My situation.Another euphemism, another way to avoid saying what I actually was—an unwanted inheritance, a liability to be managed rather than a son to be mourned.
“I’ll be here,” I said, because where the hell else would I be? “Same as always. Same as forever, apparently.”
I hung up before he could respond, setting the phone down carefully before my hands could start shaking.
He’s dead.
The thought should have meant something. Relief, maybe, or grief, or some complicated mixture of both. Instead, I felt nothing except this hollow ache in my chest where normal emotions should have lived.
“Well, congratulations, Leo,” I said to the empty kitchen. “You’re officially an orphan. Time to update that dating profile you don’t have to ‘father issues: resolved via natural causes.’”
Because that’s what this was, wasn’t it? The final resolution to twenty-two years of paternal disappointment. Yamamoto Kenji, the man who’d spent my entire life treating me like a shameful secret, was gone. And even in death, he couldn’t stand the sight of me enough to let me say goodbye.
I walked to the small bathroom off the kitchen and splashed cold water on my face, studying my reflection in the mirror above the sink. My mother’s face stared back at me—delicate bone structure that had always seemed too soft for a yakuza family, too gentle for a world built on violence and control. Grace Winter’s features, preserved in amber-gold eyes that had no business existing in my father’s bloodline.
What would you think about this, Mom?I wondered, touching the glass where my reflection caught the morning light filtering through the small bathroom window.Would you be proud that your baby boy wasn’t welcome at his own father’s funeral? Or would you be relieved that I won’t have to watch them lower him into the ground while pretending to mourn someone who never loved me?
My mother had been an omega too, though she’d hidden it better than I ever could. Grace Winter-Yamamoto, the woman who’d somehow captured the heart of a yakuza boss long enough to produce me before cancer stole her away when I was ten. She’d been beautiful in a way that made people stop and stare, delicate and fierce and completely wrong for the violent world she’d married into.
I looked like her. Too much like her, according to my father, who’d never been able to look at me without seeing the woman he’d lost. The omega who’d given him a son but not the rightkind of son, not the alpha heir who could have carried on his legacy with pride instead of shame.
“Maybe that’s why he hated me so much,” I said to my reflection. “Not just because I’m an omega, but because every time he looked at me, he saw her. The woman he loved who left him with living proof that even his genetics couldn’t overcome what I am.”
My ash-blond hair caught the light, so much like the photos I’d seen of my mother that it was almost eerie. The same fine texture, the same way it fell across my forehead no matter how many times I pushed it back. My father used to flinch when he looked at me, just slightly, like I was a ghost haunting his living room.
“Sorry, Dad,” I told my reflection. “Guess you’ll have to find some other way to avoid looking at Mom’s face now that you’re dead. Maybe death comes with selective vision. That’d be convenient for you.”
The sound of gravel crunching in the driveway broke through my bitter internal monologue. Aunt Akiko returning from town with groceries and probably some gossip from the market that she’d share over lunch while pretending she didn’t know I was slowly losing my mind in this off-the-grid prison.
I dried my face with the hand towel and tried to arrange my expression into something that wouldn’t immediately alarm her. Aunt Akiko had been taking care of me since I was fourteen, since the day my first heat had made it clear that I couldn’t be trusted to live in civilized society without causing problems for my father’s carefully maintained reputation.
She was a small woman in her sixties, with gray hair she kept pulled back in a practical bun and kind eyes that had seen too much of the world to judge anyone for things beyond their control. Her husband, Uncle Jiro, maintained the grounds around the cottage, keeping up the small garden that providedmost of our vegetables and making sure the security system stayed functional.
They were good people, decent people—distant relatives on my father’s side who’d been chosen for this assignment because family loyalty ran deeper than money, and because they’d raised their own omega daughter successfully. They’d never made me feel like a burden, though I knew what I was to them: family duty wrapped in genuine affection, a responsibility they’d shouldered without complaint.
The front door opened with its familiar squeal of hinges that Uncle Jiro kept meaning to oil but never quite got around to. Aunt Akiko’s voice drifted through the cottage, calling out her usual greeting.
“Leo-kun, I’m home! Market had beautiful tomatoes today, and Mrs. Smith asked about you again.”
Mrs. Smith, the merchant’s wife who’d been asking about the “mysterious young man in the forest cottage” for the past three years. Aunt Akiko always deflected her questions with polite vagueness, protecting my privacy with the skill of someone who’d spent decades navigating dangerous social waters.
“In the kitchen,” I called back, settling into one of the mismatched chairs around the small table where we shared our meals. The cottage wasn’t much—two bedrooms upstairs, a living area and kitchen downstairs, a bathroom that had seen better days—but it was clean and warm and infinitely better than the alternatives my father could have chosen for disposing of his embarrassing offspring.
Aunt Akiko appeared in the doorway with her arms full of canvas shopping bags, her weathered face brightening when she saw me. She had a way of looking at me that made me feel almost normal, almost like a regular twenty-two-year-old instead of a genetic aberration hidden away from the world.
“You look pale,” she said immediately, setting the bags on the counter and moving toward me with the practiced eye of someone who’d been monitoring my health for eight years. “Have you eaten today?”
“Coffee counts as food, right?” I tried for humor, but it fell flat when she pressed the back of her hand to my forehead like I was running a fever.
“Leo.” Her voice carried that particular note of exasperation she’d perfected over years of trying to keep me functional. “You can’t live on caffeine and self-loathing. Your mother would be horrified.”
The mention of my mother hit harder than it should have, considering the phone call I’d just received. I must have flinched, because Aunt Akiko’s expression immediately shifted from exasperation to concern.
“What’s wrong?” She pulled out the chair beside me and sat down heavily, her hands still carrying the chill from outside. “You look like someone died.”
Someone did die.The words stuck in my throat, too big and sharp to say out loud. How did you tell someone that your father was dead when you weren’t sure if it was supposed to be good news or bad news?
“My father,” I said finally, the words coming out in a rush. “He’s dead. Has been for a week, apparently. The funeral is today, and I’m not invited.”
