Trapped in a Novel as the D-Class Alpha I Hated Most Chapter 36: How You’d Look Wearing Something… Precious

His fingers tighten slightly around my wrist—not painful, just impossible to ignore.

"Deniz, wait—"

He leans closer. His presence fills my space, calm and absolute.

"Don’t move."

Before I can react, the needle pierces my neck vein.

"A—ahh!"

The sound rips out of before pride can stop it. My eyes squeeze shut, shoulders tensing, breath breaking apart like I’m bracing for sothing brutal. Fear flashes first—sharp, instinctive—dragged straight from childhood.

I wait for the pain.

It never cos.

There is only a brief sting. A warm pressure. Nothing more. Like an ant bite beneath the skin—annoying, fleeting, almost gentle.

I freeze.

My lashes lift slowly.

Deniz is watching .

Not startled. Not amused. Just quietly observing, dark eyes steady, hand firm at my wrist. The contrast makes my stomach twist harder than the needle ever did.

Heat creeps up my neck. My ears burn. Damn it.

"It’s..." I swallow, forcing a smile that feels too tight, too obvious. "It’s not hurting."

Silence.

He withdraws the syringe with smooth precision, as if I didn’t just shout like a frightened child. The gloves co off next—calm, controlled movents. Professional. Unaffected.

"After the pheromone stabilizer," Deniz says evenly, "you need rest. The car is ready to take you ho."

I nod, slower than necessary. My face still feels warm. My heart finally begins to settle, though my pride is lying sowhere on the floor.

He straightens, posture flawless again, distance restored. "Tell if you need anything."

He turns to leave.

"Deniz."

He stops at once, attention fully on . "Yes, sir?"

"What’s my schedule?"

He adjusts his glasses, glancing at his watch. "You have a eting in thirty minutes." A pause. Then, firm. "I’ll cancel it."

I set my shirt buttons a little and answer quickly, "No need."

"I’ll attend."

Deniz looks at —really looks—and sothing in his expression shifts. Just a little.

"Sir, you need rest," he says, calm but firm. "I’ll move the eting to tomorrow morning."

"No." I straighten, voice steady. "I’ll attend. I’m fine—active."

For a mont, he hesitates. Then he nods. "Very well."

I reach for my coat, movents deliberate, reclaiming so dignity. "I need a strong coffee."

"Yes, sir."

He turns, obedient as always, and walks out. The door closes behind him with a quiet click, leaving the room still once more.

Silence rushes in.

I lean back on the couch head tipping against the cushions, and let out a long sigh.

"Ah... Neon, you idiot."

I rub my forehead, half-groaning at myself. It was just a syringe. Just a tiny needle. And I scread like I was being dragged to my death.

Unbelievable.

I close my eyes, shaking my head. Always like this. Always making a scene when I’m trying so hard to look reliable, composed—alpha-like.

I’m such a troublemaker.

I want to make a good impression on my future wife. I really do.

But sohow... I always end up embarrassing myself instead.

The eting room is dim and silent.

I sit at the head of the table, posture relaxed, eyes fixed on the glowing projector. The screen paints the darkness with shifting images as a staff mber stands near it, presenting the Best Feeling perfu project. His voice is steady, professional.

My fingers tap lightly against the file in front of —slow, absentminded.

My attention never leaves the screen.

The room gradually brightens as the projector shuts off. The hum fades. Chairs shift softly. Everyone straightens.

Deniz sits beside , calm as ever, disciplined down to the smallest movent. He places a file in front of with careful precision, aligning it perfectly with the table’s edge.

The manager clears his throat.

"Sir, our main target is the global market," he says respectfully. "So we need the right face for Best Feeling. A model who represents beauty, elegance—soone who suits the brand perfectly."

I listen without interrupting.

"I’ve prepared the best options for our brand," he continues, gesturing toward the file in front of .

I glance down briefly—then back up.

"For now, that’s all," I say calmly. "Except Deniz. The rest of you may leave."

They nod at once, standing in unison.

"And tonight," I add, my tone still even, "dinner’s on . Choose any place you like."

For a split second—silence.

Then widened eyes. Quick glances exchanged. Surprise ripples through the room.

Deniz turns his head slightly, his expression shifting just a little.

The manager smiles. "Thank you so much, sir."

They bow lightly and leave, one by one. The door closes softly behind them.

Silence returns.

Only Deniz and .

My gaze drops to the open file.

Supermodels.

I stare at the glossy photographs, then speak without looking up.

"Deniz."

"Yes, sir."

"Do you want to be the model?"

The air freezes.

I look up.

His eyes widen—just slightly, but enough. He stares at as if I’ve said sothing impossible.

"...Sir?" he says after a pause. "I’m... the model?"

I blink, innocent. Then nod.

"Yes. You."

He adjusts his glasses, eyes dropping. Nervousness—subtle, but there.

"Sir, how could I possibly—"

"I’m serious."

He glances at again, then away. "This project is important. We need soone professional. Famous. A beautiful face. I’m just—"

"You’re beautiful," I interrupt smoothly.

"Perfect. Handso."

His breath stutters.

Color rises fast on his cheeks.

Inside, I smile.

"I’m sorry, sir," he says quickly, voice tight. "I can’t do this."

I study him for a second—then smile softly.

"Alright," I say gently. "I won’t force you."

I look back down at the file. "Let’s choose a model."

He nods, eyes fixed firmly on the pages now.

But I glance at him again—slow, teasing.

"I was just wondering," I say lightly, "how you’d look during a photoshoot."

He stiffens.

Our eyes et.

My voice lowers, unhurried.

"How you’d look wearing sothing... precious."

His face turns completely red.

He looks away at once, pushing his glasses up again.

"Sir," he says, almost pleading, "please focus on the file."

I smile.

"Alright," I say calmly.

"Let’s choose a model."