Chapter 5: Unmasking the Strain

The sun was beginning to set, casting a soft orange glow across the academy's courtyard as Dorian stood near the entrance, waiting for his chauffeur. The air was cool, a light breeze brushing against his face, but Dorian barely noticed. His mind was still swirling with the events of the day, the exhaustion weighing heavily on his shoulders.

Detention. Physical labor. Rhys.

He ran a hand through his platinum blonde hair, letting out a slow, controlled breath. He'd made it through the day—barely. But the humiliation of being sent to detention still clung to him like a shadow. He had never felt so out of place, so vulnerable. And now, as he waited for his ride home, the tiredness of the day was settling in. His usually immaculate posture was faltering, his broad shoulders drooping ever so slightly. He hadn't wanted anyone to see him like this—especially not Rhys.

But then, as if the universe itself was determined to test him, a familiar voice broke through the quiet.

"Well, well, look who's still here."

Dorian tensed, his grip tightening on the strap of his satchel. He didn't need to turn around to know who it was. Rhys Everen.

He took a steadying breath before glancing over his shoulder. Rhys was approaching with his usual casual stride, that same lazy smile on his face. His auburn hair was still messy from the day's work, and his uniform looked slightly rumpled. But there was something different about him now—something softer.

"Waiting for your ride, President?" Rhys asked, stopping a few feet away, hands in his pockets. His tone was friendly, almost playful, as if he hadn't spent the entire day driving Dorian up the wall.

Dorian's eyes narrowed, his exhaustion making it harder to keep his frustration in check. "What do you want, Rhys?"

Rhys raised an eyebrow, tilting his head slightly. "Relax, I'm not here to mess with you. Just making conversation."

Dorian frowned, but before he could respond, Rhys' expression shifted. He took a closer look at Dorian—at the tired slump of his shoulders, the weariness in his dark green eyes. For a moment, Rhys seemed to hesitate, the usual mischief in his gaze replaced by something more thoughtful.

"You look... tired," Rhys said quietly, his voice losing its teasing edge. "Rough day?"

Dorian's jaw tightened, the urge to snap at Rhys rising in his chest. Of course it had been a rough day—because of him. But as he opened his mouth to speak, he found the words caught in his throat. Something about Rhys' tone, the way he was looking at him now, made Dorian pause.

Rhys didn't seem like the carefree troublemaker in that moment. He looked... genuine. And it threw Dorian off balance.

"I'm fine," Dorian muttered, his voice a little softer than he intended. He didn't want to admit how exhausted he really was, not to Rhys. Not to anyone.

Rhys studied him for a moment, his smirk fading into something more subdued. "You don't look fine. You've been running around all day, keeping everything perfect, right?"

Dorian's lips tightened into a thin line, but he didn't respond. He didn't have the energy to argue, not anymore.

Rhys shrugged, his hands still in his pockets as he leaned back slightly, as if considering his next words carefully. "Look, I know I give you a hard time, but... maybe I overdid it today."

Dorian blinked, surprised by the sudden shift in Rhys' tone. It wasn't an apology exactly, but it was the closest thing he'd heard to one from Rhys all day. His eyes flickered over to the Omega, searching his expression for any sign of sarcasm or mockery, but Rhys seemed sincere. He was still smiling, but it wasn't the usual playful grin. It was softer, more... understanding.

Before Dorian could respond, the faint hum of an approaching car caught his attention. His heart sank as he recognized the sleek black sedan pulling up to the curb. It wasn't the usual chauffeur. It was Eryx.

The car stopped in front of them, and the passenger window rolled down, revealing Eryx Vaelis, his pale blue eyes sharp and unreadable as they landed on Dorian. There was a flicker of disapproval in his gaze, though he didn't say anything right away.

"Get in," Eryx said, his voice cool and commanding. His silver-gray hair was perfectly neat, his posture stiff and formal even as he sat behind the wheel. There was no warmth in his tone, only expectation—an unspoken reminder that Dorian had once again fallen short of the perfection expected of him.

Dorian swallowed, his shoulders stiffening as he nodded. "Yes, Father."

He moved toward the car, his exhaustion replaced by a familiar sense of duty, but just before he opened the door, Rhys spoke up again, his voice light but filled with something deeper.

"See you around, President," Rhys called out, a hint of amusement in his tone.

Dorian didn't look back. He slid into the car, the door closing with a heavy thud as the silence inside the vehicle wrapped around him. Eryx glanced at him briefly, his expression as cold and distant as ever.

"Detention," Eryx said, his voice a quiet reprimand. "I'm disappointed, Dorian."

Dorian's chest tightened, the weight of the day's events pressing down on him even harder now. He stared straight ahead, his hands resting stiffly in his lap as the car pulled away from the curb. The quiet disapproval from his father stung more than he wanted to admit, but he said nothing.

As the car drove away, Dorian allowed himself one last glance out the window, watching as Rhys stood there, his hands in his pockets, his messy hair glowing faintly in the evening light. He was still smiling, but it wasn't mocking. It was something else—something that made Dorian's chest tighten with confusion.

_

The drive home felt like an eternity, the weight of Eryx's silent disapproval hanging heavy in the air. Dorian kept his eyes trained on the road ahead, though his thoughts were far from the quiet streets of the city. His mind buzzed with everything that had gone wrong that day—the detention, the tension with Rhys, the ever-present pressure of living up to his parents' impossibly high standards.

As the sleek black car pulled up to the towering Vaelis mansion, its grand facade looming in the dim light of evening, Dorian's chest tightened. The mansion's cold, immaculate exterior felt suffocating, a stark reminder of the world of perfection he had been raised in—a world where there was no room for mistakes.

Eryx stepped out of the car without a word, his posture rigid as ever. Dorian followed, his hands still stiff at his sides, feeling like he was walking toward a judgment he couldn't escape. The front door opened silently as they approached, the staff remaining invisible as always, leaving the space feeling as empty and hollow as Dorian felt inside.

As they crossed the marble-floored foyer, Eryx finally spoke, his voice cold and clipped.

"Meet me in the study," Eryx ordered, his pale blue eyes flashing with restrained disappointment. "Your mother is already there."

Dorian's heart sank even further at the mention of Cassandra. If there was one thing worse than facing his father's quiet, commanding disappointment, it was facing his mother's sharp, calculating gaze. She wouldn't shout, wouldn't raise her voice, but her cold, biting words were enough to make anyone feel small.

"Understood," Dorian replied quietly, his voice barely audible.

Eryx didn't wait for a response. He turned sharply on his heel and made his way down the hall, his steps echoing through the silent mansion. Dorian hesitated for a moment, standing alone in the grand, empty space, before steeling himself and following his father.

The Vaelis study was one of the most intimidating rooms in the mansion—lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with tomes that spoke of power, influence, and generations of prestige. It was a place where decisions were made, deals were brokered, and—most often—where Dorian's future had been meticulously planned by his parents.

As Dorian stepped into the study, his eyes immediately landed on his mother. Cassandra Vaelis was seated in one of the high-backed chairs near the fireplace, her dark brown hair swept into its usual flawless bun, streaks of silver catching the firelight. Her dark amber eyes were fixed on Dorian the moment he walked in, sharp and assessing.

Eryx stood beside her, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression as unreadable as ever.

"Sit," Cassandra said, her voice cool and commanding, though she didn't need to raise it to convey her authority.

Dorian sat down in the chair opposite his mother, his hands resting stiffly in his lap. He could feel the weight of both his parents' gazes on him, the pressure mounting with each passing second.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence before Eryx spoke.

"Detention, Dorian." His voice was steady, but there was a sharp edge to it that made Dorian's heart race. "I never expected to hear that word in connection with you."

Dorian swallowed, his throat dry. He had known this conversation was coming, but that didn't make it any easier.

"I can explain," Dorian said, trying to keep his voice calm. "It was a misunderstanding. Another student—Rhys—was disrupting the class, and when I tried to stop him, the teacher assumed I was the one causing the disturbance."

Eryx's eyes narrowed slightly. "Rhys?"

Dorian nodded. "Yes, Rhys Everen. He's new to the academy. He's... been difficult."

There was a flicker of something in Cassandra's expression—something sharp and thoughtful—but she remained silent, her fingers lightly tapping the arm of her chair as she waited for Eryx to respond.

Eryx's expression remained cold, his voice unwavering. "Difficult or not, you are the head of the student council. You are expected to lead by example. It doesn't matter who caused the disruption—you should have handled it without drawing attention to yourself."

Dorian's chest tightened, the weight of his father's words pressing down on him like a heavy stone. He had tried to handle the situation, had tried to maintain control, but Rhys had pushed him too far. And now, all his efforts to keep his perfect image intact had crumbled in front of his parents.

"I understand," Dorian replied, his voice quiet.

But Cassandra, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke, her voice like a blade cutting through the room. "Do you?"

Dorian's gaze snapped to her, his heart pounding. Cassandra's dark eyes were locked onto his, her expression unreadable but cold.

"You've always been careful, Dorian," She continued, her tone icy and precise. "Meticulous, even. But today, you let someone push you to the point of losing control. Why?"

Dorian's throat tightened, and for a moment, he wasn't sure how to respond. The truth—that Rhys had gotten under his skin in a way no one ever had—felt too raw to admit. He wasn't even sure he understood it himself.

"I..." Dorian hesitated, his mind racing for an explanation that would satisfy his mother's sharp gaze. "It was... a long day. He kept pushing, and—"

"And you allowed him to," Cassandra finished, her eyes narrowing. "You allowed someone like that to throw you off balance."

Dorian's stomach twisted at her words. Someone like that. It was clear what she meant. Rhys was an outsider, a transfer student, an Omega—someone who didn't belong in their world of power and prestige. And yet, Rhys had managed to disrupt Dorian's carefully constructed life in a single day.

"I won't let it happen again," Dorian said firmly, though the knot in his chest told him it wasn't a promise he could easily keep.

Cassandra's lips curved into a thin smile, though it didn't reach her eyes. "See that you don't. Your position requires discipline and composure. Detention... is unacceptable."

Eryx nodded in agreement, his voice hard. "We expect more from you, Dorian."

Dorian felt the weight of their expectations settle over him like a heavy cloak. He had spent his entire life striving to meet those expectations, to be the perfect son, the perfect student, the perfect Alpha. But today had been a reminder that even the most carefully constructed image could crack.

"I'll do better," Dorian said quietly, his voice steady but strained.

There was another long silence before Cassandra finally rose from her seat, her movements graceful but deliberate. "Good. We trust you'll handle this situation with... care."

Eryx gave Dorian one last piercing look before turning toward the door. "You're dismissed."

Dorian stood, his heart still pounding as he watched his parents leave the study, their presence like a cold wind that left him feeling smaller than he ever had before. As the door closed behind them, he sank back into the chair, his hands trembling slightly.

The day had left him exhausted, but now... now he felt completely drained. His parents' disappointment was a weight he wasn't sure how to carry, and the pressure to maintain his perfect image felt like a noose tightening around his throat.

And through it all, one thought lingered in his mind:

Rhys had seen him crack.

_

The soft glow of the desk lamp illuminated Dorian's room as he sat at his large oak desk, his eyes scanning the pages of his textbook. The rhythmic scratching of his pen against paper was a familiar sound—one that usually brought him comfort. The repetition, the structure, the control of neatly organized notes—it all helped to settle his mind.

But tonight, after the confrontation with his parents, the weight of their disappointment still pressed heavily on him. His usual focus was slipping, his mind wandering to the events of the day, to the tension he had felt every time Rhys looked at him with that infuriating, knowing grin.

Dorian exhaled softly, placing his pen down for a moment as he leaned back in his chair. His eyes drifted away from the textbook and across his room, a space that was as immaculate and controlled as everything else in his life. The neatly made bed, the books lined up perfectly on the shelves, the trophies and accolades he had accumulated over the years—everything in its rightful place.

But then his gaze landed on something small, something that stood out among the perfection.

Perched high on one of the shelves, resting against a stack of neatly folded blankets, was a small rabbit plushie. Its once-soft fur was now worn and threadbare, the pale cream color faded over time. One of its long ears drooped to the side, and its eyes, tiny dark buttons, stared down at him as if it were watching over him still.

Dorian stared at it for a moment, a flicker of emotion passing through him. That rabbit had been with him for as long as he could remember. It had been his most cherished possession when he was little—his constant companion, something that had given him comfort when he felt alone or afraid.

It was odd, really. His parents—Eryx and Cassandra—had never been the type to give him sentimental gifts. Everything they gave him had a purpose, a practical use. He had assumed, when he was younger, that they had given him the plushie when he was a baby, but when he had asked them about it as a child, they had both seemed indifferent, saying they didn't remember ever giving it to him.

His mother had waved it off, as if it were unimportant.

"Just an old toy," She had said. "Nothing more."

But for Dorian, it had always been more than that. He could still remember clutching it tightly during thunderstorms, or when he had nightmares as a child. There had been nights when even the cold grandeur of the Vaelis mansion had felt too big, too empty, and the rabbit had been the only source of comfort in the darkness.

Dorian leaned forward in his chair, his eyes fixed on the plushie. His memories of it were tied so deeply to his childhood, but something had always felt... off. His parents hadn't been the ones to give it to him, but then who had? That question had lingered in the back of his mind for years, but he had never really pursued it—never let himself dwell on the things that didn't make sense.

There had been one person who might have known more—Matilda, the babysitter who had taken care of him when he was a baby. She had been with him through his early years, often more present than his parents ever were. And it was her, not his parents, who had told him the truth.

He still remembered the conversation clearly, from when he was about six or seven years old. He had asked her about the rabbit, about where it had come from.

Matilda had smiled softly, her kind eyes crinkling at the corners. "Oh, I didn't give it to you, sweetheart," She had said, her voice gentle. "When Eryx and Cassandra brought you home from the hospital, I found it tucked into your blanket."

Dorian had blinked in confusion. "But I thought they gave it to me?"

Matilda had hesitated for a moment, as if choosing her words carefully. "They said they didn't remember it," She had explained, "But it was already with you when they brought you home. Maybe someone at the hospital gave it to you."

Dorian hadn't thought much of it at the time. He had been young, and Matilda's explanation had seemed reasonable enough. But now, as he sat there, staring at the worn plushie, something about it nagged at him. The rabbit had been with him since the beginning—since before he had even arrived at the Vaelis mansion.

But where had it come from? And why had his parents been so indifferent about it?

He reached up, pulling the plushie from the shelf and holding it in his hands. The fabric was soft, though much of its original fluffiness had long since faded. He turned it over, running his fingers along the worn stitching. It was so old, so well-loved, that it was a wonder it had lasted this long.

There was something about the rabbit that felt... familiar in a way that went beyond memory. It wasn't just a toy—it was a connection to something deeper, something from a time before he could even remember.

Dorian's fingers tightened slightly around the plushie as a strange, hollow ache formed in his chest. The Vaelis family had always been his reality, his world. But there were pieces of his past that he didn't fully understand, fragments that had never quite fit into the perfect picture of his life.

He placed the rabbit back on the shelf, staring at it for a moment longer. It felt like a part of him he couldn't fully grasp—a part that had always been there, quietly lingering in the background, waiting for him to notice.

Unbeknownst to him, the plushie was more than just an old toy. It was a link to the life he had never known, a gift from the parents who had been forced to give him up. They had tucked it into his blanket when they had to say their painful goodbyes, hoping it would be a small reminder of their love for him, even if he never knew the truth.

And now, all these years later, Dorian stood at the edge of that truth, without even realizing how close he was to discovering it.

But for now, the worn rabbit plushie remained where it had always been—a quiet, unspoken connection to a past Dorian had yet to uncover.

_

The mansion was silent, the kind of deep, empty silence that pressed in from every corner. Dorian lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, his mind still whirling with the events of the day. No matter how hard he tried to calm his thoughts, to push aside the tension, the exhaustion, he couldn't find peace.

He had gone through the motions of his night routine—brushing his teeth, changing into his sleep clothes, pulling the covers up to his chest—but sleep refused to come. Every time he closed his eyes, the weight of his parents' disappointment, Rhys' infuriating grin, and the lingering uncertainty from the rabbit plushie filled his mind.

Why can't I just let it go?

Dorian sighed heavily, tossing the covers off in frustration. His body was tired, but his mind was restless—too restless to sleep. He sat up on the edge of the bed, his hands gripping the mattress as he stared at the faint shadows dancing on the walls.

His gaze drifted toward the window, where the moonlight spilled in softly, illuminating the quiet expanse of the mansion grounds. The world outside seemed calm, peaceful, but inside, Dorian felt anything but.

With a soft exhale, he stood up, running a hand through his tousled hair. If he couldn't sleep, there was only one other thing that might help.

Training.

Dorian made his way quietly out of his room, padding down the long, dimly lit hallway toward the mansion's dojo. It had been a part of the house since he was young—a space designed for both training and discipline, equipped with everything he needed to work on his technique. His parents had insisted on it, of course. As the heir to the Vaelis family, Dorian was expected to be not only intelligent and capable but physically disciplined as well.

But training hadn't always felt like a responsibility to him. Over time, it had become one of the few things that truly belonged to him—a way to channel his frustrations, to clear his mind when the world around him felt overwhelming.

He reached the door to the dojo, pushing it open with a soft creak. The space inside was large and open, the polished wooden floors gleaming faintly in the moonlight that filtered through the high windows. Mats were spread out across the floor, and the walls were lined with weapons, gear, and training equipment.

Dorian stepped inside, his bare feet silent on the cool wood. The stillness of the dojo was comforting, familiar. Here, in this space, he didn't have to think about the weight of his responsibilities or the pressure of perfection. Here, it was just him and the discipline of his body.

He moved toward the center of the room, his movements fluid and purposeful. His body was already attuned to the rhythm of his training, even before he began. He exhaled slowly, feeling the tension in his muscles as he stretched, loosening up after the long day.

Taekwondo had always been his preferred form of training. The precision of the movements, the sharpness of the kicks, the control required to execute each technique with perfect form—it all appealed to the part of him that needed structure, that needed to feel in control. When everything else felt like it was slipping, his training gave him something solid to hold on to.

Without hesitation, Dorian launched into his first set of moves—a series of quick, sharp kicks that sliced through the air with practiced precision. His body moved on instinct, his mind focused entirely on the flow of each technique. He transitioned smoothly into a combination of punches and blocks, his movements fluid and controlled, the weight of the day slowly falling away with each strike.

The rhythm of his training was familiar, comforting. His body responded to every command, every shift in movement, as if he had been born for it. The soft thud of his kicks echoed through the dojo as he moved through his routine, each strike sharper and more focused than the last. The familiar movements brought him a sense of release, though the weight of the day still clung to him like a shadow. His breath came quicker now, his muscles warmed and taut as he delivered a final roundhouse kick, the force of it sending a ripple through his body.

He stilled for a moment, standing in the center of the dojo, catching his breath. His mind was starting to clear, the repetitive, disciplined movements offering a temporary reprieve from the chaos swirling inside him.

But then, just as the room fell into silence, the door to the dojo creaked open.

Dorian tensed, his head snapping toward the entrance. In the doorway stood Cassandra Vaelis, her elegant figure framed by the dim light spilling in from the hall. Her dark amber eyes were locked on him, sharp and assessing as always. She was dressed in a simple yet elegant black training uniform, her dark hair tied back into a sleek bun.

For a moment, Dorian froze, unsure of what to expect. His mother rarely interrupted him during his personal time, and even more rarely stepped into the dojo at this hour.

"Mother," He said, his voice steady but cautious.

Cassandra stepped into the room, the soft sound of her shoes barely audible against the polished wood. Her movements were fluid and graceful, as if the very act of walking was an exercise in control.

"I didn't expect to find you here so late," She said, her voice calm and even as she surveyed the dojo. "Training after a long day?"

Dorian swallowed, his posture instinctively straightening. "I couldn't sleep."

Cassandra's gaze flickered over him, taking in the sheen of sweat on his skin, the slight rise and fall of his chest as he caught his breath. Her expression remained unreadable, though there was a faint hint of curiosity in her eyes.

"Good," She said finally, her voice cool. "Training clears the mind. But it's best done with focus—and a partner."

Dorian blinked, unsure of what she meant at first. His mother had always been a disciplinarian, her words always laced with precision. But training together? That wasn't something she often did.

Before he could respond, Cassandra moved further into the room, her gaze steady. "You've improved since the last time we sparred," She remarked. "But there's always room for refinement."

Dorian hesitated for a moment, the weight of her presence adding to the tension already building inside him. He hadn't expected to see her tonight, let alone spar with her, and after the confrontation in the study earlier, he wasn't sure he had the energy for it.

But he knew better than to refuse.

"Yes, Mother," He said quietly, stepping back to the center of the room and squaring his stance.

Cassandra removed her shoes and stepped onto the mat opposite him, her movements as graceful and controlled as always. She stood tall, her form perfectly poised, and her eyes locked onto Dorian with the sharpness of a hawk studying its prey.

For a moment, the room was silent as they faced each other.

"Begin," Cassandra commanded.

Dorian moved first, launching into a series of quick, controlled strikes, testing her defenses. His kicks were sharp and precise, each movement a reflection of the years of training he had undergone to meet his parents' high standards.

But Cassandra was faster.

She blocked his strikes with ease, her movements fluid and effortless. Her experience and discipline were unmatched, and even as Dorian pushed himself harder, trying to break through her defenses, she remained calm, deflecting each attack with calculated precision.

"Your form is strong," She remarked, her voice steady even as she sidestepped his next kick. "But your focus is scattered."

Dorian clenched his jaw, determined to prove her wrong. He threw a punch, followed by a sharp kick, but Cassandra blocked both with minimal effort, stepping into his space and delivering a light tap to his chest with the side of her hand—a signal that she had bested him.

"Again," She commanded, her voice calm but firm.

Dorian stepped back, resetting his stance, frustration simmering just below the surface. He moved again, launching into a faster, more aggressive series of strikes, but Cassandra was relentless. She deflected each one, her movements still calm, controlled, never faltering.

And then, as she dodged another punch, she struck back—quickly, but not too hard—forcing Dorian back a step. Her amber eyes locked onto his, and for a moment, the tension between them became palpable.

"Your mind is elsewhere," She said quietly, but there was no softness in her voice. "You're distracted."

Dorian's breath hitched, his muscles tightening. She was right. His mind was still swirling with the events of the day—the confrontation with his parents, Rhys' frustrating presence, the growing sense of disconnection inside him. He had come to the dojo to regain control, to clear his thoughts, but with his mother standing in front of him, cool and commanding, he felt that control slipping.

"I'm focused," He replied, his voice strained as he reset his stance.

Cassandra's gaze narrowed slightly, though she didn't respond right away. Instead, she circled him slowly, her posture regal as always.

"You are trying," She said after a moment, her tone as cutting as a blade. "But trying is not enough. Not for you."

Dorian swallowed hard, the pressure building in his chest. This was what his mother did best—finding the cracks in his defenses, pointing out every flaw, every weakness, no matter how small. And yet, there was no anger in her voice, no frustration. Just calm, precise judgment.

She stopped in front of him, her eyes locking onto his.

"The burden of perfection is heavy, Dorian," She said softly, though her voice was still cold. "But you cannot afford to let distractions pull you away from it. Focus. Control. That is what defines you."

Dorian's heart pounded in his chest, her words cutting deeper than any physical blow. He had heard this all before, of course—this lecture about control, about the importance of maintaining the perfect image. But tonight, after everything that had happened, the words felt heavier, harder to bear.

"Again," Cassandra commanded, stepping back into her stance.

Dorian nodded stiffly, swallowing his frustration as he prepared to launch into another round of strikes. He pushed everything else aside—his exhaustion, his doubts, the lingering thoughts of Rhys—and focused solely on the movements, the discipline of his body.

His kicks were sharp, his punches strong, but each one was met with the same calm, controlled defense from his mother. She didn't falter, didn't lose focus for even a second, and with every deflected strike, Dorian felt the weight of her expectations pressing down on him like a heavy shroud.

Finally, Cassandra stepped back, her posture relaxing slightly as she lowered her arms. "That's enough for tonight," She said, her voice even.

Dorian lowered his arms, panting slightly as the adrenaline began to fade. His muscles ached, his mind still spinning from the intensity of their sparring session.

Cassandra's gaze lingered on him for a moment longer before she turned toward the door. "Remember what I've said, Dorian. Perfection is not a choice. It is a requirement."

And with that, she left the dojo, leaving Dorian standing in the center of the room, his chest heaving as he tried to process the weight of her words.

Perfection is a requirement.

But tonight, as the silence of the dojo wrapped around him once more, Dorian couldn't shake the feeling that perfection was slipping further and further from his grasp.