly, though his voice wavered. “I know he’s awful. I always knew.”

His words came faster now—raw, breathless.

“I used to think if I waited long enough, you’d come back. I kept thinking, ‘She wouldn’t just leave forever. She’s my big sister. She promised.’”

“I didn’t want to break that promise,” she whispered. “I didn’t. But everything changed. I didn’t have a choice…”

His voice cracked, but this time it wasn’t anger—just hurt.

“…You could’ve tried harder,” he said. “But I get it. I do.”

A pause.

Then—softly:

“What happened, Khem?”

He swallowed hard.

“Dad collapsed. It was all so fast. The doctors said... it was a massive heart attack. He's still alive. But just barely.”

The other end of the line went silent.

Then came the sound—a gasp, a whimper—and then Hima sobbed.

“I need to come. Tonight. I want to be there. Please… can you come get me?” Her voice trembled. “I’m still at Shēn Old Villa. Jingfeng Residence.”

There was no hesitation.

Khem stood.

His voice dropped to a whisper—sharp, certain, steady.

“I’m coming right now.”