Destiny's Game* Chapter 1: Tension at the Table

I start every morning the sa way. Teeth brushed, slippers on, the rhythm of the house still soft and half-asleep around . It’s my pattern, my control, the only thing that keeps the chaos from spilling over before the world notices .

I hum a little tune, tapping my fingers against the sink. The house is quiet, except for the faint hum of the fridge. Everything is as it should be — predictable, safe. And then my phone buzzes on the counter. I freeze. The na flashes: Louis Alvara.

My chest tightens. I stare at it. Why now? My mind races through every possibility. Family ergency? Corporate nonsense? Sothing trivial? Or... sothing worse.

I answer before I can think.

"Charles," Louis’ voice is smooth, calm, deliberate — everything he is. My heart skips, and I hate that it does. "I need to tell you... I’m engaged. Alistair Vale."

The words hit like a whip. My stomach twists, my hands curl around the phone as though I could crush it and undo what I just heard. Alistair. That na. That voice. My body reacts before my brain can even process what Louis is saying.

I manage a small laugh, bitter, shaky. "Engaged. Of course. Congratulations, Louis."

"Thank you," he says, and I hear it — the pause, the weight beneath his carefully asured tone. "I... wanted you to know personally. I couldn’t... wait."

I close my eyes, taking a breath, trying to steady the trembling in my hands. I want to hate him. I should hate him. But even as I swallow the words, my chest aches in a way I haven’t felt since... well, ever.

"You’ll be ho for dinner, I assu?" Louis asks. His voice is velvet, but I hear the command underneath. Always the Alpha, even when soft.

I mutter, "Yeah. I’ll be there."

And I hang up, staring at the phone as if it could explain itself, as if it could tell why the world has twisted itself into sothing I don’t recognize anymore.

The rest of the morning passes in a haze. I go through my motions chanically, brushing my teeth again — maybe out of habit, maybe to ground myself. I pace the floor, sip water, check the fridge, ignore the ssages popping up from family about dinner. My mind spins: Louis, Alistair, the engagent, the way my chest aches just thinking about him.

By the ti I reach the dining room, the house is buzzing — my adoptive parents in cheerful chatter, the soft clatter of silverware. And then I see them.

Alistair. Leaning into Louis, laughing at sothing Louis said, the way his hand rests against Louis’ arm, the tilt of his head that makes him look like he’s the only person in the room. My pulse hamrs. I know him. I know him. I know him.

Louis doesn’t look at at first. Calm, composed, untouchable. But I feel it. The way he’s aware of — the faint flicker in his eyes that says you know too much, you feel too much.

I slide into my seat, trying to breathe, trying not to look at them too long. Alistair glances at once — fleeting, just enough to make my stomach clench.

In that mont, the air feels heavier, and I can’t tell who I’m supposed to be — not here, not now.

The clinking of cutlery fills the silence I can’t stand. My parents talk about business, the market, pheromone patents, and politics — everything that doesn’t matter but sounds important when they say it.

Louis answers every question like he rehearsed it. He always does. He was born to fit. He belongs here.

? I’m just a guest in my own house.

Alistair sits beside him, polite smile in place, hands folded. He’s everything the Alvaras would choose — beautiful, refined, calm. But there’s sothing else there, behind his eyes, sothing soft and distant that catches off guard.

He glances at , just for a second. It’s quick — too quick — but it’s enough. My pulse skips. His lips curve in a small, almost invisible smile, and for a heartbeat, I rember the past. The way his voice used to sound when it wasn’t trapped behind good manners.

"So," my mother says, cutting into the silence. "Alistair tells us he’s read about our company for years. Such dedication."

"I’ve always admired what you build here," Alistair says smoothly. "Your research into pheromone compatibility is revolutionary."

My father beams. Louis looks proud. I stare at my plate.

He’s good. He’s really good. Polished, perfect, like Louis. Like everything I’ll never be.

Then Alistair adds, quietly, "Louis told about your family. About all of you. Especially Charles."

The room stills for a second, faint but sharp. My head lifts before I can stop it.

"Oh?" my mother hums. "And what did he tell you about Charles?"

Alistair’s gaze ets mine — steady, knowing. "That he’s the one who keeps the house warm."

My parents laugh lightly, relieved at the complint. Louis’ expression doesn’t change. But I see it — the flicker in his eyes, sothing dark and silent.

"Charles bakes," Louis says, voice even. "He’s always been good at it."

It’s the first ti he’s acknowledged all night. It feels like being pulled out of the dark by force.

"Maybe you could teach soti," Alistair says, smiling at now, more genuine this ti. "Louis said your pastries could make anyone happy."

I nod, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach my chest. "Sure. Maybe I can show you how to make my brother happy."

The words leave before I think. The air thickens instantly. My father chuckles awkwardly, trying to shift the mood. My mother changes the topic. But Louis’ hand tightens around his wine glass.

The dinner moves on, but the tension doesn’t fade. It lingers — in the scent of the food, in the quiet scrape of forks, in the pulse in my throat that won’t calm.

When it’s finally over, Louis stands first, helping Alistair up. His hand rests on Alistair’s back a second too long — possessive, claiming. He glances at , and there’s sothing in that look. Not anger. Not jealousy. Sothing worse.

Sothing that says: You rember him. And he rembers you. But he’s mine now.

Alistair gives one last look before they walk away — soft, careful, almost apologetic.

And I sit there in the aftermath, surrounded by silverware and silence, pretending I don’t feel the weight of every unsaid word pressing against my chest.