Chapter 15
846words
Damian Blackwood's estate.
Relentless insomnia was destroying the once-invincible Alpha.
The aftermath of his shattered Mental Link proved devastating. His pheromones fluctuated wildly—sometimes raging like wildfire, sometimes stagnating like fetid water. A nauseating stench permeated his once-powerful scent, driving servants from the entire wing.
He locked himself in his bedroom, where fragments of the past two years played endlessly in his mind.
He remembered his pheromones raging out of control, nearly destroying his study, when she rushed in despite the danger, soothing him with her own pheromones, whispering: "Don't be afraid. I'm here."
He remembered countless times he'd called her Seraphina, pouring out affection meant for another while she listened silently, never correcting him.
He remembered his cruel words, calling her a "tool" and a "replica." How he'd abandoned her in the wilderness without hesitation at Seraphina's call…
Each memory branded his heart like a white-hot iron, searing him with endless pain and regret.
He began frantically buying every recording of Genevieve on the black market, paying absurd prices. Not for her image, but to extract the faint traces of her pheromones lingering in the crystals.
Only wrapped in those familiar scent traces could he find momentary peace—like drinking poison to quench his thirst.
He'd become a pathetic addict, chasing an antidote he'd once held but pushed away with his own hands.
But even this antidote was false—merely a manufactured scent she'd been trained to produce.
One day, studying a food map of the capital that Genevieve had once collected, he discovered she'd marked a dessert shop as her "favorite."
A childish, desperate possessiveness seized him.
He immediately leveraged the Blackwood name to buy the shop at an irrefusable price.
He thought this would somehow bring him closer to her.
He thought it would let him feel some trace of her presence.
He arranged to meet Seraphina.
Young love dies hard, and despite her exposed schemes, Seraphina remained his companion—though he couldn't forget Genevieve.
Before their meeting, he sent a gift—a tailored black combat suit. The style Genevieve had preferred, completely unlike Seraphina's elaborate white gowns.
Though confused and displeased, Seraphina wore it anyway.
When she entered the restaurant and saw the small cake with "Happy Birthday" written on it, she froze.
"Damian, are you insane? My birthday was months ago."
"It's her birthday." Damian's voice rasped. He looked at Seraphina in the black suit, but his gaze seemed to pass through her to someone else. "I thought she might like to celebrate this way."
In that moment, understanding struck Seraphina like lightning.
For a month, she'd endured disgrace, her family's cold stares, the humiliation of confinement. She'd thought Damian was her last hope, her chance to reclaim everything.
But now…
She watched him pour wine while murmuring about another woman's preferences. Saw the naked obsession and pain in his eyes as he looked through her at someone else.
An overwhelming sense of absurdity and humiliation crashed over her.
She stood abruptly, knocking over her wine.
"Damian Blackwood!" she screamed, her voice twisted with rage. "Are you using me as her replacement?!"
Indeed.
She—the perfect, noble-blooded, adored "original"—had become a substitute for the "counterfeit" from the Forsaken Lands she'd always despised.
What bitter irony.
Damian didn't answer. His silence was confirmation enough.
Seraphina laughed bitterly, tears streaming down her face, as she fled the restaurant.
Damian remained alone with the small cake. He closed his eyes in pain, finally admitting the truth he'd been avoiding.
His obsession had never been about similar pheromones.
He was obsessed with her indomitable spirit—the woman who could smile calmly through his humiliation, reflecting his cruelty back at him.
He had always been obsessed with the "counterfeit" herself.
But he'd realized too late.
He wandered out of the restaurant, the cold night wind bringing momentary clarity to his clouded mind.
Moonlight rain had begun to fall from the sky.
Across the street, Damian spotted two familiar figures.
Alan and Genevieve.
They'd just exited the gallery. Alan walked confidently on his glowing prosthetic, his steps sure and strong. His powerful Alpha energy extended around them like an invisible umbrella, shielding them both from the moonlight rain.
Genevieve wore a beautiful lake-blue dress—a bright color he'd never seen on her. She hadn't noticed him as she tilted her head up to speak to Alan, her face lit with a genuine smile he'd never witnessed. Her pheromones no longer carried cedar's bitterness but smelled of valley orchids and rain-washed forests—happiness, peace, and the sweetness of true love.
Witnessing this, Damian felt his strength drain away.
He lacked even the courage to approach them.
He stood like a ghost at the edge of the living world, silently watching a warm light that would never be his.
Only now did he fully, painfully understand that his fate had been sealed long ago.
On that sunny afternoon years ago, when he'd coldly watched that thin, stubborn girl from the Forsaken Lands being tormented by Alpha pheromones, and he'd simply turned away in disdain…
His arrogance and prejudice had already cost him everything worth having.
