The phone rang just as Pippen was holding a glass of wine, barefoot, the whole city spilling through the windows of her penthouse.
When the name "Zeki Wilson" flashed on the screen, she hesitated for a second. She answered, her voice wrapped in cautious calm:
— Zeki? Is the world ending?
On the other end, silence for a moment. Then, his voice, more restrained than usual:
— Are you alone?
— Yes.
— Can you look at something for me?
She heard the notification sound. A link. She clicked.
The screen loaded. The video started playing.
It didn't take long for her to recognize the face — one she had never seen before, but that her instincts immediately named.
She watched the smile. The music. The insolent freedom.
**Mason. The omega prostitute.**
Singing as if he had never disappeared.
Singing like a real artist.
As if part of the world hadn't collapsed because of him.
She stayed silent, just watching.
The video kept rolling, and the number of views climbed like champagne foam.
— He's back. He showed up? — She finally said.
Zeki answered like the confirmation hurt:
— Yes.
Pippen exhaled, something tightening in her chest.
— Have you talked to Can-Bey yet?
— No. That's why I'm calling you.
She didn't answer right away — but she already knew the reason.
— You want me to tell him?
— I want you to help me think... how to tell him. Or if I even should.
The way he said it sounded less like a strategy and more like desperation.
— Zeki... — she said carefully. — It's going to reach him anyway. You know that. You can't hide it.
— I know. But... — he paused, his breathing heavier — you know Can-Bey. He's not easy to reach when he feels betrayed, or lied to.
She smiled sadly. She knew. She had spent years trying to reach him herself.
— You think it will hurt his pride?
— I *know* it will. — Zeki's voice hardened. — And... even though we don't always get along, Pippen, I've always thought you were the best thing that could have happened to him.
She didn't answer. Just stared into her glass, as if searching for answers in the reflection of the wine.
— You care about him — Zeki said, voice softer now. — And he respects you. I think he trusts you.
— So you're asking me to protect him from a truth that's already out in the open. — A dry laugh escaped Pippen.
— No. I'm asking that when that truth hits him... you're the one who's there. Might hurt less that way.
She closed her eyes for a moment.
Images from the gala night rose in her mind: the way Can-Bey kept glancing at his phone, restless.
The way his attention slipped away without him leaving the table.
The silent absence.
That was the night.
The last one.
The night *he* left.
— You knew, didn't you? — She asked, opening her eyes. — That he was with someone he had never introduced. Someone who changed him.
Zeki took a moment to answer.
— I knew. At first, I thought it was just a distraction. But later... later, I hated every second of it. Not because of him... — he paused — ...but because it was just a prostitute, Pippen.
You know what that means? A poor omega. Low-class. A walking mistake.
And worse... — his voice faltered slightly — I think he started to feel something real for him.
She nodded slowly. She knew that kind of dangerous connection.
— And now, what do you plan to do, Zeki? — She asked, without irony. — Because, honestly... men like your brother always had lovers like that. You're dramatizing too much.
— Maybe. — He sighed, the anger slipping into worry. — But this time, it's different.
If he finds out on his own... he'll think everyone lied to him, including me.
— You're afraid of losing your place by his side. — She said it without accusation. Just stating the truth.
Zeki didn't answer.
— Help me, Pippen — he finally said, voice raw.
She remained silent after he hung up.
Stayed there, staring at the screen, where Mason smiled as if he had never disappeared.
And for the first time in a long while, she felt a growing worry — not just for what could come from outside, but for what was already brewing inside them.
Almost to herself, she murmured:
— It's going to be fine, Zeki...
In the end, people want figures they can be proud of...
The idea of a high-status alpha falling in love with a poor, prostitute omega... This is a tired storyline that has been done to death in movies and books. It is totally out of fashion and has no connection to real life.
This will pass. Like all storms, it will pass.
With rehearsed certainty, she took another sip of wine.
The following day...
The morning sun didn't bring peace.
It brought headlines.
The house still smelled of fresh coffee and damp earth when the first online news alerts started popping up across screens.
"Benjamin Williams Exposes Private Estate in Intimate Moment with New Heir?"
"Who is Damián? An Illegitimate Son?"
The images were crystal clear.
The recording from the previous evening had been captured on thousands of devices — every smile, every glance, every careless word.
Upstairs, Ziggy woke to his mother's insistent voice and a furious notification blinking on his phone:
*"Ziggy, what have you done now?"*
He blinked, still groggy.
*"Open the news,"* she said.
Ziggy did.
And his heart sank.
Benjamin's face.
The handshake with Damián.
An expression that left no room for doubt — plastered across every major headline.
Before he could process it, his mother yanked the tablet from his hands with a sharp gesture.
Margareth stood there, still in her uniform, eyes blazing as if the house itself were on fire.
— Ziggy! — Her voice cut the air like a blade. — What did you do?
He sat up in bed, tense.
— I... I just filmed a video... like I always do... — he tried to explain.
— You *always* film videos no one watches! — She snapped back, barreling over his excuse. — And yesterday, of all days, you go viral across the entire world?
Ziggy shrugged helplessly, shame flooding his voice.
— I didn't think this could happen... I swear, Mom. It was just to keep a memory. (He lied.)
I didn't mean to hurt anyone.
Margareth stood before him, taking a deep breath, like she needed to remind herself that she was his mother first — before anything else.
Then, her voice low but steel-firm:
— Do you have any idea what you've done? The mess you've caused?
He lowered his head.
— I'm sorry... I didn't think... It was supposed to be just a simple recording. A keepsake for myself.
Margareth narrowed her eyes at him.
Without a word, she leaned in and pulled his ear — sharp, brief, no tenderness in it. Just reality.
— No more screw-ups, Ziggy. Not today. Not tomorrow. Never again.
She left the room before he could say anything else.
---
Downstairs, the house buzzed with hurried steps.
Security tightened the gates.
A new access protocol had been enforced overnight.
In the study, Benjamin Williams sat calmly, dressed in blazer and shirt, the discarded tie lying over the desk.
He read the headlines one by one.
With the measured patience of someone who had already survived greater scandals.
But there was a glint in his eyes — not anger for Damián, not shame for the exposure — but irritation at losing control of the narrative.
He was happy to have his son at home.
Now the whole world knew.
And for Benjamin, the problem wasn't that they knew.
The problem was the speculation that came without direction.
*Damián was a legitimate son.*
*Not a bastard.**
Period.
The house still vibrated with the echoes of the previous night's exposure.
By mid-morning, while everyone else pretended to be busy enough not to think about it, Ziggy slipped out of the administration wing with careful steps.
He searched for Damián and Mason — and found them by the side garden.
From a distance, they seemed relaxed. Casual words, lazy gestures under the soft sun.
Swallowing his shame, Ziggy drew a deep breath and approached.
— Damián... Mason... — his voice came out more hesitant than he'd have liked.
Both turned to face him.
Ziggy ran a hand through his hair, trying to gather his thoughts.
— I... I just wanted to apologize — he said, bluntly. — I didn't think. I recorded it like I always do... I thought it would just be a memory. I never imagined it would go viral. I swear.
Silence stretched between them for a beat.
Damián crossed his arms, unreadable.
Mason, however, lowered his gaze, a faint flicker of something in his eyes.
A small, almost imperceptible smile played at the corner of his lips.
*He knew the truth.*
He had planted a hidden viral booster on Ziggy's channel that very morning, betting it might stir some movement.
*He had moved the pieces — and now, watching Ziggy shrink under the guilt, left a bittersweet taste in his mouth.*
But Mason said nothing. He was happy, and helping Ziggy made him feel like a kind of fairy godmother.
It wasn't his time to talk or confess what he'd done — and maybe it never would be. He had succeeded.
He had made Ziggy seen.
Damián was the first to break the silence:
— Relax, Ziggy. — He said, offering a half-smile. — Sometimes life needs an accident to remind itself that it's alive.
Mason nodded, and this time his voice was warmer:
— And to be honest... — he said, looking straight at Ziggy — you've got talent. You made the world stop and watch you. Not everyone can pull that off.
Ziggy blinked, surprised.
— Really?
Mason smiled for real now. A wide, genuine smile.
— Really.
Damián let out a dry laugh, but without any harshness.
— Just don't get used to it — he joked. — Accidental stars burn out fast.
Ziggy laughed nervously, feeling the weight in his chest finally begin to lift.
Deep down, Mason felt relieved.
This wasn't the time to confess.
Maybe it never would be.
It was then that Benjamin appeared at the entrance of the house.
— Damián — he called, with that measured authority of his. — If you're free, come with me. I'd like to show you something.
Damián nodded, shot a last amused glance at Ziggy, and followed his father.
Ziggy stood there, watching Mason.
And then Andrews appeared silently beside them, like a courteous shadow.
— Mason — he said, with the impeccable politeness of those who carry important messages — would you accompany me to your workshop?
Mason raised an eyebrow.
— My workshop?
Andrews smiled slightly.
— A setting... better suited for private conversations has become available.
Without hesitation, Mason followed Andrews, knowing that the lighthearted game was over.
And the real game was only beginning.
The horse moved slowly along the narrow trail lined with ancient trees.
The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and old wood.
Benjamin rode ahead, his posture upright, his silence deliberate.
Damián followed, mounted with the natural ease of someone who had long carried invisible weights.
The ranch fell away behind them, distant.
Here, only the sound of hooves and the whisper of wind through the leaves remained.
After some time, Benjamin pulled the reins.
He dismounted, tying his horse to a sturdy, gnarled tree.
Damián followed — firm, calculated movements, unhurried, confident.
Without a word, Benjamin walked forward.
They came to a small, dark wooden enclosure. Discreet.
At its center, a simple headstone. No decorations. Just a hand-carved name and a date.
Benjamin stood there, his eyes fixed on the stone.
His breathing was slow, heavy.
— He wanted to be buried here. — Benjamin said, his voice low, almost swallowed by the wind. — I promised I would.
Nothing more.
No long speeches.
Just the essential truth.
Damián approached in silence.
Inside him, there was a strange feeling — not quite belonging, but not feeling like an intruder either.
He stopped in front of the grave.
Lowered his head slightly.
And with the same natural precision he once used to adjust a weapon before heading into battle, he joined his hands together.
He closed his eyes.
He remained like that: body firm, hands entwined, head slightly bowed.
No words escaped his lips.
But inside, a brief, solemn prayer took shape:
For the lives of those who gave me this body.
For the lives of those who gave me my spirit.
May their memory find peace.
For my sister, wherever she may be.
For Benjamin, who welcomed me without knowing who I truly am.
And may I honor them, even if I don't deserve it.
The wind picked up, stronger.
Dry leaves spun around his boots.
Damián remained still.
He wasn't seeking answers.
He wasn't waiting for signs.
It was simply respect.
A gesture that crossed body, soul, and time.
When he opened his eyes, he looked at the grave one last time — without sadness, without any longing he could truly call his own.
Only a quiet acceptance of the invisible bond now tying him to that piece of land.
Without a word, he turned.
Benjamin was still there, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze lost on the horizon.
Damián walked back to his horse and mounted with the ease of someone who knew his own limits.
Benjamin did the same.
And together, without speaking, they began the ride back.
Side by side.
Not as strangers.
Not yet as a family.
But as two men carrying on their backs promises made — and, that day, fulfilled.