My fingers tighten around the phone 96

han’s POV
The smell of hospitals always made my throat tighten. The sharp scent of disinfectant mingled with the underlying odors
of sickness and death, each visit striking me like a physical blow.
I pressed my back against the cold metal of the elevator wall, inhaling deeply, desperately trying to collect my scattered
thoughts. The wall’s chill seeped through my shirt, anchoring me momentarily to reality. My father’s private room was
tucked away in the farthest corner of the top floor. Guards with stone faces and alert eyes stood sentinel outside both the
elevator and his door. I’d been adamant about keeping his condition under wraps.
My mother’s voice still echoed in my ears from this morning’s phone call. “He’s asking for you, Ethan,” she’d said. The
guilt gnawed at me like a hungry wolf—I hadn’t been the dutiful son lately, hadn’t maintained my daily visits. Between
juggling pack responsibilities, micromanaging the training camp, navigating Emma’s endless drama, and the emotional
hurricane named Aria, I’d let my visits dwindle to a bare minimum these past weeks.
And here I stood, making everything worse by showing up reeking of whiskey. I’d been seeking refuge at the bottom of
bottles, drowning myself in work and alcohol—anything to numb the sharp ache in my chest. Aria was a maddening
puzzle, all sweet words and razor-sharp wit one moment, then cold distance the next.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft pneumatic hiss, revealing the guard’s impassive face. He nodded curtly before
retreating to his chair, eyes never leaving me. My footsteps echoed unnaturally loud as I made my way down the dimly lit
corridor, the quiet beeping of distant machines and hushed voices of medical staff creating an alien symphony.
I paused outside the door, squaring my shoulders before knocking softly and entering the private suite. The flickering
glow of a television bathed the room in artificial light, some sitcom playing at low volume—canned laughter creating the
illusion of normalcy in this decidedly abnormal space. I knew my father wasn’t watching; it was just white noise to fill the
suffocating silence.
My steps faltered as I took in the scene. My father—once the embodiment of Alpha strength and power—sat diminished
in a recliner by the window. Tubes snaked from his arms, connecting him to IV bags and blinking machines that
monitored his failing body. His skin had a grayish cast to it, hanging loosely on his frame where once powerful muscles
had been. The sight hit me like a sucker punch to the gut, stealing my breath and leaving me momentarily paralyzed.
“Dad?” I called softly.
My father’s eyes opened slowly, trying to focus through the haze of medication. When he recognized me, his cracked lips
split into a wide smile. “Ethan!”
“Hey, Dad. How are you feeling today?” I pulled over a rolling stool and sat down in front of him. My father straightened
himself, blinking several times to push away the fog of fatigue.
He grunted. “I’m fine. Don’t worry so much.”
He lifted his hand to adjust his loungewear but was stopped by the IV lines. I leaned forward, supporting the various lines
so he could move freely. He gave me a weak smirk. Once he was comfortable, I spoke plainly: “Of course I’m going to worry. Your cancer has spread.”
My father waved dismissively. “I know my diagnosis. I’m fine, stop making a fuss.”
“I know you’re tough, Dad, but I still want you to be okay,” I countered gently.
“How’s the training camp?” he asked, leaning back in his chair with a grimace. One of the machines beside him started
beeping erratically, its high-pitched alarm cutting through the artificial calm of the room.
I shifted uncomfortably on my stool, swallowing back the urge to call for a nurse. “As expected,” I responded, trying to
sound confident despite the alcohol still coursing through my veins.
“I have a long to-do list before next semester starts—budget approvals, curriculum adjustments, staff evaluations…” I
ticked them off mechanically before adding, “But overall, it’s been successful.”
A ghost of his old smile flickered across my father’s face, pride momentarily eclipsing the pain etched into the lines
around his eyes. “I’m glad to see it’s going well. You seem to have become a very capable heir.”
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I nodded wordlessly, a sudden lump forming in my throat. A storm of contradictory emotions swirled inside me. His
putting his affairs in order. Preparing for the inevitable.
My father’s eyes drifted closed, his chest rising and falling in shallow, measured breaths. Assuming our conversation had
ended, I rolled the stool back soundlessly, preparing to leave him to rest.
“Your mother tells me your engagement has failed,” he said suddenly, his voice stronger than it had been moments
before. His eyes remained closed.
The unexpected topic sent a jolt of pain through my chest. Memories of Aria—her face flushed with anger, those
beautiful eyes flashing with defiance as she rejected me yet again—flooded my mind. My heart contracted painfully, the wound still fresh despite my attempts to drown it in whiskey.
“Ah, yes,” I replied, struggling to keep my voice neutral. “Aria refused to accept our arranged marriage.”
To my surprise, my father chuckled—a dry, rasping sound that barely resembled his once-booming laugh. “Your mother
says she’s quite the woman.” He opened his eyes, and for a moment, the shrewd, calculating Alpha I’d grown up both
fearing and admiring peered out from behind the mask of illness. “I’m a bit disappointed I won’t get to see you marry
her.” Something wistful crossed his features. “Marcus has been a loyal friend for years, and Olivia was one of the finest
Lunas I’ve ever met.” He paused, adding with a smirk, “Second only to your mother, of course.”
“Hmm,” I hummed noncommittally. The mention of Aria’s mother—her sacrifice that had saved my life, the debt our
family owed—only twisted the knife deeper.
My father shifted forward in his chair, his next words landing like a thunderclap. “It was the last item on my checklist
before announcing you as Alpha.”
My spine stiffened reflexively, as if electricity had just surged through it. The fog of alcohol evaporated instantly from my
brain, replaced by crystal clarity and disbelief. “Wait,” I sputtered, unable to mask my shock, “you’re saying the only
reason you haven’t named me Alpha yet is because I haven’t chosen a Luna?”
My father winced, either from physical pain or from my tone—possibly both. “Not the only reason,” he clarified, his
fingers idly tracing the tube running into his arm. “I’ve watched you work hard over the years, seen you grow from an
impulsive boy into a man worthy of leadership.” His eyes met mine, unexpectedly gentle. “You’ve actually passed many of
the tests I’ve set for you—some you didn’t even realize were tests.”
The revelation that my entire life had been an extended examination under his critical eye sparked a flare of resentment
in my chest. Before I could respond, he continued, “But Marcus’s daughter…” There was genuine regret in his voice now.
“We all thought you two would be a good match.”
“A good match?” I scoffed, anger suddenly bubbling up from somewhere deep inside me. “Aria won’t even talk to me,” I
spat, the words bitter on my tongue. Each rejection from her flashed through my mind in rapid succession, each one
cutting deeper than the last.
“What did you do?” he demanded, each word precision-cut and razor-sharp.
I shrugged, not wanting to discuss this with my father. When I didn’t answer, he grabbed my hand with a quickness I
hadn’t seen from him recently, tugging at the IV line in his arm. “If this has anything to do with that whore of unknown
origins you’re keeping, you’d better get rid of her.”
The strength of my father’s grip on my arm was barely there, reminding me of how weak he actually was. I couldn’t lie to
him. I swallowed, trying to think of a way to explain.
But my father continued: “I know that girl, Elena? Or Amy? Her father is no good. There’s a reason their family has always
struggled and remained low-ranking. Whatever hold that girl has on you, you need to end it soon. Find a good woman to
be your Luna so I can hand this title to you. I’m tired, Ethan. I hope you won’t disappoint me.”
I could only nod, words failing me completely. My father held my gaze for one more excruciating moment before
seemingly deciding he’d extracted enough from my silence. He leaned back in his chair with exaggerated care, each movement deliberately slow as he settled his head against the cushioned backrest.
“Now that we’ve cleared that up,” he said, his casual tone belying the tension still crackling in the air between us, “I need
you to attend the charity gala on my behalf.”
“And be sober,” he added, his voice hardening with command. “You smell like a drunk right now.”