All Chapters of The Alpha's Second Chance: Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

The tranquility of my rest is shattered when the heavy oak door to my bedroom creaks open. Someone enters, based on the scent, it’s Liza. Her steps are as hushed as her apologetic voice. "Miss Helena," she whispers, barely daring to intrude upon my realm of dreams. My eyes flutter open, and my irritation is immediate. My glare blazes with anger, and my voice is a sharp lash as I demand, "What is it?! Can’t you see I’m in the middle of my sleep?!" Liza, her cheeks pale and voice trembling, stammers, "Forgive me, but there’s something you need to know. The gown designer, Mr. Laurent Duval, who was to deliver your wedding gown earlier today, had been ambushed on his way here." My eyes widen in surprise, then they narrow when my fury intensifies at the unwelcoming news, my slender fingers clenching the sheets. I get up, swing my legs over the edge of the bed and stand, my regal bearing disappears in my disheveled state. "Ambushed? How dare he delay the delivery of my gown!" Liza he

I stand paralyzed at the altar. My body trembles, my heart heavy with anticipation and fear, my eyes dart nervously around, my fear grows with each passing moment. The projector continues to whir to life. The scene continues to unfold on the screen, and I watch in disbelief and terror as Alpha Trayton, several of his Betas and Gammas, and of course me, begin discussing elaborate methods to cause a car accident against the ‘nobody’ and her son and make them appear as a tragic accident. We speak of tampering with brakes, sabotaging steering systems, and creating dangerous distractions for them. ‘This can’t be happening! Someone stop this!’ These are the words booming in my head, but these words are stuck in my throat that I’m almost choking. Hazel, in my subconscious, is speechless, suffering the same torture I’m suffering with. Her eyes wide, her mouth, partly open.The video continues, and we also continue to speak with a cold, calculated indifference, as though discussing the mos

ELOISE’S POV: The television screen illuminates the hotel living area with images of chaos and despair. I sit on the edge of my seat, a chilling sense of foreboding gripping my heart. I stare at the unfolding tragedy on the news, clutching the remote control tightly, my heart racing like a frightened animal in the wild. My fingers tremble as I turn up the volume, and the cacophony of news anchors fills the room. The scene is surreal, almost dreamlike. The camera pans across a breathtaking garden perched on the edge of a sheer cliff, where Braxton and Helena’s wedding ceremony has been transformed into a nightmarish ordeal. The cliff's edge is like a precipice to my own emotions, teetering on the brink of disaster. Helena, in her white dress with a bouquet of flowers in her hands, looks lost and terrified. Trayton, standing at the front bench just behind the altar, looks way more composed than her while watching what’s happening with narrowed eyes. Braxton, on the other hand, stands

ETHAN’S POV: The morgue is a place of deathly stillness, and its sterile walls absorb all sound, leaving only the soft hum of fluorescent lights. I stand at the threshold, my heart a heavy drumbeat in my chest. My father, a man of strength and resilience, lies within those cold walls, life extinguished forever. I take a hesitant step into the morgue, my shoes clicking against the linoleum floor. The scent of disinfectant hangs in the air, sharp and clinical, contrasting sharply with the heaviness of grief that clings to me like a shroud. My breaths come shallow and uneven as I approach the rows of steel gurneys. The numbered tags affixed to the toes of lifeless bodies offer a cruel reminder of the impersonal nature of this place. As I draw nearer, the morgue attendant, a solemn figure in scrubs, nods in acknowledgment. He has seen this sorrow many times before, and his eyes tell a distant sympathy. I return the nod, my throat constricting, and my words stuck in it. I merely point to

TRAYTON’S POV: In the dim, clammy recesses of this disgusting place, I use my ample time to ponder the stark, unrelenting passage of my life. Once a titan of industry, revered and feared in equal measure, I’ve tumbled from grace into this abyss of solitude and despair. The only remnants of my former life are my memories, and the spectral echoes of past glory that reverberates in the deepest corners of my conscience. The stone walls close in on me, their coarse surfaces, marred by the scratches of countless previous occupants, lend the place an aura of malignant permanence. The ceiling above me is veiled in shadows, save for the sporadic flickers of a feeble, dusty light bulb, its flickering illumination serving only to heighten the darkness that envelops me. The bed, if it can be called such, is a meager slab of metal and foam, a pitiful excuse for comfort in a world of unyielding penance. The coarse blanket, threadbare and colorless, is a bitter mockery of the luxurious linens that