CHAPTER TWO
Ted POV
I'm exhausted.
I place the meagre groceries on the chipped kitchen counter, trying not to cough as smoke spills from under the doorway to the living room.
I already know what I'll find.
I walk in, and there they are. Uncle Rolland and his son—my cousin—surrounded by soft ring light glow, a half-tilted camera setup, and the scent of cheap cologne.
Uncle Rolland is a bit... delusional. Sure, he was a prince in Aspen once. But that was before he was banned from the palace, long before the planet exploded. Now we live on Earth—and Rolland still thinks he's royalty.
In pursuit of the life he believes he deserves, he dove into the adult industry. He's an omega, an otherworlder, and for a time, he had clients. Now he's older, past his prime, and has decided to pass the mantle to his son.
He tried to get me involved. I declined.
I've seen their clients. No thank you.
Whatever they earn, they spend on luxury knockoffs and brand-name clothes. Outfits. Bags. Perfume. Everything to maintain a fantasy of wealth.
We are poor as shit.
I'm the only one in this apartment paying rent regularly. Groceries. Utilities. Life. All on my meagre C-class healer salary. And sure, healers are rare. Even a C-class could live comfortably if they were native-born.
But I'm not.
I'm an otherworlder.
Sixty percent of my income is taxed. It's legal. Everyone knows it's unfair. But what can we do? This is their planet. Their system.
I walk into the bathroom and take a fast shower under a flickering bulb.
I need a drink.
I dry off, wrap a scarf around my neck, careful to hide the collar. The damned designation marker—my omega status worn like a brand.
I hate it.
I don't know who spread the idiotic rumor that having a child with an omega guarantees high-rank offspring. But here we are.
There's a trafficking ring now. A breeding market. An entire hidden system of buyers and takers who think we're lucky to be owned. It's an open secret.
Life is already hard enough. Last thing I need is to end up someone's pet.
I grab my bag, pull the door open, and step out without sparing another glance at the father-son duo glowing beneath their ring light.
Let them rot in their fantasy.
I'm going to get a drink.
*
I head to the higher class and status section of the city—a far cry from the backwards neighborhood I'm from.
If there's one thing I can thank my so-called bloodline for, it's my looks. Being attractive, with golden eyes and hair, Uncle Rolland claims it's a symbol of Aspen's royal family.
Whatever.
I don't know the truth about my biological father. Just rumors. Rolland's version of events—twisted and bitter—blames everything on the Aldens. Says they ruined his life. Says my mother was the king's concubine. Says my father was the king's son.
Maybe it's true. Maybe not.
Either way, I need someone to blame for how shitty my life is. So I blame the Aldens.
Every time I see them online, on TV, looking perfect and rich and untouchable, I want to punch something.
Why the fuck should I care that Thieran Alden is wearing a custom designer choker embedded with mana stones?
Don't they know the rest of us are barely surviving?
I won't lie—it's probably jealousy. But I'll never say it out loud. That would make my life too sad.
I arrive at the club.
I get in, of course. Thanks to my appearance. Despite the fact that I don't have a penny to my name.
Pretty privilege. One of the few luxuries I can afford.
*
What are the fucking odds.
What is Thieran Alden doing here? Dancing on the table.
I hide in the corner and take a sip of my drink, nodding vaguely to some man passing by.
He's so pretty.
Damn it, cameras didn't do him justice.
His hair moves with him, long enough to brush his waist. Isn't that too long? It should be. But it makes him look like a fairy. Ethereal. Effortless. Carefree.
I bet he's never had to worry about a single meal in his entire life.
I'm not the only one watching. The whole club is hypnotized. But he's oblivious. Just having fun. Laughing to himself.
And then—I watch it all.
Rami Alden enters like a storm, and just like that, Thieran is gone. Scooped up. Taken. Out the door.
I don't even get a clear look at Rami's face.
Niall Alden leaves too.
The music resumes. The club regains its rhythm.
But I'm not in the mood for a drink anymore.