CHAPTER 93: THE KEY CONNECTION

{Elira}

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My fingers curled protectively around the cover of the yearbook, eyes wide as I stared up at Rennon.

I was already imagining flipping through the pages, finding a younger version of my mother smiling back at me. Maybe even handwritten notes in the margins. But then—

"Not yet," Rennon said.

I blinked, disoriented by the answer.

"What?" I asked, my heart skipping a beat. "But... then where did you get this one?"

"This isn’t the Archive’s copy," he replied, tone calm as always, like he wasn’t just shattering the little rush of hope that had started to rise in me. "I got this one from our personal collection at home."

I stared at him. "Your personal collection?"

Rennon’s expression didn’t waver. "Our father was an ESA 1988 graduate."

For a second, it felt like time slowed down.

I turned instinctively toward Zenon — whose face was unreadable — before glancing back at Rennon. "You’re serious?"

He nodded once, like he was merely reciting a list of household facts. "So was our mother."

I froze.

The yearbook now weighed heavy in my hands — no longer just a curiosity, but a thread tying together histories I hadn’t known were intertwined.

My mother... she had been classmates with Alpha Cyprus and Luna Gwenith.

And suddenly, Luna Gwenith’s venomous words from that day came rushing back, hitting me like a cold wind.

"Don’t be like your mother. You can see for yourself — she didn’t end well."

I hadn’t just imagined the hatred in her voice. The malice had been real, raw, personal. And now, I understood why.

Luna Gwenith had known my mother. Walked the same halls. Sat in the same classrooms. Worn the same school crest. And somehow... hated her deeply enough to still spit that poison years later even after she was gone.

My throat tightened, and I lowered my gaze to the yearbook. So many questions buzzed inside me like angry bees.

Had they been rivals? Enemies? Had something gone terribly wrong?

My stomach churned. And then... the most dangerous thought of all began forming.

’Was it because of a man?’ The question formed before I could stop it.

Alpha Cyprus.

He had known my father. He had known my mother. He was the one who personally recommended me to ESA.

He had welcomed me, protected me, watched me. And clearly... he knew more than he had ever said.

And Luna Gwenith hated that.

I released a deep breath, my thoughts spiraling too fast.

I turned to Rennon, trying to focus again. "Did... did my father go to ESA too?"

He shook his head. "No, he didn’t."

"Oh," I murmured. I hadn’t realized how much I had hoped he had. "Then... how did my parents meet?"

Rennon offered a small smile. "Our father and your father were friends. So, I assume that’s how they met."

I nodded faintly. That fit. Alpha Cyprus was the thread linking them all — maybe the only thread. And maybe... he was the key to understanding everything.

Still, the curiosity gnawed at me. My mind refused to settle.

Had my mother and Alpha Cyprus been close? More than friends?

Did my mother once... like him? Did he like her back?

Did Luna Gwenith know? Was that what poisoned everything between them?

My gaze shifted to the cold silent Zenon and felt the weight of his awareness pressing against me. He knew what I was thinking. I could feel it.

And before I could decide whether to speak, he asked with his usual coolness, "Do you have any more questions?"

I hesitated. My throat was completely dry. But then I nodded.

"Yes," I whispered. "Um... were your father and my mother... close friends?"

The words barely left my lips before Zenon cut in with a clipped tone. "We don’t know."

That was fast.

So fast, I knew instantly that it was deliberate. He hadn’t even given Rennon the chance to speak. And from the way Rennon’s eyes briefly darted toward his older brother... he noticed too.

He had cut the words so cleanly that if Rennon had a different answer, he wouldn’t be able to give it now. The message was clear: don’t go further.

My lips parted again, unsatisfied — I wanted more answers, more clarity. But before I could speak, the door swung open and a gust of bright, breezy voice filled the room.

"Well, well," came Lennon’s voice, smooth and playful. "Did the party get started without me?"

He strolled in with both hands full of takeout bags, his smile lighting up the space like warm firelight. The scent of something delicious wafted toward me — roasted spices and cream.

"You came at the right time," Rennon said, his voice lighter now.

Lennon kicked the door shut behind him with his heel and approached the desk with casual grace, the bags swinging slightly from his wrists. "Of course I did," he grinned. "I always do."

He set the bags down with flair and looked around at the three of us. "Now — who’s hungry?"

Zenon turned to him, his voice as flat as his expression. "What did you bring?"

Lennon flashed him a grin. "Fried chicken with mayo sauce, some creamy pasta, fresh salads, and corn dogs — oh, and don’t forget the highlight: extra crispy."

He wiggled his brows for effect, then set the takeout bags down on Zenon’s desk like it was a kitchen counter.

I watched in silence, half in awe, half in amusement, as Lennon casually began unloading the contents. Plastic containers, disposable cutlery, and the warm aroma of seasoned chicken and buttery pasta filled the air.

It all looked mouthwatering — and completely out of place on Zenon’s pristine desk, where thick paper files sat in military rows, every pen and folder arranged with surgical precision.

My eyes flicked to Zenon. Sure enough, there it was — the signature tightness in his jaw, the faint pinch between his brows.

He was obviously not thrilled about the assault on his sacred workspace. But strangely, he didn’t say a word. No stern order. No sarcastic jab. Just silence — which, coming from him, was somehow louder than anything else.