Trapped in a Novel as the D-Class Alpha I Hated Most Chapter 218: How Could He Leave Me Like This?

The morning light slips through the heavy curtains like honey seeping through cracks in old wood—slow, golden, reluctant. The ordinary sounds of a world that hasn’t noticed anything is wrong drift faintly through the room.

Dust motes float in the warm glow, suspended like tiny stars caught between sleep and waking.

I shift slightly, stretching, my body still heavy with the remnants of dreams I can’t quite rember. My limbs feel loose, unmoored, as if I’m floating sowhere between consciousness and the deep, dark pull of sleep.

But sothing is wrong.

The warmth I expect—the familiar heat I’ve grown to need, to crave—is absent. The softness against my face isn’t his chest. Not his heartbeat beneath my ear. Not the steady rise and fall of his breathing against my hair.

It’s a pillow. Cold. Empty.

My eyes open slowly, reluctantly—as if my body already knows what my mind refuses to accept.

I blink, focusing.

A pillow lies beside , my arm draped over it, clutching it like it might beco him if I hold on tightly enough. My fingers curl into the fabric— like I was reaching for soone who was already gone.

Where is Deniz?

I sit up too quickly.

The room tilts—then steadies. The bed beside is cold. Undisturbed. The sheets are smooth. The pillow untouched.

He’s been gone for a while. Long enough for his warmth to fade. Long enough for the mory of him beside to beco exactly that— just a mory.

I look down at myself. I’m wearing clean night clothes—soft cotton, comfortable. The kind soone puts on you when you’re too tired to notice.

Did he change last night?

I try to piece it together—fragnts of the night, scattered and blurred. My face pressed against his bare chest. Our bodies tangled in sheets, limbs intertwined like we were trying to beco one person.

The soft, steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my ear. His fingers tracing slow, lazy patterns along my back.

My na, whispered against my hair— a lullaby that pulled under. I fell asleep in his arms.

I know I did.

So where is he now?

I push the blanket aside and step out of bed.

The marble floor is cool beneath my bare feet, the chill seeping through my skin despite the morning light spilling across it.

The room is too quiet— not empty, but controlled. I cross the space quickly, my reflection flickering faintly across the glass panels as I move.

The bathroom door is already open. I push it wider and step inside. Stillness.

The mirrors are spotless. The counters pristine. No steam. No lingering scent. Everything exactly as it should be—untouched. Too untouched.

My fingers tighten against the edge of the glass door.

Where did he go?

I turn quickly, my bare feet silent against the polished floor as I reach for the bedside table.

My phone lies where I left it, screen dark.

I grab it. My fingers tremble as I wake the screen and dial his number. It rings once.

Then—

"The number you are calling is currently unavailable. Please try again later."

My eyes widen. I end the call. Dial again.

"The number you are calling is currently unavailable. Please try again later."

Again.

Sa voice.

Sa words.

Unavailable.

Unavailable.

Unavailable.

The word starts to blur, repeating in my head long after the call ends. My heart pounds—fast, uneven, too loud in the silence. Heat stings behind my eyes.

Why isn’t his phone working? Deniz... where are you? This isn’t funny.

He promised . Two days. No distractions. No work. Just us. He’s never broken a promise to before. He’s not like this.

He wouldn’t just disappear— not without a word. Not without sothing. It has to be urgent. Sothing important. Sothing he couldn’t explain.

I dial the company. The line rings once. Twice. Three tis.

"Good morning, Kael Holdings. How may I help you?"

The receptionist’s voice is bright— too bright, untouched by the panic tightening in my chest.

"Is Secretary Deniz in the office today?" My voice cos out strained. Barely steady.

A pause.

The faint sound of typing. "No, President. Mr. Deniz hasn’t co in today. Would you like to—"

I hang up without another word.

I pull open the drawer where I keep the key to his apartnt—the one he gave . The chain still hangs from it, the little bunny and bear swaying slightly.

Their tiny glass eyes catch the light, their painted smiles frozen—bright, careless, oblivious to the dread curdling in my stomach.

I close my hand around it and turn.

I walk out of the room, my steps too fast against the polished marble.

The chill seeps through my bare feet, but I don’t feel it. I don’t feel anything— except the growing certainty that sothing is wrong.

A servant passes in the hallway. She freezes for a mont when she sees —barefoot, tear-streaked, hair unkempt, still in my night clothes.

Then she bows quickly, murmuring a greeting I don’t hear.

I don’t look at her. I keep walking.

I descend the grand staircase barefoot, my steps quick, uneven. At the bottom, the old maid—who has served this house for years—stands waiting. She bows, her voice warm with morning cheer.

"Good morning, Young Master—"

She stops. Her expression shifts as she looks up at — the bare feet, the tears, the unraveling.

I stop one step above her.

"When did Deniz leave?" My voice trembles.

She lowers her gaze, hands folded neatly in front of her, posture respectful—but tense. "Early this morning, Young Master. Before sunrise."

My voice rises, cracking. "Why didn’t you wake ?"

"I’m sorry, Young Master." Her tone softens further. "Mr. Deniz instructed us not to disturb you. He said you needed rest."

A brief pause. "He was very insistent."

My jaw tightens. "Tell the driver to prepare the car. I’m leaving."

She hesitates, her eyes flicking upward—taking in my bare feet, my night clothes, my disheveled hair.

"Young Master... perhaps you should change first. Or at least—"

I don’t answer. I turn and walk toward the door.

Behind , I hear her hurry after , slippers in hand. "Young Master... please—"

I stop. I don’t look back. She sets the slippers at my feet, her voice gentle but firm. "Please... at least wear these. The ground is cold."

My fingers tighten around my phone. I step into them without a word— and walk outside.

The car is already waiting, engine running, the door held open by the driver. I slide into the back seat without eting anyone’s eyes.

"Deniz’s apartnt."

The driver nods. The car pulls away, the mansion gates closing behind us with a soft, final click.

I stare at my phone screen— at my reflection in the dark glass. Soone who falls apart when he’s not beside .

I dial his number again. One ring. Then—

Unavailable.

I scroll through my contacts and find Mr. David’s number.

Maybe Deniz is at the hospital. Maybe that’s where he went. Maybe he’s fine. Maybe I’m overreacting.

The line rings once. Twice— then his voice, warm and familiar.

"Good morning, son. How are you today?"

I steady my breath, forcing the tremor out of my voice.

"Good morning, Dad. I’m fine."

A pause.

"Is Deniz there? At the hospital?"

"No, he’s not here."

Another pause—this one heavier. "Is everything alright, son? You don’t sound like yourself."

"I’m fine. I just thought he might be there."

"Are you sure?" His voice softens. "You sound... off."

"I’m fine, Dad." My grip tightens on the phone.

"Please rest. I’ll call you later."

"Alright. Take care of yourself."

"You too."

The call ends.

The screen goes dark. My reflection stares back at —blurred, unsteady— as tears fall across the glass, distorting it into sothing I barely recognize.

The city slides past the window—bright, indifferent. People move through their lives, untouched. Unaware that mine is coming apart.

The car slows—then stops in front of Deniz’s building. I open the door before the driver can speak. Before anyone can stop .

The lobby is crowded, as always. Lines at the elevators. Conversations. Movent. I don’t wait. I turn toward the stairs and start climbing.

My body aches. My lungs burn. My legs protest with every step— but I don’t stop. I can’t.

How could he leave like this? We had one more day.

One more day to laugh— to hold each other— to pretend the future isn’t rushing toward us. One more day before—

No.

I cut the thought off before it can form.

Not yet.

I reach his floor, breathless. My shirt clings to my skin. My eyes burn.

The hallway is silent.

My footsteps sound too loud as I move toward his door. Each step feels heavier than the last. Each heartbeat louder. Each breath harder to draw.

I stop in front of his door. My hands shake as I pull out the key and slide it into the lock.

I turn it.

Nothing.

The door doesn’t open. I frown, confusion cutting through the fear. I twist it again. Harder. It doesn’t turn.

Did he change the locks?

I pull the key out and stare at it— like it might explain sothing it can’t.

I knock.

Silence.

I knock again—harder. My knuckles strike the wood in a sharp, uneven rhythm.

Then— footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Uneven.

The lock clicks. The door opens.

My eyes lift—searching for him, desperate—to see him, to make sure he’s okay, to demand an explanation—

I freeze.