Trapped in a Novel as the D-Class Alpha I Hated Most Chapter 137: The Cost Of A Fantasy

The eting room is a tomb.

Silence presses against the walls so thick I can almost taste it—sterile and cold, like the air before a storm. I lean back in the head chair, my spine pressed against the leather, my fingers steepled in front of .

My eyes stay fixed on the tablet screen—the news poisoning my morning, the faces of strangers dissecting my family.

My face is a mask. Cold. Unreadable.

The Best Feeling project crew stands before in a rigid line. Every single one of them stares at the floor, at the table, at anything but .

Their shoulders are tense. Their hands tremble at their sides. Fear radiates from them in waves.

The manager steps forward, his voice a fragile thing.

"Sir... You—"

I don’t let him finish. I pick up the tablet and throw it onto the table.

The sharp crack echoes through the silence like a gunshot.

The screen fractures, spiderweb cracks racing across the glass.

Everyone flinches. A woman in the back gasps. Manager takes a step back, his face draining of color.

I look at him. Slowly. Deliberately.

"Explain yourself."

He swallows. I watch his throat move, watch the fear bloom in his eyes.

"Sir... there’s no one who—there’s no leak. We don’t know who—"

I lean forward slowly, my eyes never leaving his. The movent is small, but the room seems to shrink around it.

"Are you trying to hide it?"

"No, sir! I’m just—I’m trying to—we’ve investigated and—"

A knock cuts through his stamring.

Three short raps. Sharp. Professional.

I lean back again, pressing my fingers to my temple where a headache is already blooming, a dull throb behind my eyes.

"Co in."

The door opens.

Deniz enters.

I don’t look at him. I don’t need to. I feel his presence like a warmth at my side, a steady anchor in the storm. His movents are professional, asured, as he walks to stand beside .

"Sir." His voice is calm, controlled, the perfect assistant. He holds a tablet of his own, his expression neutral.

"As you ordered, all major news outlets have been contacted. The stories are being pulled as we speak."

A pause. "We’ve traced the source of the original post."

My eyes stay fixed on Manager.

"And?"

"The photos were edited. Digitally altered. Whoever made them knew what they were doing." Another pause.

"The IP address traces back to soone inside this building."

The silence that follows is absolute.

I let it stretch. Let them feel it. Let them wonder.

Then I speak, my voice ice.

"Mr. Roger."

He flinches like I’ve struck him.

"I think you’ve grown tired of your position here." I tilt my head, studying him.

"Perhaps a long rest at ho would suit you better. Ti to think about loyalty. About responsibility."

I let the words hang, sharp and deliberate.

"You’re all—"

"Sir!"

Roger’s face drains of color. Not pale. Ashen. His hands lift in panic.

"Wait—please—I’ll tell you! I know who did it!"

I raise an eyebrow. Say nothing.

He points. His finger shakes as it extends toward the corner of the room.

"Mia. It was Mia."

Every head turns.

A girl stands near the back, pressed against the wall as if she could disappear into it.

She’s young—early twenties, maybe. Dark hair pulled back in a ssy ponytail. Her face is buried in her hands, but I can see the tremor in her shoulders, the way her whole body shakes with silent sobs.

Roger keeps talking, the words spilling over each other.

"I didn’t know at first—I was trying to protect the team—I thought if we stood together you might reconsider—please, sir—this is my job—"

"Everyone except her," I cut in smoothly, my voice flat, "get out."

They scatter like leaves before a storm. Footsteps stumble. The door opens and closes—opens and closes—until only fading echoes remain.

And the girl’s quiet crying.

The door closes one final ti.

Soft click.

Silence.

Just us. , Deniz, and her.

Deniz stands silently beside , a quiet presence, waiting. I can feel his eyes on , but he doesn’t speak.

I look at the girl.

"You’re Mia."

She doesn’t look up. Just nods, a small jerky movent. Her hands are clenched so tight in her skirt the fabric is twisted into knots, her knuckles white.

"Look at ."

Slowly. Reluctantly. She lifts her face.

Tears streak her cheeks, leaving shiny trails in their wake. Her eyes are red, swollen, the kind of crying that’s been going on for hours.

Mascara smudges dark circles beneath them. She’s young—younger than I expected.

Old enough to know better. Still too young to grasp the damage.

"Why did you do it?"

She cries silently for a mont, her breath hitching. Then she finds her voice, small and broken.

"Sir... I’m sorry. I didn’t an to—I didn’t think—I never thought it would—"

"Why."

Softer now. Not softer for her—softer because I’m tired. Because Angel’s tears are still fresh in my mind.

She swallows. More tears fall. "Sir... I’m the biggest fan of Mr. Moon Arden." The words co out in a rush, desperate for understanding.

"I’ve followed his career for years. I know everything about him—every interview, every photoshoot. And when I saw him with Mr. Angel during the shoot..."

She pauses, a sob catching in her throat.

"They looked so beautiful together. So perfect. Like they were made for each other."

She looks at , pleading. "I just thought—if I made a post, people would see it too. They’d ship them together. It would go viral and everyone would love them like I do. I didn’t an to hurt anyone. I just wanted people to see what I saw."

I stare at her.

She did it because she loved seeing them together. Because she thought she was creating sothing beautiful. Sharing joy. Making art.

It’s not wrong, that impulse. To see two people and imagine them happy. To want to share that vision with the world. I’ve done it myself, in another life, in another world.

But this wasn’t fiction. These were real people. Real lives. And her ’art’ hurt soone I care.

I lean forward, resting my elbows on the table. My voice is quiet now, but it carries.

"You didn’t know," I say slowly, "because of your fake post, soone got hurt. Soone innocent. Soone I care about."

Her face crumples. Fresh tears pour down her cheeks.

"Sir, please—I’m so sorry. I’ll do anything—I’ll post a retraction, I’ll apologize publicly, I’ll—"

"Your sorry can’t fix anything."

She looks at , desperate, drowning.

"Sir, I—I didn’t—"

"Leave."

She stares for a mont, frozen. Then she nods slowly, a broken little movent. She turns and walks to the door, her steps unsteady, her shoulders shaking. The door opens. She slips through.

It closes with a soft click.

Silence.

I take a deep breath. Let it out slowly. The anger is still there, coiled in my chest, but it’s muted now.

Buried under exhaustion and the lingering ache of seeing Angel cry, of holding him while he fell apart.

Deniz’s voice breaks the quiet.

Soft. Gentle. Just for .

"Are you okay?"

I look at him. Really look at him.

His dark eyes are warm, concerned, full of sothing that makes my chest ache. He’s not the perfect assistant now.

He’s just Deniz. My Deniz.

My face must show everything I’m feeling—the frustration, the sadness, the weight of it all.

Because he doesn’t wait for an answer.

He opens his arms.

"Need a hug?"

A soft smile spreads across my lips, breaking through the mask I’ve worn all morning. It’s small and tired and real.

I stand quickly, closing the distance between us, and bury myself in his arms.

My face presses against his neck, and I breathe in—deep, slow, greedy—his scent.

Fresh red rose. Clean and warm and ho.

His arms wrap around , holding gently but firmly. One hand moves to my back, patting slowly, rhythmically, a comfort that needs no words.

"Don’t worry," he whispers against my ear.

"Everything is fine now."

I don’t answer. I just hold him tighter, my eyes closing, my body finally relaxing in the safety of his arms.

As long as you’re here, I’m fine.