A Mate To Three Alpha Heirs novel Chapter 37

{Elira}

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I paused outside Zenon’s study door, my heart hammering so loudly I thought it might echo down the hall.

With a soft breath to steady myself, I lifted my hand and knocked, my knuckles barely tapping the polished wood.

A beat of silence followed before his cold voice cut through:

“Enter.”

I turned the handle, stepping in quietly. The room smelled of leather, old books, and that distinct scent I’d come to notice around him—oud and black pepper.

It wrapped around me, unsettling and oddly familiar, reminding me that this was the same man who’d caught me at the clearing before I hit the ground.

It was a reminder that there was much I didn’t know about this man.

Zenon sat behind his broad desk, a stack of neatly arranged documents at his elbow, his gaze fixed on me with that same unreadable look.

“Sit,” he ordered, voice low but commanding.

I obeyed, lowering myself into the chair opposite him. My heart felt like it was trying to crawl up my throat.

Then he extended a hand. “The letter from ESA.”

I fumbled with the envelope, offering it to him with both hands, the seal already broken. His long fingers brushed mine briefly as he took it—an unremarkable touch, but it sent a small shock through my chest.

Zenon unfolded the letter, his gaze scanning the words swiftly, then folded it back, placing it carefully to one side of his desk.

He took out the attached Enrollment Confirmation Form and then reached for a stack of sorted papers on his desk, neat and intimidating, and pushed them toward me.

“Read each one carefully,” he instructed, his tone clipped, “then only write your name and sign where required.”

My fingers trembled slightly as I pulled the first sheet closer.

The papers weren’t just the Enrollment Confirmation Form I was required to fill and return to the school; there were other documents too, each demanding something: my personal details, my parents’ names and occupations, guardian information, sponsor details… and lines for a signature.

As my eyes caught the section asking for my parents’ details, my chest tightened painfully.

The memory of them—my father’s laugh, my mother’s gentle hands flickered through my mind, raw and sharp.

Tears blurred the page, and I had to blink them away.

Then his cold voice snapped through the air, sharp as a slap.

“Why are you wasting time? You only need to write your name and sign. Or is that too much?”

“I-I’m sorry,” I whispered, meeting his gaze briefly before lowering mine again. My voice came out thin. “I thought I needed to fill everything.”

His eyes narrowed, dark and impatient, sending a fresh wave of nerves through me.

He rolled a black pen across the desk. It stopped in front of me.

“Start,” he ordered.

My hands felt heavy as I picked up the pen. I wrote my name carefully, each letter deliberate and round. Then I froze.

Signature.

“Are you drawing an ant?” His voice was cold, but something about the bluntness almost made me want to laugh—except I was too nervous. And he might bite my head off.

“I… I don’t know how to create one,” I admitted, my voice almost breaking.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly frustrated. “You were just sent to raise my blood pressure,” he muttered under his breath.

Then, in a single smooth motion, he picked up his calligraphy pen, uncapped it, and signed his own name on the other plain sheet.

The signature flowed in elegant, practiced strokes—sharp curves and unique angles, powerful yet refined. It was… beautiful.

I caught myself staring.

“Look,” he said, his voice low and instructive now. “Use the initials of your name, add unique strokes only you can repeat perfectly. If it’s too simple, anyone can forge it.”

I nodded, still mesmerized by his neat handwriting.

“Remember,” he continued, “if someone forges your signature, you could get into serious trouble. And be careful who you sign in front of. Some people can copy a signature just by watching once.”

His words sank deep, sobering me. No one had ever taught me this much about protection, about risk.

“Thank you,” I whispered, voice small but sincere.

He didn’t answer.

Slowly, I lowered my pen again, and this time, guided by what he’d shown me, I began to shape something new—

My first real signature.