Trapped in a Novel as the D-Class Alpha I Hated Most-Chapter 131: When Did You Start Liking Me?

The candlelight dances across the table, casting golden shadows on the red petals scattered like blessings between us. The food is beautiful—arranged with care, steam rising gently into the warm air.

The wine in our glasses catches the flame, shimmering deep ruby, alive with light.

My eyelashes are still wet from crying. My lips still tingle from the deepest kiss of my life.

My eyes keep drifting down.

To my hand. To the ring.

The ring rests there, silver and perfect, catching every flicker of candlelight. It looks like it belongs.

Like it’s always been there, waiting for me to notice.

But I can’t shake the feeling—the terrifying, beautiful feeling—that this isn’t real. That at any moment I’ll blink and find myself back in my tiny, cheap apartment, alone, with only novels to keep me company.

"Zyren."

I blink, looking up. Deniz watches me across the table, his dark eyes soft, searching.

"Did you not like it?" His voice is quiet. Careful.

A slow smile spreads across my lips. "Yeah," I say.

"I didn’t like it."

He goes still. Just for a moment.

A flicker of something—fear? doubt?—crosses his face.

Then I smile wider. "I love it."

The relief that floods his features is so beautiful it makes my chest ache. A genuine smile breaks across his face, warm and bright, and he reaches for the wine bottle, pouring more into his glass.

He lifts it. I lift mine.

*Clink.*

The sound is soft, intimate, swallowed by the peaceful silence surrounding us.

I take a sip.

My eyes widen slightly. The taste is unexpected—sweet at first, rolling over my tongue like honey, then something deeper, a lingering bitterness that settles at the back of my throat.

Strange. But good.

I like it.

It’s my first time drinking wine. In my old life, I couldn’t afford it. In this one, I was too busy surviving to care.

I take another sip.

"Zyren." Deniz sets his glass down.

"Can I ask you something?"

I take another sip—slower this time, savoring—and hum in acknowledgment.

He watches me for a moment, his fingers tracing the stem of his glass.

"I’ve worked with you for years." A pause.

"When did you start liking me?"

I set my glass down carefully. Our eyes meet across the candlelit table. My cheeks are already warm—from the wine, from him, from everything—but now they burn hotter.

I smile. And for once, I don’t hide. I don’t deflect. I just tell him the truth.

"When I first saw you," I say softly, "I decided you were going to be my future wifey."

He stares at me. Blinks. His lips part, then close, then part again.

"Future... wifey?"

The word comes out slow, disbelieving.

I nod. Quick. Childlike. Then I reach for the wine bottle and pour myself more, lifting it to my lips.

"But why," he says, a hint of something—amusement? confusion?—creeping into his voice, "am I the wifey?"

I lower the glass, looking at him like the answer is obvious.

"Because I’m the Alpha. You’re the Beta. I’m stronger than you."

He laughs.

Warmer. His eyes crinkle at the corners, and he looks so beautiful like this—relaxed, happy, mine.

The sound catches me off guard. I stare at him, my vision softening at the edges.

The room tilts just slightly, like the world is swaying with me.

"Why are you laughing?"

He looks at me, his gaze soft and full of something that makes my heart flutter. "I’m just happy," he says quietly.

"Seeing how cute my husband is."

I look away, embarrassed, and reach for my glass again.

Just one more sip—

But before I can take another sip, his hand closes over mine, gently prying the glass from my fingers. He sets it aside, out of my reach.

"Enough," he murmurs. "You look drunk already."

"I’m completely sober," I protest, the words slurring just slightly.

"It just tastes so good. I want more—"

I reach for the glass again, but he catches my hand. Then he stands.

I blink up at him, confused. He moves around the table, and before I can process, his arm slides around my waist. His other hand hooks beneath my knees.

He lifts me—easily, effortlessly—cradling me against his chest.

"Hey!" My cheeks burn as I press against him.

"Why—I’m the husband! I should be carrying you!"

He walks toward the bedroom, smiling down at me with that impossibly fond expression.

"When the husband is this cute," he murmurs, "the wifey can’t help but carry him to bed."

I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out.

The warmth of his arms, the steady rhythm of his heart, the gentle sway of his steps—it all wraps around me like a blanket.

Deniz pushes the bedroom door open, and my breath catches in my throat.

The room is transformed. Dim light wraps around everything like a warm embrace, coming from golden candles flickering on every surface—the nightstand, the dresser, the windowsill.

Their flames dance slow and hypnotic, casting soft shadows that move like living things across the walls.

And the bed.

White sheets, pristine and soft, covered in red rose petals scattered like blessings.

They glow in the candlelight, deep crimson against pure white, and the sight of them makes my heart stutter, then race.

A newlywed chamber.

The thought arrives before I can stop it, and my body understands before my mind catches up.

A flush spreads through me, hot and immediate.

Deniz lays me down gently, like something precious, something breakable. The petals crush softly beneath my back, their scent rising around us, sweet and intoxicating.

The sheets are cool, a contrast to the warmth blooming under my skin.

My arms are still around his neck. I don’t let go. Instead, I pull him closer, my fingers tightening, drawing him down until our faces are inches apart.

His breath mingles with mine, warm and quickening.

"It’s my turn," I whisper, my voice soft but steady.

"To ask a question."

His eyes search mine. A flicker of confusion, then a small nod.

"When did you start liking me?"

He goes still. The question hangs between us, fragile as candlelight. I watch his face, the way his expression shifts—not away from me, but deeper into something honest, something vulnerable.

His hand lifts slowly. His fingers trace the curve of my ear, featherlight, lingering.

The touch sends a shiver down my spine.

"When you said," he murmurs, his voice low and rough with memory, "that you’d be ready to be an Omega. If I was your partner."

My eyes widen. The words land somewhere deep in my chest, spreading warmth like the wine still lingering on my tongue.

Before I can speak, before I can think, he leans in.

His lips press to mine.