Chapter 136: Because That’s What Family Does…

The car door closes behind me, and I take a moment to breathe in the morning air. It’s different today—not the biting cold of the past weeks, but something softer.

The snow is melting under a pale sun, dripping from rooftops in steady, musical rhythms. Patches of white still cling to shadows, but the world is waking up, shedding its frozen coat.

My eyes drift upward, following the familiar lines of the Kael Holdings building. It rises against the pale sky like always—enormous, shining, perfect.

A monument to everything Zyren Kael built.

I take a deep breath, shove my hands in my pockets, and start walking.

The lobby greets me with its usual chorus.

“Good morning, sir.”

Bows. Polite smiles.

But beneath the surface, something hums—an undercurrent of whispers, of sidelong glances, of conversations that pause and restart when I pass.

Staff are chatting in small clusters, their voices low but urgent.

I catch fragments—”Moon Arden,” “the photos,” “did you see”—but I don’t stop.

I keep walking, my steps steady, my face calm.

I reach the elevators and press the button. The soft chime of the call button echoes in the marble space.

“Good morning, sir!”

I turn. Ziya. Of course. Running toward me like always, like he’s in a marathon he’s determined to win.

His breath comes in uneven gasps as he skids to a stop in front of me, bowing quickly.

I study his face. Today, it’s not light. Not bright. Something sits behind his eyes, heavy and urgent.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

He looks up at me, and for a moment, he’s just a young man carrying bad news.

“Sir,” he says, his voice lower than usual, “something bad happened.”

I blink, confusion flickering through me.

“What?”

He unlocks his tablet with quick, nervous fingers and holds it out.

“Please take a look at this.”

I take the tablet. The screen glows with a familiar news site, and the headline hits me like a splash of cold water.

Moon Arden’s New Romance? Superstar Spotted Getting Close with Fresh face Model Angel During ’Best Feeling’ Shoot!

My eyes widen. I scroll quickly, scanning, reading, absorbing.

Photos. Backstage shots from the photoshoot. Moon and Angel, standing close. Moon leaning toward Angel, his expression unreadable. Angel looking up at him, something vulnerable in his posture.

Another shot—Moon’s hand on Angel’s shoulder. Another—their faces inches apart, the angle making it look like a kiss waiting to happen.

The comments are a warzone. Some fans are furious, accusing Angel of using Moon for fame. Others are swooning, calling them the most beautiful couple they’ve ever seen.

A few are confused, pointing out that Moon has never shown interest in anyone before.

I scroll back to the article, reading between the lines.

Sources say they’ve grown close during the shoot. Insiders reveal Moon specifically requested Angel for this campaign.

Could this be Kael Holdings’ new power couple?

I hand the tablet back to Ziya.

“So this is what everyone’s talking about.”

My voice is calm, measured. It’s not bad news, really. If anything, it’s good for the campaign.

A rumored romance between the face of the brand and a rising star? That’s publicity money can’t buy.

But.

From Moon’s behavior, from everything I’ve seen of that impossible, infuriating Alpha… I don’t think so. Moon isn’t the type to fall gently into romance.

He’s the type to lock doors and demand answers and say things like ’your scent calms me’ while looking at someone he supposedly barely knows.

“Where’s Angel?” I ask.

Ziya’s face shifts. “He’s in your office, sir. He looks… really sad. His eyes are red.”

The calm drains out of me.

The elevator doors open with a soft chime. I step inside without a word, my finger jabbing the button for my floor. Then the close-door button twice. Anything to make this faster.

The doors slide shut, cutting me off from Ziya’s worried face.

I watch the numbers climb.

Too slow. Always too slow.

Angel. Crying. Red eyes.

Moon can handle attention. He’s been living under spotlights for years.

But—

Angel is new.

He isn’t built for this kind of noise yet.

The doors open. I step out and I’m running—not Ziya’s frantic marathon pace, but something else. Something urgent. Something that doesn’t care who sees.

I reach my office door. Push it open.

“Angel!”

The word comes out loud, sharp, desperate.

He’s on the couch. His face lifts toward me, and I see it—the redness, the tears still wet on his cheeks, the way his whole body seems folded in on itself like he’s trying to disappear.

For a second, we just look at each other.

He stands. Then he moves, crossing the space between us, and his arms are around me before I can say another word.

The hug is tight. Desperate.

Not professional. Not careful.

The kind of embrace that says everything words can’t.

I hold him back. Just hold him. Because whatever this is, whatever happened, he needs to know he’s not alone.

Not now. Not ever.

His arms tighten around me, desperate and clinging. For a moment, neither of us moves.

The world outside this office—the rumors, the cameras, the chaos—it all fades into background noise.

Then slowly, gently, I push back just enough to see his face.

His grip loosens but doesn’t let go. His hands stay on my arms, as if I’m the only solid thing in a world that’s suddenly tilted sideways.

His golden eyes meet mine, and they’re swimming—tears spilling over, trailing down his cheeks in an endless, silent stream.

“Zyren.”

His voice cracks. “It’s all fake. I didn’t… I didn’t do anything. I swear.”

I lift my hand, my fingers finding his wet cheek. I wipe the tears away, gentle, patient.

“Shh.”

My voice is soft, steady, an anchor in his storm. “I know it’s fake. I know you. My Angel.”

I hold his gaze, willing him to see the truth there. “You don’t need to explain anything to me. Please don’t cry.”

A sob catches in his throat, but he fights it, swallowing hard.

I keep my hand on his cheek, my thumb brushing away each new tear as it falls.

“I’m here with you. You’re not alone.” I pause, letting the words settle.

“Just give me two hours. Two hours, Angel. I promise—all the news, all the rumors, all of it will fade like air. Gone. You won’t have to carry this.”

He stares at me, searching my face for doubt, for hesitation. He finds none.

Slowly, he nods. Just a small movement, but it’s enough.

Then he pulls me close again, burying his face in my shoulder, his arms wrapping around me like I’m the only safe place left in the world.

A slow, sad smile touches my lips. He’s older than me—by years, by experience—but right now, in this moment, he’s just a frightened child.

Innocent. Fragile.

My fingers move through his golden hair, smoothing the strands, a gentle, rhythmic comfort. I murmur against his ear, soft as a promise.

“Angel. I’m always with you. You never need to be scared.”

He trembles against me. But slowly, gradually, the trembling eases.

And I hold him. Just hold him.

Because that’s what family does.

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