Trapped in a Novel as the D-Class Alpha I Hated Most-Chapter 98: The Love Hasn’t Faded... It Has Been Deleted...

Chapter 98: The Love Hasn’t Faded... It Has Been Deleted...

I sit in the deep silence of the study, a solitary island in a sea of dark wood and leather. The only light is a single, elegant lamp, casting a warm, intimate pool over the vast, polished desk.

Outside, the world is a hushed, snowy black. Inside, the air is thick with the weight of unanswered questions.

Spread before me isn’t a business file or a contract.

It’s an album.

A family album.

Heavy. Expensive.

Dusty from neglect.

Bound in the finest burgundy leather, its surface gleaming under the light.

It feels less like a book and more like a tomb—a tomb for a family that no longer exists.

In the novel, the author dismisses it all with a single, careless line:

Zyren and Moon had a falling out in their youth. A little fight.

A childish squabble.

But after today, after the way Moon looks at me, touches me... that explanation is ash. A child’s crayon drawing trying to cover a masterpiece of pain.

Something is missing. Something foundational is cracked, and I need to see the break for myself.

With a reverence that feels foreign, I open the heavy cover.

The first photo is a portrait of timeless elegance: a bridal couple. Their hands are clasped, their smiles perfect and public. My fingers trace the embossed names at the bottom.

Ziyan Kael & Rose Kael.

Zyren’s parents. I tilt my head, studying them. It is... strange. Zyren, with his shocking silver hair and pale, otherworldly beauty, doesn’t seem to physically belong to them.

There is no silver in their genes, no hint of the ethereal in their strong, classic features.

I turn the page.

A boy, maybe eight, stands proud and straight, a fluffy puppy at his feet. A man’s hand—Ziyan’s—rests on his shoulder with unmistakable pride.

The boy’s face is familiar, but softer. The eyes hold a light that is long extinguished.

Zyke Kael.

The name confirms it.

I am right. The features are there, but instead of the arrogant, preening Alpha he’d become, here is just a boy, beaming under his father’s approval.

I flip through, watching him grow in a series of staged photos: first day of school, winning a trophy, a hilariously awkward teenage phase with glasses far too large for his face.

A faint, unexpected smile touches my lips—what a dork, so earnest and unspoiled, long before the world hardens him.

Then, I turn the page again.

And my breath catches.

A newborn. Swaddled in linen so fine it looks like cloud, lying in a hospital bassinet heaped with extravagant gifts.

Silver-white hair, like moonlit silk. Pale, porcelain skin. Features of such delicate, breathtaking beauty it doesn’t seem real.

My finger reaches out, hovering just above the photo.

Zyren.

This is him. The beginning.

Beneath the photo, in a flowing, feminine script, are the words:

Welcome to the world, my dear Zyren baby. Love, Mama Rose.

The warmth in the words is a physical shock. Rose. His mother.

She is happy. She adores him.

The next pages are a symphony of joy. The whole family, radiant, clustered around the silver-haired infant.

Rose Kael, her face alight, holding him as if he were the sun. Ziyan, looking prouder than any king.

Zyke, peering at his baby brother with a mix of awe and fierce, protective curiosity.

I feel myself drawn into the current of their lives.

Zyren crawling on a sun-drenched rug. Taking his first wobbly steps, one tiny hand gripped tightly in Zyke’s older, steadier one.

The brothers build a block tower, Zyke’s arm around his little sibling to keep him from toppling it.

Zyren crying over a scraped knee, being comforted. Zyren laughing, arms thrown wide.

Birthday parties with towering cakes, Zyren grinning with frosting-smeared cheeks, flanked by his beaming parents and his proud big brother.

In every single picture, Zyren is the luminous center. He is held, kissed, doted upon. He is the precious thing.

The love is palpable, leaking out of the faded colors and glossy paper.

It is a world of warmth. Of light. Of love. 𝐟𝕣𝗲𝕖𝕨𝗲𝐛𝗻𝗼𝐯𝗲𝚕.𝗰𝚘𝐦

Every picture screams it.

Zyren isn’t just a child; he is the cherished heart of this universe, the precious jewel they all orbit.

Then, a new family enters the album.

A handsome male couple, dressed impeccably, standing with a small boy between them.

Milan Arden & Elias Arden, and their precious son, Moon Arden.

My eyes widen.

Moon is born from a male Omega. The novel never mentions this. It never gives him this depth, this origin.

And the boy... he has a mop of messy black hair and those same, startling blue eyes.

So blue isn’t his natural hair color.

The thought is trivial, but it feels significant.

Even as a child, the image is curated. But in black hair, he looks... softer.

Real. Adorable.

The next pages weave their families together.

Moon and Zyke playing with Zyren. Little Zyren chasing after them, his tiny footsteps determined, his laughter frozen mid-frame.

And then, Moon and Zyren.

Tiny Zyren with his silver halo, and little Moon with his dark hair, holding hands so tightly.

My chest tightens.

Here they are, two little boys splashing in a paddling pool, holding hands to keep their balance, shrieking with laughter.

In the next, they become covered in melting ice cream, grinning identical, sticky smiles.

They build sandcastles, chase the same puppy, asleep in a tangle of limbs on a huge bed, Zyren’s silver head pillowed on Moon’s small shoulder.

They are inseparable. Moon, in every picture, is right there. Beside him, behind him, holding his hand, pulling him into a hug.

His focus, even then, is singular.

Zyren.

I see Zyren’s thirteenth birthday. A grand ballroom, a towering cake, a boy on the cusp of adolescence, beautiful in silk and smiles, surrounded by his loving family and his closest cousin.

I smile, feeling the ghost of that happiness.

I turn the page, eager for the next memory.

Blank.

I blink, turning again.

And again.

Empty, cream-colored pages. A void.

The story simply... stops.

The warmth of the lamp feels cold suddenly. The happy noises from the photos fade into a ringing silence.

I remember the author’s cold, clinical sentence:

After his thirteenth birthday, it was discovered Zyren Kael was not the anticipated S-Class Alpha or rare Omega.

He was a D-Class. The family’s hopes shattered.

Everything changed.

They hadn’t just been disappointed. They had erased him.

They had closed the album on the silver-haired boy who had been their sun, and left the rest of the pages blank, as if his life, his very existence after that point, was not worth recording.

The love hasn’t faded.

It has been deleted.