My Father Sold Me to a bunch of Crazy Alphas
Chapter 104: Death of the Poor ( Claus’s POV )

Chapter 104: Death of the Poor ( Claus’s POV )

"Just what happened at that auction?"

Luther asked me. He wasn’t mad anymore or curious. He was just worried about me.

Luther was worried about me.

Which made the dying twice part worth it, since for the first time since we’ve seen each other that he looked at me.

Not with anger or pity or annoyance, but how he used to.

Full of love and worry.

That was a look to die for.

"It’s not important what happened at the auction, Lu, but at the after party. Because I could guide you thoroughly through the auction, but I was not invited to the after-party,"

"But you were..."

The tubes and wires attached to every part of my body made any word I pronounced feel like a continuous, twisting stab.

Yet somehow, letting the fake smug redhead next to Luther playing all mighty was far more annoying than the agonising wound.

I couldn’t placed exactly what, but there was something about him. Something that erased all the frail trust of his exercised jokes or practiced smile. He did something to me.

But I can’t remember what.

Luther turned his head from me to meet his gaze. It was clear from the way his shoulders tensed up and the tremble of his hands intensified, he trusted this guy.

Deeply.

Which meant that I couldn’t just throw my assumption into the air and hope Luther would catch it, believe it and distance himself from Tom just because I had a hunch. The risk is much more higher for Luther to leave me here, hurt and angry, than for him to leave the perfect Tom next to him.

"I was invited since I was one of the highest bidders, but I never got to go."

Luther smiled softly at him. Half reassured, half happy that he didn’t partake in such a horrid act.

I don’t hear the words he said after. Doesn’t matter. He could read the back of a cereal box and get that look.

That look I thought was mine. That look I just died for. Gone in five minutes.

Tom’s good at this.

He’s always good at this.

Walking in, taking up space, making everyone feel like they’ve known him forever.

And me? I’m the shadow. The extra. The background noise.

I hate it.

Hate how smooth he is.

Hate how easy it all looks.

Hate that I can’t make him look at me the way he looks at Tom now.

"Are you too tired to tell me, Claus?"

I shook my head.

It hurt to answer.

My throat felt torn.

My chest fought for every breath.

Talking wasn’t supposed to happen yet.

The doctors were clear: rest, no strain, let the machines do the work. What did they know anyway?

Not even Doctor House could have figure it out—

What was truly wrong with me and how to fix it.

But Luther asked, and that was enough.

Every inch of me felt weak, useless. My ribs ached like something had cracked open. My heart thudded slow, uncertain, like it was testing me.

I didn’t care.

He was here. He needed something from me, and I wasn’t going to let silence answer for me.

It was just a few words, but they cost everything.

My lungs fought.

My voice broke apart.

I could feel the effort draining what little I had left.

Still, I pushed through because he was looking at me, waiting.

That look—steady, focused—made it impossible to give up. His eyes stayed on mine the whole time, like he could pull the words out himself if I couldn’t finish them.

"When I’ve arrived, the apartament’s door was locked. You father was talking with someone inside. Ar-ar—"

"Arguing?"

The approval that came out didn’t even feel like my voice.

Rough, broken, barely there.

But he heard me.

I saw it hit him in the way his shoulders shifted, in the way his face softened even more.

He didn’t rush me, didn’t look away, just let me take the time I needed, like every second mattered. And maybe they did.

My body was screaming to stop.

My chest burned. My head spun.

The room tilted at the edges like it wanted to slip away.

If I flatlined again, I wanted him to know I tried. That I was still here, still fighting to answer him, even when it felt impossible.

When it was done, I let the silence come back. My breath stuttered.

My heart staggered along, barely holding on.

But he was still looking at me the same way—like I mattered. Like none of this scared him anymore.

"You’ll tell me when you get better, ok?"

His genuine smile broke my heart.

I lied to him.

The hallway was silent except for the hum of lights.

I reached the apartment door and froze. It wasn’t shut.

The lock was bent.

The frame splintered.

Someone had forced it.

My hand hovered for a second, then pushed it open.

The room smelled sharp, like alcohol and sweat.

Inside, Mark Begniffello sat on the sofa like he owned it.

His suit was flawless. His shoes gleamed. He held a champagne glass with the same calm he wore on his face.

Like nothing in the world could move him.

The Prime Minister was nothing like that.

He paced the floor fast, head low, breathing loud enough to fill the room.

His skin had turned an awful shade of yellow, like his body was giving up on him.

Sweat covered him. It ran down his neck, soaked his collar, left stains down the front of his shirt.

His tie hung loose, swinging as he moved from wall to wall.

He didn’t stop.

His shoes hit the floor hard, too fast, like he could outrun whatever was happening to him.

The air felt heavy.

Mark didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Just raised the glass and drank slow, eyes on the Prime Minister like he was watching a show.

No words.

Just that steady gaze.

The sound of liquid hitting crystal when he set the glass down was the only thing that cut through the pacing steps and ragged breaths.

The Prime Minister grabbed the edge of a chair once, like he might collapse, then pushed away and kept moving.

His breathing turned harsh, broken.

A cough ripped through the room.

He covered his mouth but didn’t stop walking.

His back curved like the weight on him was crushing everything inside.

His hands shook.

When he touched the wall, he left damp prints behind.

Mark leaned back, legs crossed now, slow and deliberate.

He picked up the glass again. His movements were perfect.

Controlled.

Not a single twitch, not a single sign of concern.

The Prime Minister’s breathing grew louder, faster. It sounded desperate now, like each inhale was a fight. His face glistened under the lights, every vein showing sharp through his skin.

Then he stopped.

Completely.

His shoulders heaved.

His head tilted back just enough for me to see his jaw clench.

He turned without a word and strode for the balcony doors. His steps were unsteady, uneven, but he forced them quick, like he knew what was coming and needed to reach the edge before it hit.

The glass door banged against the frame as he pushed through.

The sound echoed into the silence left behind.

A second later, the regurgitation started.

Hard, raw.

It carried back into the room, filling the empty space like another presence. Mark didn’t react.

Didn’t even look toward the balcony. He sat there, still as stone, sipping from his glass like nothing outside mattered.

I stood by the door, taking it all in.

The broken lock. The Prime Minister doubled over on the balcony, his body jerking as his system tried to empty itself. The streaks of sweat cutting through his yellowed skin. The coughs between the heaves.

And Mark—calm, perfect, the champagne glass glinting in his hand under the harsh ceiling lights.

No one said a word. The room stayed quiet except for the sounds of sickness and the slow click of ice shifting against crystal as Mark finished his drink.

He noticed me.

"Claus, the new son, right? Seems like the location was busted. I guess it’s no different from the auction."

"That b-st-rd! Sanchez!", Cassian burped through the barfing.

"Should I call it off?"

"What do you think, son?", asked Mark.

"I understand. Should I reschedule?"

"No."

The Prime Minister finally stopped returning the overly priced seafood with much more stomach acid seasoning than it originally came with.

His voice was hoarse and unsteady.

"No. Don’t do anything. After I get rid of that annoying rat, I’ll reschedule the auction itself. After all, who wouldn’t want the only weakness of Emiliano Sanchez?"

"Are you feeling ok, father?"

The word father left a sour taste in my mouth. Like it didn’t belong.

"Yes. Just indigestion. Mark, get my son and settle the business for tomorrow!We need to hurry up!"

"What business?"

"The waters are unsteady and sharks keep lurking at our feet. It’s time for an economic blow. A crisis so large, it will kill the lower class and break the aristocracy in two— the true nobility and the servants."

"But how?"

"No machine works without its oil. No country works without family and entertainment. Luther, my useless son, will finally be usable. The new face of revolution!"

Mark chuckled.

"If you take all the mistreated omegas and put them against the alphas, you’ll sort out who really can handle the world as it is and who won’t. Because, after all, without the gardens, how could a poor family survive?"

Oh.

They were planning to eliminate a good chunk of omegas by starting a revolution against the alphas.

The fewer omegas, the higher the market value.

No more gardens for the alphas to enjoy how many omegas they desire for a nothing-price.

But most importantly—

Above the carnal desires advantage as a leverage for negotiation,

The lower class won’t be able to afford the very essence of living— reproducing. They will go extinct without the chance to blame the government.

They were planning a twisted version of The Handmaid Tale.