Trapped in a Novel as the D-Class Alpha I Hated Most-Chapter 56: Find Deniz

The city at night is a sprawling galaxy of artificial stars, a breathtaking, cold beauty I watch through the wall of glass in my office.

People live, laugh, suffer—far away from this height. My mind drifts somewhere I can’t quite name.

Lost in a hollow place where questions about Deniz echo without answers.

A knock slices through the silence. I don’t turn. "Come in."

The door opens. A scent drifts in—sharp, tangy, faintly sweet. Lime. A young staff member steps inside, her pheromones a nervous, effective ripple in the air.

Light, but effective.

Omega pheromones.

"Sir," her voice shakes.

"I’m here to manage your schedule while Mr. Deniz is on leave."

I don’t reply.

My reflection in the glass is a cold, impassive mask. I can see hers behind me in the dim light—cheeks flushed, a fine sheen of sweat on her temple.

She’s nervous—no, overwhelmed.

She falters, then pushes on. "You have the business dinner with Mr. Byke at eight."

I give a single, slight nod.

She understands the dismissal, bowing quickly, and turns to flee.

"Wait."

She freezes, hand halfway to the door.

I turn slowly to face her. "Your name."

She blinks, surprised. "R-Rosalie, sir."

She stammers, nerves tightening her voice.

"Rosalie," I repeat evenly. "You’re an Omega, aren’t you?"

She hesitates, then nods. "Yes, sir."

"Your pheromones are becoming strong. Effective." My voice is flat, clinical.

"You should go home. Staying late in an office, surrounded by Alphas... it’s inadvisable. You may leave."

Her eyes widen with relief and something like shock.

"Th-thank you, sir!" She gives another quick bow and practically scurries out, the door clicking shut behind her, sealing me back into the heavy, familiar silence.

I turn back to the cityscape, my own mood a stark contrast to its glittering indifference.

Time to go.

At the coat stand, I shrug into my tailored jacket, fasten the cufflinks with precise, automatic motions. I step out of my office, a CEO-shaped void moving through the hall. I should be projecting power, ease. I can’t muster it.

My thoughts are a dark, sticky pool: What is wrong with Deniz?

My shoes click a lonely rhythm on the polished marble, the sound as cold as my expression.

Ahead, a young staff boy— is walking with a stack of files and a precarious-looking coffee cup. I note him, then look away, my mind elsewhere.

Then, a scuffle, a gasp.

His foot slips on the immaculate floor.

Instinct overrides my gloom. I lunge forward, catching him before he hits the ground. The files in his hands explode into a paper blizzard. The coffee... does not fare as well. A hot, dark wave of it arcs through the air and splashes across the front of my pristine, expensive dress shirt and suit jacket.

The world seems to freeze for a second. I’m holding a wide-eyed, terrified young man.

I straighten, setting him back on his feet. My eyes drop to the ID card swinging from his neck.

Ziya..

He’s shaking, bowing deeply, his face pale with horror.

"I-I’m so sorry, sir! Please forgive me!"

I look down at myself. The dark stain is already spreading, a perfect, humiliating mess.

God. The bussiness dinner.

I look back at his terrified face. The expected rage—Zyren’s rage—doesn’t come. Just a deep, weary resignation.

"It’s okay," I say, my voice calm.

His head snaps up. He stares at me as if I’ve just spoken in tongues. Forgiveness is abnormal here. Of course it is. For Zyren Kael, it would be an unprecedented act of weakness.

I don’t have the energy for the expected scene. "Just... be more careful."

Without another word, I turn and walk toward the restroom. I need to clean up this mess. Both the one on my shirt, and the one slowly unfolding in my chest.

My steps are sharp, hurried echoes as I head for the restroom. I stare at my reflection in a passing window—the dark coffee stain a vulgar Rorschach blot on my chest.

Maybe I should cancel. But canceling a high-stakes dinner at the last minute is a diplomatic insult. Neon, you’re always stuck in some kind of trouble.

I’m lost in this frustrated, circular thinking when I hear it.

Voices.

Two staff girls are chatting near the corner. I stop walking, my body going still against the wall.

"...feel so bad for Secretary Deniz," one voice says, hushed with genuine sympathy.

The other replies, her tone grave. "I know. His father’s condition... the doctors said it’s a critical heart blockage. They need to operate urgently. He looked so sad at lunch yesterday, I barely recognized him."

His father.

The words hit me like a physical blow, driving the air from my lungs.

Heart....?

Surgery...?

Urgent..?

All my stupid, self-absorbed assumptions—a lover, a boyfriend, a secret life he was hiding from me—shatter into a million pieces of shame.

I wasn’t just wrong; I was spectacularly, insultingly wrong. I thought he was pulling away because of a romantic secret, when he was actually carrying the crushing weight of a parent’s mortality.

My body freezes against the cool wall. Neon, you absolute fool.

How could you not see it?

How could you be so blind?

Before I can think, I’m moving. I step out from the shadow of the wall. The two women flinch violently, their conversation cutting off as if severed by a knife. They bow in unison, faces pale.

"Sir...!"

"Which hospital?" My voice comes out sharper than I intend, edged with the panic now racing through my veins. "Deniz’s father. Which hospital is he in?"

They glance at each other, surprised, then the braver one stammers, "C–Crownvale Cardiac Institute, sir. In the west district."

I don’t thank them. I don’t nod. My heart is a frantic drum against my ribs. I didn’t know. I didn’t think.

All the heavy silence, the tired eyes, the request for days off—it wasn’t rejection. It was a man drowning in worry, trying to hold his professional world together while his personal one was crumbling.

I have to go to him.

The business dinner, the coffee stain, the company—it all blurs into meaningless noise. There’s only one clear, urgent directive in my mind.

Find Deniz.