"Get rid of that child. Immediately."
Riven froze. It was the first time his grandfather's voice had ever carried fury sharp enough to slice bone. The old man's aura—heavy, crushing—had bent Alphas, Betas, even Omegas to submission. And now, it was leveled at him.
"No one can know about this pregnancy," the patriarch hissed. "You are an S-Class Alpha. My heir. My successor. I will not allow the Virellian name to be dragged through filth because of your… mistake. You will erase it, and you will remain the Alpha of this household. That is final.
The words landed like iron shackles. In this family, the patriarch's decree was law. And that law now demanded Riven erase his child—erase a life—as though it were nothing more than an ink blot on the family name.
"Grandfather, you still call him your successor? As if it isn't shameful enough for an Alpha to be submissive—and now this? Pregnant?" One of Riven's cousins spat the words like poison. "What kind of disgrace will he drag into this family? And why are you siding with him? He's nothing but filth. Just like his filthy Omega mother."
The insult struck like a blade. Riven's fists tightened, nails digging into his palms until he felt skin break. But he said nothing. He couldn't. Because deep down, a voice whispered—they were right. He hadn't been careful. He hadn't been strong.
But who could have foreseen this? Alphas didn't get pregnant. Their bodies weren't built for it—no reproductive cavity, no biological possibility. Every medical record, every law of nature said the same: impossible.
And yet here he was. Pregnant.
An S-Class Alpha—the highest classification. The standard others were measured against. And still, his body had betrayed him. Still, he had become an anomaly.
First, they had discarded his mother, shamed and silenced for being Omega. Now it was him, commanded to bury a child he hadn't even held. The cycle of erasure repeats itself, crushing everything human under the weight of Virellian pride.
Yes, the night was a mistake. A lapse. A blur of scent and instinct. But the child? The child was not the mistake.
The Virellians moved swiftly. Whispers were strangled before they spread. Riven disappeared from Paragon without explanation—an intern gone ghost. His grandfather's word scrubbed clean every trace of scandal.
But the silence was worse than the shouting. His brothers began circling like vultures. He heard the clipped conversations, the gleam in their eyes. An S-Class Alpha carrying life? To the world, it was impossible. To scientists, it was a treasure. And to his family, it was profit. They whispered of research facilities. Contracts. Experiments. As if his body was no longer flesh, but currency.
Riven refused. He ran.
The escape was exactly what they had been waiting for. The perfect fracture. The golden heir, undone. For years, they had hated him for being too strong, too flawless, too untouchable. But now? Now they had proof that even an S-Class Alpha could break.
He fled into exile, crossing borders his family's reach had never touched. Alone. Pregnant. Trading luxury for survival. The first months nearly killed him. But he didn't quit. He worked, starved, bled—and he chose. Chose to carry the child, no matter how many voices demanded he kill it.
And when his family's contempt echoed in his ears—shameless, filthy, mistake—he thought of his mother. A woman he never knew, erased before he could understand her. He imagined her standing in his place, enduring the same scorn, the same chains.
He refused to let her legacy end in shame.
This was no curse. This was a choice. And no one—not his grandfather, not his brothers, not the weight of the Virellian name—would take that from him.
Riven knew the truth—without his grandfather's quiet help, he and the baby might've ended up sleeping on sidewalks. The old man never asked for thanks, never admitted why he bothered. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe pity. Or maybe, despite his iron spine, the Alpha patriarch had grown a soft spot for him.
Either way, Riven survived. He pushed through. Finished school. Worked double shifts. Raised his child on grit, caffeine, and the kind of exhaustion that never leaves your bones.
Then, last month, the call came.
The chief secretary of Nexus Technology. Voice crisp, polite, but carrying a strange urgency.
"The Chairman wants you to work for us. The position is open for you. He won't hire anyone else. He won't take no for an answer."
It didn't sound like an offer. It sounded like a summons.
He researched them anyway. Nexus Technologies—the ghost king of cyber-defense. The kind of empire that didn't just build firewalls, but invisible fortresses. Every major corporation relied on their systems to survive.
But Riven wasn't an engineer. He wasn't a hacker. He was a business grad who could balance a budget blindfolded, but couldn't tell a firewall from a toaster. So why him? Why now?
The paranoia stuck like a thorn. Nexus didn't reach down for nobodies. They hunted. Which meant he wasn't walking into an opportunity—he was being pulled into something.
"Argh—seriously?" Riven hissed when someone slammed into his shoulder, jolting him out of the spiral.
He staggered back, grip tightening on his bag, eyes narrowing as he turned to snap—then froze.
The man in front of him looked like he'd stepped straight out of a cyberpunk fever dream.
Slate-grey eyes, brushed with violet undertones, locked onto his. They shimmered under the harsh fluorescent lights like he'd been staring into code too long and suddenly spotted a glitch—Riven.
"Sorry," the man muttered. Low. Clipped. Like he wasn't used to speaking to people.
His clothes were almost preppy—beige sweater, pale blue collar—yet the black-rimmed glasses, shadows under his eyes, and the way he clutched his matte-black laptop like a weapon told a different story.
The ID badge swinging from his lanyard caught the light. Nexus Technology.
Of course.
Riven blinked, caught between the past and the weight of the summons. "You good?" he asked, sharper than intended.
The man nodded, but didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stared, like he was running calculations Riven wasn't supposed to see.