Chapter Eleven #2
I sit at the kitchen table in the dark. I can’t bring myself to turn on the lights, my phone lying face-up on the table in front of me, the screen black except for when I tap it every thirty seconds to check for a notification that never comes.
I texted Sungyoon four times. The first was gentle, just asking him to let me know he’s safe.
The second was more urgent. The third was his friend’s name and a question mark, asking if he went there.
The fourth was just please call me. All four sit on delivered, unread, and every minute that ticks by without the front door opening or my phone lighting up makes my chest feel tighter until I can barely breathe around it.
I keep running through worst-case scenarios.
He’s fifteen and angry, and it’s almost midnight, and he left without a jacket.
He could be anywhere. He could be walking the streets or sitting on a bench somewhere in the cold, or he could have gone to a friend’s house, and I’m praying it’s the last one, but I don’t know because he won’t answer me.
I pick up my phone again, unlock it, stare at the delivered messages, and set it back down.
My eyes are swollen and gritty from crying, and my throat is so raw from the cigarettes and the sobbing that swallowing hurts.
The doorbell rings.
I’m out of the chair so fast it scrapes backward across the linoleum with a shriek, my socked feet sliding on the floor as I lunge down the hallway toward the front door.
My fingers fumble with the deadbolt, clumsy and shaking, and I wrench the door open with Sungyoon’s name already forming on my lips before it occurs to me that Sungyoon has a key and wouldn’t need to ring the bell.
I freeze.
Hongjoong is standing in the hallway under the flickering fluorescent light, still wearing the same clothes from this morning, the same jacket, the same shoes.
He looks like he hasn’t slept or eaten or done anything in the last several hours except stew in his own fury, and the evidence of it is written across every line of his body.
His jaw is set so hard I can see the tendons standing out in his neck, his eyes are flat and burning at the same time, and the sharp bitter edge of his pheromones washes over me instantly, alpha anger pouring off him in waves that make my omega hindbrain want to drop to the floor and bare my throat in submission.
I resist the urge through sheer willpower and years of practice at not folding under aggressive alphas, but my pulse kicks up hard.
I start to speak. “Hongjoong, what are you—”
He cuts me off by slapping a manila folder into my hands, shoving it against my chest with enough force that I have to grab it with both hands to keep it from falling. The papers inside shift and rustle from the impact and I stumble back half a step, blinking down at the folder in confusion.
“What is this?” I ask, already flipping it open, my eyes dropping to the first page even as the question leaves my mouth.
The answer becomes horrifyingly clear within the first three lines.
The top document is a formal paternal claim filing, printed on heavy legal paper with an official government seal stamped in the upper right corner.
Hongjoong’s full legal name is printed in the claimant field in crisp black type, and below it, in the section designated for the minor child, is a blank line waiting for Sungyoon’s name and identification number.
The filing has already been stamped and notarized, the date on it is today’s, which means Hongjoong went directly from my apartment to a lawyer’s office and had this drawn up within hours.
The requirements listed at the bottom are simple: a confirmatory blood test from the child and a signature from the birth parent. My signature.
My hands start to shake. I flip to the next page, then the next, scanning the legalese with eyes that are blurring at the edges, and then I reach the second set of documents and my breath stops entirely.
It’s an official omega claiming declaration.
I recognize the form because I’ve seen it before, in pamphlets and in the waiting rooms of omega health clinics, the kind of document I always swore would never have my name on it.
But there it is, printed in the same crisp black type.
Hongjoong’s name in the alpha claimant field.
My name, my full legal name, in the omega respondent field.
The basis for the claim is listed in a single damning line: prior reproductive connection established through documented biological offspring, granting claimant legal standing for retroactive bonding claim.
I stare at the papers and the words swim in front of me.
Hongjoong isn’t just claiming Sungyoon. He’s claiming me.
As his omega. Legally, permanently, irrevocably, the kind of claim that once registered cannot be undone, that would make me his property under the law, that would strip me of my independence and my right to live on my own terms and place every decision about my life and my son’s life in Hongjoong’s hands.
My fingers are trembling so violently that the papers rattle audibly in the quiet hallway.
“Hongjoong, this is—” I start, the words are hushed, starting and stopping.
“What?” Hongjoong arches one brow, his arms crossing over his chest as he leans against the doorframe.
“Do you have an objection? Too bad.” His voice is clipped and cold in a way I’ve never heard from him before, not even when he was angry earlier today, not even when he slammed the door.
He sounds controlled, and it scares me more than the shouting did.
“It’s my legal right. That child is mine, and so are you.
We’re not playing this game anymore, Jae. ”
I open my mouth but nothing comes out. He pushes off the doorframe and takes a step closer, close enough that I have to tilt my chin up to meet his eyes, and the full force of his pheromones washes over me at this distance, thick and suffocating and commanding. My knees want to buckle.
“Fill out the paperwork,” he commands. “Take Sungyoon in for the blood test to make it official.” He pauses, his eyes boring into mine. “Or I’ll have it court-ordered. Your choice.”
Then his gaze shifts past me, sweeping over my shoulder into the apartment behind me.
I watch his eyes travel down the cramped hallway, over the peeling wallpaper near the ceiling, the narrow kitchen with its aging appliances, the water stain that’s been spreading across the plaster above the living room.
His expression curdles into a contemptuous and hard sneer, his upper lip curling slightly as he takes it all in.
When his eyes come back to mine, they’re blazing.
“And then pack up your stuff,” he says flatly. “This apartment is going on the market as soon as the claim is registered.” He straightens to his full height and looks down at me with absolute authority. “I won’t have my son and my omega living in this hovel anymore.”