Chapter Twenty-Six #2
I grind my teeth. This is insulting. It’s insulting to my Alpha status that they think I’m some dainty Omega heiress, and it’s insulting to my ego that they can’t even conceive that I might be the one who caught him.
Then, the noise stops. It cuts off like someone pulled the plug on a stereo.
I look toward the entrance. Donghwa is walking in.
He looks… bored. That’s the only word for it. He’s wearing all black, as usual, a long coat sweeping around his ankles, his expression utterly unbothered by the silence that has descended on the room. He walks with that lazy, predatory grace that makes people instinctively part out of his way.
He doesn't look at Seolah. He doesn't look at the gaping students.
He looks right at me.
For a second, just a fraction of a second, his dark eyes crinkle at the corners. It’s barely a smirk, but I feel it like a physical touch. His gaze drops to my high collar, lingers there for a heartbeat—he knows exactly what’s under there—and then flicks back up to my eyes.
Elegant, his eyes seem to say. Porcelain doll.
I flip him off discreetly behind my thermos.
He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing and breezes past me, the scent of winter air and ink washing over me, heavy and possessive. It hits me in the chest, making my breath hitch, and I have to physically lock my knees to keep from following him like a trained dog.
"God," Seungchan whispers beside me, reappearing like a bad penny. "Look at him. He looks so smug. That mystery Omega must have rocked his world."
I close my eyes and count to ten.
The rumors don’t die down. They mutate. Like a virus in a petri dish, they multiply and get weirder and more specific by the hour.
By lunchtime, the "mystery Omega" has gone from a generic heiress to a specific French-Korean model who supposedly flew in on a private jet just to spend the weekend with Donghwa. By the time my afternoon lecture rolls around, people are whispering that Donghwa is actually secretly engaged to a diplomat’s daughter and that’s why he’s so aloof with everyone else.
I’m sitting three rows back, sweating through my deodorant.
Every whisper feels like a sniper scope centering on my forehead.
I can feel the phantom weight of the bite mark on my shoulder like a neon sign burning through my shirt.
Social castration. That’s the phrase that keeps looping in my brain.
If they find out—if anyone connects the dots between the "mystery partner" and the guy currently hyperventilating in the back row—it’s over.
Oh Sihwan, the Campus King? Dead.
Oh Sihwan, the Dominant Alpha? A joke.
I’d be the punchline of every joke in the department. Did you hear? Sihwan isn't a Top. He’s Donghwa’s bitch. The swim team would never let me live it down.
"So, Donghwa," Seolah chirps. She’s turned around in her seat, effectively holding the entire front row hostage before the professor arrives. "Are you ever going to tell us who she is? Or do we have to wait for the wedding invite?"
Donghwa is leaning back in his chair, spinning a pen between his fingers. He looks infuriatingly relaxed. He catches my eye over Seolah’s shoulder—a quick, dark flicker of amusement—and I nearly swallow my tongue.
"Who says it's a 'she'?" Donghwa drawls, his voice low and smooth.
The class erupts into titters and gasps. Seolah’s eyes widen. "Oh my god. A Prince Charming? Even better. Is he cute? Is he tiny?"
"He's..." Donghwa pauses, his gaze drifting toward me again, heavy with a private joke I am absolutely not laughing at. "A handful. High maintenance. Very spirited."
Stop. Stop talking.
My heart hammers against my ribs like a trapped bird. He’s enjoying this. He thinks it’s funny. He doesn't get it. He’s a Kang; he could date a potted plant and society would applaud his avant-garde taste. I’m an Oh. I have to be strong, masculine, unyielding. I can’t be high maintenance.
"Aww," a girl in the second row coos. "That sounds so romantic. I bet he’s adorable."
"Yeah," Donghwa says, a smirk playing on his lips. "Adorable is one word for it."
I snap.
The panic boils over, hot and acidic, and before I can stop myself, my mouth is moving. I need to distance myself. I need to be on their side of the line, not his.
"Oh, come on," I say loudly. Too loudly. My voice cracks, booming across the lecture hall.
Heads turn. Donghwa’s smirk falters, his brows drawing together as he looks at me.
I lean back, forcing a scoff, crossing my arms over my chest to hide the trembling in my hands.
"Let’s be real. Whoever it is, they’re probably some soft, submissive little thing, right?
That’s what Alphas like us go for." I gesture vaguely at the air, trying to channel my old, asshole persona.
"Someone who knows their place. Someone quiet. "
The room goes quiet. Donghwa’s pen stops spinning. His eyes go flat, the warmth vanishing instantly.
"Is that so, Sihwan?" he asks, his voice dangerously soft.
I can’t back down now. I’m already in the hole; I have to keep digging until I hit China.
"Yeah, obviously," I say, forcing a grin that feels like it’s stretching my skin too tight. "I mean, look at you. You’re a Dominant Alpha. You wouldn't waste your time with anyone who puts up a fight. You want someone you can... you know. Control. Some lucky Omega who just lays there and takes it."
I feel sick. I feel physically ill saying it, reducing what we have—the fire, the rivalry, the terrifying intimacy—to that. But I see the nods around the room. Seungchan is nodding. Seolah is nodding. They buy it. They buy that I’m just a fellow Alpha speculating on biology.
I am safe. I am garbage, but I am safe.
Donghwa stares at me for a long, agonizing second. The bond between us gives a sharp, unhappy throb, like a plucked guitar string.
"You think you know my type?" Donghwa asks, his tone icy.
"I know our type," I counter, looking away from him to address Seungchan. "Right, Chan? We like 'em sweet and obedient."
"Hell yeah, bro," Seungchan agrees, oblivious to the tension thick enough to choke a horse.
The professor walks in then, saving me from having to say anything else stupid. I spend the entire lecture staring strictly at the whiteboard, ignoring the burning sensation on the side of my face that tells me Donghwa is watching me.
When class ends, I bolt.
I don’t wait for Seungchan. I don’t wait to pack my bag properly; I just shove everything in and scramble for the door.
"Sihwan."
Donghwa’s voice cuts through the crowd noise near the exit. He’s close. I can smell the winter air scent, spiked with irritation.
I don't stop. I pretend I didn't hear him. I merge into a group of sophomores, using them as human shields, and power-walk toward the exit.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Donghwa: Stop running. We need to talk.
I ignore it.
Donghwa: What was that back there?
I ignore that too.
Donghwa: I’m coming over tonight.
Panic flares again. No. Absolutely not. If he comes over, someone might see him. If he comes over, I’ll let him in. If I let him in, he’ll touch me, and I’ll forget why I’m supposed to be terrified, and then we’ll do something stupid like hold hands in public and my life will be over.
I type back, my fingers fumbling over the keys.
Me: Busy. Don't come.
Donghwa: Sihwan.
Me: I mean it. I have family stuff. My dad is coming by.
It’s a lie. A cowardly, pathetic lie. But it works. The dots stop appearing on the screen.
I spend the rest of the afternoon hiding in the university gym, lifting weights until my arms shake, trying to sweat out the anxiety. But every time I check my phone, the silence from Donghwa feels heavier than the iron plates.
I tell myself I’m doing the right thing. I’m protecting my reputation. I’m protecting us, in a way. Because if the world finds out, they’ll tear me apart, and there won’t be anything left of me for Donghwa to want anyway.
But when I leave the gym, spotting a group of Omegas whispering and giggling about Donghwa's "mystery princess," I don't feel like a King. I feel like a coward. And worse, I feel lonely.
I go home, double-lock the door, and eat cold leftovers alone, jumping every time I hear footsteps in the hallway, terrified—and hoping—it’s him.
I’ve become an expert at tactical retreats.
For four days, I’ve been living my life like I’m in a stealth video game.
I time my bathroom breaks to avoid the between-class rush.
I take the long way to the Visual Design building, cutting through the engineering quad where the air smells like ozone and despair instead of winter air and ink.
I sit in the back row, hoodie up, and the second the professor dismisses us, I’m a ghost.
It’s pathetic. I know it’s pathetic. But every time I think about stopping, about turning around and facing him, I hear Seungchan’s voice in my head: Fragile porcelain doll. I hear the whispers in the cafeteria. Sihwan isn't a Top. He’s a bitch.
So I run.
Friday afternoon, I think I’m in the clear.
The hallway is mostly empty, the late afternoon sun cutting long, dusty rectangles across the linoleum.
I’ve got my bag hitched high on my shoulder, my keys already in my hand, ready to sprint to my car and spend the weekend miserable and alone in my apartment.
I turn the corner toward the exit, and my heart slams into my ribs.
He’s there. Leaning against the wall next to the trophy case, arms crossed over his chest. He’s not looking at his phone. He’s not looking at the trophies. He’s looking right at me.
There’s no smirk today. No playful glint in his eyes. His face is a mask of cold, marble indifference, and it scares me more than his anger ever has.
I freeze, my flight instinct screaming at me to turn around, but my feet are rooted. The bond—that traitorous, invisible tether—gives a sharp tug in my chest, singing with relief at finally being close to him. There he is. Safe. Ours.