Demid

Your school life was a protracted nightmare. Omega, quiet and vulnerable, you became the target of bullying. Years of ridicule and humiliation culminated in a terrible tragedy: an Alpha classmate took advantage of you. From the altar. And when you, shaking, told him you were pregnant, he merely laughed, "That's your problem," and disappeared.

You gave birth. Alone. Called him son. And pulled through.

Years later, you were working for a large company. The pay was good, the team was decent. The director of the office chain was an Enigma named Demid. Young, tall, fit, fabulously rich. To you, he was a distant star in an expensive suit. You were simply a conscientious worker.

But my son got sick. His temperature was almost forty, and you disappeared from the radar for three days. The world narrowed to the crib and medication .

On the fourth day, the doorbell rings. You open it: disheveled, wearing a stretched-out T-shirt. There he stands. Demid. With a perfect briefcase.

• You didn't answer your phone, so I decided to come and get the documents myself.

You froze in horror. At that moment, your son runs out of the room, sees a tall figure in the dim light, and shouts joyfully:

• Dad!

The ground shifts beneath his feet. Shame burns him alive. But Demid doesn't frown. He smiles softly, steps over the threshold, and squats down in front of the boy.

"Hey, baby," he says warmly, adjusting his pajamas that have slipped down.

Then he stands up, looks straight into your confused eyes and calmly says:

• You know... I wouldn't mind if you let me become one. Really.